Marty Ambrose - Mango Bay 01 - Peril in Paradise Read Free Page A

week’s Observer. “This is one of her latest articles on the bike path. It’s typical of a small-town paper, but there’s still room for improvement, don’t you
think?”

    Everyone nodded.
    Uh-oh.
    I suddenly had this feeling of being back in third
grade when my mother grilled me over making a “B” in
English grammar. I loved literature but hated nitpicking
sentences apart. She had waved the report card around,
demanding to know why I was letting my whole future
slip away because I couldn’t seem to conjugate irregular verbs. Of course, the real culprit today was my hardnosed editor. Damn her anyway!
    Hillman picked up a yellow highlighter. “Let’s go
through the article paragraph by paragraph” He sliced
the marker across the title as if wielding a knife. “Look
at the title: `Bike Path Decision in Flux’.” He laughed.
“How can a path be in flux? That’s a hackneyed phrase
if I’ve ever heard one. It’s like something you’d expect
a high school journalism student to come up with.” All
of the other writers dutifully whipped out highlighter
pens and repeated his motion on their copies of the Observer.
    And that was just the beginning. He tore into every
paragraph with fiendish delight, chopping and slicing at
my every word until there was nothing left except a few
bits and pieces of sentences that somehow survived,
gasping for life.

    I was in a state of shock. My mouth had turned to
cotton, and my heart thumped in my chest like a hammer hitting an anvil. Where had that genial, albeit halfnaked, host gone? He had somehow turned into a
fault-finding, vicious critic of the worst kind just like
my mother. All of a sudden, I regretted not having taken
Burt and Betty up on their offer of a margarita.
    As I glanced around the table, no one looked up. Not
one pair of eyes met mine to offer even a glimpse of
sympathy. I felt like roadkill on the highway to news
writing paradise.
    And then I found out why the group had turned mute
to my plight. I was the first person in the hot seat that
morning. Each took turns as the recipient of Hillman’s
verbal assault-even Chrissy. One by one, we submitted
ourselves to cruel jabs, mean taunts, and nasty ridicule.
And no one left the room-except for Betty. She took a
short hiatus, probably for a straight shot of tequila, but
returned within ten minutes still able to walk.
    The critiquing went on for most of the day-with
only a brief break for lunch. I could only presume that
this was business as usual at the Institute, and everyone
thought learning by humiliation the best way to become
a successful writer.
    Jack appeared to relish his role as a hard-nosed writing teacher, letting each of us have it on the chin with
both fists. I spent much of the time fantasizing about
slamming him back with my own knuckle sandwich of
literary criticism. Small comfort.

    It was early afternoon before we broke up, and I could only hope my all-day, roll-on deodorant lived up to its
promise. I’d moved way beyond the cold sweat stage.
    “That about does it for today” He slapped both of his heavy thighs. “Do your editing work tonight and then
bring back what you have for tomorrow’s sessionespecially you, Chrissy. That last poem on global
warming really sucked” He rose from his chair,
stretched his arms overhead, and exhaled in a long sigh
of contentment. “I’m going for a quick dip in the hot
tub. Anyone care to join me?”
    George shook his head, followed by Betty and Burt.
    “Maybe later,” Chrissy managed between trembling
lips. A tear slid down the side of her heart-shaped face,
but she brushed it away with a quick swipe of her hand.
    “Okay. Later, dudes and dudettes” Hillman swaggered off, actually whistling a little tune under his
breath.
    Chrissy let out a sob and ran from the table, leaving
the rest of us, sitting there, stunned.
    “Does this happen every day?” I finally found my
voice.
    “P … P … P …