discussion. We've been letting this slide but I think we need to re-group and re-commit. Ours is a book club that is exemplary and I have numerous friends who are dying to join. Let's just say that I hope a slot will not be opening up!
Love you all, P
Totally right, I thought. Good for Paige.
OK, that’s probably enough for now. You haven’t heard from all the Muffs, but it’s kind of like sitting in the sun—probably best to limit one’s exposure the first time out. Anyway, with this story, the most important thing is to know that these women are there, my friends, backing me up, even if you can’t keep straight who’s who.
Chapter 2
I dashed through the raindrops, across the wet flagstone walkway and up the steps to Sarah’s Craftsman-style house in Santa Monica, and took cover under the dark green awning hanging over the front stoop. I pressed the doorbell and took the few moments before the door opened to shake the rain from my jacket and gently push the drops off the Saran-Wrapped salad I’d brought as part of the night’s dinner. I was happy, despite the fact that I was wet and in desperate need of assistance for my terminally limp hair.
It rains so rarely in LA, but when it does, it provides a needed respite from the incessant sunshine, which, to some of us residents, can become an unrelenting bore. Being an east coaster by birth and upbringing, I never mind the rain. I’d enjoyed the beautiful and stormy drive to Sarah’s. Coming over the Santa Monica Mountains from the San Fernando Valley where I live, through Santa Monica canyon and up to Sarah’s house just south of Montana Avenue, I’d felt enclosed and safe in my Prius as the rain clouds enshrouded me.
“Hi,” chirped Sarah, her gamine face aglow atop her professional chef’s apron as she swung open the green lacquered door. “Come in, come in. It’s horrible out there. I hope everyone makes it,” she said with grave concern, looking past me into the darkened sky.
“It’s just a little water,” I said simply, shrugging off Sarah’s suggestion of impending cataclysm.
She pushed from her face several strands of richly colored brown hair that had escaped her butterfly clip. Actually more hair than not had shaken loose and the clip now seemed to be balancing on the top of her head. “It’s only rain, yes, but it’s horrible. You know how people get in LA when there’s ‘weather.’”
They often lose their minds, I mused—particularly the people driving, though I’d been fortunate enough to avoid the lunatics that evening. I don’t know why but it often seems that when it rains in LA it’s as if God has appeared and signaled the end is near, so people drive like maniacs to get wherever they were going before the magnitude-eight shaker levels the city. Kind of like the way ants behave when someone steps on their anthill.
“Anyway, I’m glad you made it,” she said, ushering me into her charming flea market-appointed foyer. “You look wonderful, Maddie. Is that a new bag? Really pretty. Here, let me take this.” She whisked the raindrop-speckled mixed greens from my hands, completely ignoring the still-open door, which I decided to close, shutting out the horrible night.
Looking into the hall mirror, I saw that in addition to my mop of hair, which I tried to arrange, my make-up had been destroyed. Surely Sarah had noticed and I wondered what her criteria were for looking wonderful. Perhaps she thought the smudged make-up was intentional. And surely she’d seen the bag I’d owned for two years on at least ten previous occasions. Whatever. Sarah wasn’t known for her powers of observation and she was trying to be nice—kind words being the grease that keeps society running, making for pleasant company and all that.
I know I’ve told you my name but, to repeat, I’m Madelyn—Madelyn Scott-Crane, with the hyphenated ex-husband’s last name still attached—but my friends call me Maddie. I don’t
Love you all, P
Totally right, I thought. Good for Paige.
OK, that’s probably enough for now. You haven’t heard from all the Muffs, but it’s kind of like sitting in the sun—probably best to limit one’s exposure the first time out. Anyway, with this story, the most important thing is to know that these women are there, my friends, backing me up, even if you can’t keep straight who’s who.
Chapter 2
I dashed through the raindrops, across the wet flagstone walkway and up the steps to Sarah’s Craftsman-style house in Santa Monica, and took cover under the dark green awning hanging over the front stoop. I pressed the doorbell and took the few moments before the door opened to shake the rain from my jacket and gently push the drops off the Saran-Wrapped salad I’d brought as part of the night’s dinner. I was happy, despite the fact that I was wet and in desperate need of assistance for my terminally limp hair.
It rains so rarely in LA, but when it does, it provides a needed respite from the incessant sunshine, which, to some of us residents, can become an unrelenting bore. Being an east coaster by birth and upbringing, I never mind the rain. I’d enjoyed the beautiful and stormy drive to Sarah’s. Coming over the Santa Monica Mountains from the San Fernando Valley where I live, through Santa Monica canyon and up to Sarah’s house just south of Montana Avenue, I’d felt enclosed and safe in my Prius as the rain clouds enshrouded me.
“Hi,” chirped Sarah, her gamine face aglow atop her professional chef’s apron as she swung open the green lacquered door. “Come in, come in. It’s horrible out there. I hope everyone makes it,” she said with grave concern, looking past me into the darkened sky.
“It’s just a little water,” I said simply, shrugging off Sarah’s suggestion of impending cataclysm.
She pushed from her face several strands of richly colored brown hair that had escaped her butterfly clip. Actually more hair than not had shaken loose and the clip now seemed to be balancing on the top of her head. “It’s only rain, yes, but it’s horrible. You know how people get in LA when there’s ‘weather.’”
They often lose their minds, I mused—particularly the people driving, though I’d been fortunate enough to avoid the lunatics that evening. I don’t know why but it often seems that when it rains in LA it’s as if God has appeared and signaled the end is near, so people drive like maniacs to get wherever they were going before the magnitude-eight shaker levels the city. Kind of like the way ants behave when someone steps on their anthill.
“Anyway, I’m glad you made it,” she said, ushering me into her charming flea market-appointed foyer. “You look wonderful, Maddie. Is that a new bag? Really pretty. Here, let me take this.” She whisked the raindrop-speckled mixed greens from my hands, completely ignoring the still-open door, which I decided to close, shutting out the horrible night.
Looking into the hall mirror, I saw that in addition to my mop of hair, which I tried to arrange, my make-up had been destroyed. Surely Sarah had noticed and I wondered what her criteria were for looking wonderful. Perhaps she thought the smudged make-up was intentional. And surely she’d seen the bag I’d owned for two years on at least ten previous occasions. Whatever. Sarah wasn’t known for her powers of observation and she was trying to be nice—kind words being the grease that keeps society running, making for pleasant company and all that.
I know I’ve told you my name but, to repeat, I’m Madelyn—Madelyn Scott-Crane, with the hyphenated ex-husband’s last name still attached—but my friends call me Maddie. I don’t
Similar Books
It's All About Him
Denise Jackson
Letters of Love (Green Division Series Book #3)
Ashley Monahan
Love and Gravity
Olivia Connery
Alchymist
Ian Irvine
Witch’s Concubine
Cara Carnes
Her Dark Lord
Mel Teshco
I Need You
Jane Lark
Down from the Cross
Joyce Livingston
Girls Who Travel
Nicole Trilivas