In Progress

To paraphrase Hemingway...First drafts are crap.

My writing group told me I should be writing an hour a day for days before revising for weeks.

Being the less than stellar student that I am, I wrote my last story the afternoon it was due.

Here is the humble beginning.

Her bloodshot eyes were open well before she heard the morning paper hit the screen door and land with a fateful thud onto the steps. She had been waiting for it. The incessant hum of her phone had ceased around 11 the night before and the four hours of restless sleep showed in her creamy butter skin. She turned her head towards the bay window, which was partially fogged over from 100% humidity and caught a small reflection of her old trophies still lined up on her Tom Blue dresser. Mama kept her room the way Samantha left it when she headed for the University of Alabama in hasty pursuit of her MRS Degree.

“Giants Tears.” She said.

That’s what her daddy used to call the rain. Her voice cracked as she swung her French manicured feet onto the dusty pink shag carpet. She reached for the orange canister of mothers little helpers on her water-stained nightstand. Threw a couple of them back and cinched her robe tight. Heavy raindrops fell on the broken brick patio, pooling in the cracked grout. The ambitious paperboy put his prepubescent muscle into it so that the majority of The Birmingham Ledger had come free if its plastic bag and soaked through to the sports section. But even the rain couldn’t wash away this mess. There was the headline in bold Times New Roman. And the 3x5 color photo she begged the photographer to relinquish to her, bleeding across the front page. Despite the simple small town writing, the scathing story read the way she feared.

Scandal, Inheritance, Meager Upbringing, Promiscuity.

She skipped down to the last line. Mrs. Samantha Thomas is married to the RC Cola heir, William John Thomas III. He couldn’t be reached for comment. The pain tore into her gut as she fought to keep last night’s memory and the bottle of Knob Creek at bay. She couldn’t undo this. Not this time.

She sat at her mom’s old breakfast table drinking instant coffee out of a chipped Amelia’s Island mug. Her Blackberry rested on her Grandmama’s crocheted tablecloth. It’s blinking red light distracting her from her new grim reality. She picked it up and thumbed through the messages.

One from Mary Ryan marked urgent. “Are we still on for brunch?”

The stylized ritual of meeting for Sunday morning brunch started shortly after their ten-year reunion from Birmingham High School. They had all agreed they needed to get back together and catch up on the fleeting years that bridged braces to crow’s feet... It only took a couple of meetings when the Sunday excursion became each and every one of their vices in their otherwise vacuous worlds.

Of course she would be there. But she’d be a while; she was on the south side of town at her parent’s house.

Crimson Creek was a quaint and pretentious neighborhood in the heart of Birmingham. Obvious that it had once had a unique local appeal, it was now overrun with overpriced clothing boutiques, skinny latte coffee shops, and the latest trend in farm to table restaurants. It was their haven. And the perfect opportunity to showcase a new linen pantsuit or don the turquoise necklace purchased on the last trip to Santa Fe.

In the foyer of the restaurant, B'hams finest stood proud in their Prada shoes hiding their jealous glares and darting eyes behind designer sunglasses. Yes, while the rest of the world were climbing into their Sunday clothes thread bare with pew warming, the cosmopolitan were sipping champagne and spreading good cheer and hot air while making the crucial decision between the lox omelet and creamy eggs Benedict. But hopefully not reading the Sunday paper.

Mary Ryan and Elizabeth were already seated in the back of the restaurant shifting in their seats like worried hens, when the infamous little giggle came around the corner and clicked her kitten heels in perfect rhythm towards them, running her fingers through her perfect blond curls. She looked unscathed.

“Oh you cute things don’t get up. I am sorry I am a tad late, have you been waiting long?”

She eyed their half full mimosas stained with lip-gloss and bent down and gave each of the women a quick peck on the cheek. She smelled like fresh lilies in the morning.