Sanibel Scribbles

Books by
C
HRISTINE
L
EMMON

Sanibel Scribbles

Portion of the Sea

Sand in My Eyes

Whisper from the Ocean

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Penmark Publishing, LLC
www.penmarkpublishing.com

Copyright ©2011 Christine Lemmon

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a newspaper or magazine, or on the Internet.

Distributed by Emerald Book Company

For ordering information or special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Emerald Book Company at PO Box 91869, Austin, TX 78709, 512.891.6100.

Cover by Julie Metz. Book design by Carla Rozman.
Editorial production by Jeffrey Davis, Center to Page.

Ebook ISBN: 978-0-9837987-2-9

Ebook Edition

In Loving Memory of
My friend, Laura Fleming
My grandmother, Betty Jann

And for Mom, Dad, Laura, and Katie

Show me, O Lord, my life’s end and the number of my days; let me know how fleeting is my life. You have made my days a mere handbreadth; the span of my years is as nothing before you. Each man’s life is but a breath. Man is a mere phantom as he goes to and from. He bustles about, but only in vain; he heaps up wealth, not knowing who will get it.

—
PSALM
39: 4

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.

—
TAGORE

AUTHOR’S NOTE

THERE IS A HISTORY
to
Sanibel Scribbles
. I wrote it at a young age with the intention of passing it around my family. I then dabbled with it at various older ages, changing it here and there. I would print a few copies at a time to hand out to friends and family as gifts. Its title at this time was
Tablecloth Scribbles
.

Word of mouth spread, and others requested copies. Local stores carried it, and one merchant suggested I change its title to
Sanibel Scribbles
due to its setting. The book at this time had not truly been professionally edited, as we did not expect for it to sell as it did.

But soon we took the advice of others and self-published it with a new cover and new title. We sold through the first, then second print run and stopped there. I never felt proud seeing it on shelves, as I knew there were editorial issues with the book. We received numerous letters from readers who enjoyed it and from others who pointed out its editorial problems. Once we sold out of copies, we decided not to reprint. I was quite content letting it go out of print.

To my surprise, we have been inundated with requests for
Sanibel Scribbles
. People have been trying to find it online, and stores have asked us if we would reprint it for their customers who are looking for it.

For this reason, we are bringing
Sanibel Scribbles
back. We have had it reedited and redesigned, new cover and all, for the sake of my readers. I would like to thank those who have requested its return.

To me,
Sanibel Scribbles
is what it is. It has always been and will forever be an innocent, whimsical, coming-of-age attempt at making sense of things that were happening in my life at a young age. This is not at all to say it is a true story. It is not. It is, however, a first novel, inspired by real-life experiences. Despite rounds of edits and years gone by, the story will forever be confined and bound to the inspirations that went into it at the age in which I originally wrote it.

Sincerely,
Christine Lemmon

CHAPTER ONE

VICKI BRIGHTMAN SAT STARING
at the row of red tulips framing College Avenue. She had sat there many evenings before and had always noticed the tulips lining the sidewalk beside her chair.

“I’m going to miss them,” she thought. “The tulips and this town.” But she wasn’t going to miss the stressful semester she had at school. She shifted in her seat and turned her attention to the six tables, aglow in candlelight that surrounded her. They decorated the sidewalk in front of Till Midnight, a café in Holland, Michigan. The street, quiet except for the soft chatter of students and other outdoor diners, was a welcome relief from the typical hangouts. She glanced at her watch. Where was Rebecca? They had a lot to talk about.

While waiting for her friend, Vicki became absorbed in other people’s conversations at nearby tables. Some discussed ancient philosophy; others debated the difference between religion and spirituality. Men at the table next to her brainstormed scenes for their screenplay, and women behind her talked about their upcoming modern dance performance. The nature of their discussions drew her eyes back to the red tulips. They were incredibly gorgeous, but now she only had one night left to pay them attention. Come morning, she would say good-bye to everything she loved in life, including the tulips.

And so she stared at one with the sort of covetousness she had only heard about in church on Sunday, and for the first time she understood
what it felt like to want something she couldn’t have. This particular tulip, standing proud and high above the rest on its tall, slender green stem didn’t belong to her, but she suddenly craved it more than a caffè mocha, and more than a piece of French silk pie.

“You are gorgeous,” she whispered to its petals. “Incredibly gorgeous.”

“You’re not bad yourself,” said the waiter, who had snuck up on her. “What can I get you tonight?”

“A caffè mocha and a piece of French silk pie,” she replied, then diverted her thoughts back to the item not on the menu, the item she really wanted to pick, the red-hot dessert she knew might cost a fortune in fines if she picked it. She knew all kinds of things about tulips because she had sold them at school. She liked the parrot tulip the best for its petals, which were wrinkled at the edges. That is not to say she didn’t love the Darwin tulip with its deep-colored blossoms.

She looked around at the people sitting at nearby tables, resenting the fact that they were probably sticking around town for the approaching Tulip Time Festival, while she would be leaving Michigan come morning. How long might a tulip survive in her purse? She could flatten it between her psychology text pages and preserve it for eternity. Surely that was more than the soil could offer. She unfolded the cloth napkin and placed it on her lap and planned her capture, having only a fleeting moment to grab, then toss the tulip into her lap before concealing the goods. She started to reach for it when the waiter returned with her drink.

He walked away, and she knew she had to act quickly. When you see something you want in life, you have no time to pause. Pausing only leads to thinking, and that only leads to fear, which then leads to failure, well, unless you overcome it, so, isn’t it simpler not to develop fear in the first place? Her mouth watered, not from the chocolate shavings resting atop the whipped cream in her mocha, but because she wanted the tulip like nothing else. She glanced around. No one paid her any attention. They were too involved in their own dramas, dreams, and discussions, so she made the decision to go after exactly what she wanted.

She reached down and pulled on the long green stem. It barely budged. She used more force, but nothing happened. She yanked, and still it
wouldn’t come. She had no idea a tall, slender stem could be so grounded. She couldn’t stop now, halfway into the crime, so she quickly sat up again, making sure no one noticed, then grabbed her dessert knife and went for the kill.