When All The Girls Have Gone (2 page)

“‘. . . And then I killed him.’”

Ethel Deeping looked up from the page she had been reading from her memoir. She smiled proudly, clearly anticipating a round of applause from the audience.

For a few seconds the other members of the Write Your Life memoir writing group were shocked into a state of speechlessness.

Then the muttered complaints began rolling across the room in a wave that crested to full-blown outrage.

“You can’t put that in your memoir,” Hazel Williams announced from the back of the room. She banged her cane on the floor for emphasis. “We’re supposed to be writing our life stories, not fiction. The fiction class meets on Wednesday evenings.”

“Hazel’s right,” Bob Perkins grumbled. “It’s a memoir. There are rules. You want to write mysteries, go join the fiction writers’ group.”

Ethel narrowed her eyes. “It’s my life story. I can tell it any way I want.”

Charlotte Sawyer, seated at the front of the small classroom, raised her hand, signaling for silence. The grumbling subsided. Everyone looked at her.

She was far and away the youngest person in the room. The Thursday afternoon meeting of the Write Your Life group was a popular program at the Rainy Creek Gardens Retirement Village. It had been one of the first workshops she had introduced upon accepting the position of director of social and educational activities. That had been a year before, when, after
bouncing from one boring, dead-end job to another in Portland, Oregon, she had taken her stepsister’s advice and moved to Seattle. Her first interview had been at Rainy Creek Gardens. She had landed the job immediately. Five minutes into her new career she had concluded that she had found her place in the world.

Overseeing the busy schedule of workshops, events and programs at Rainy Creek Gardens lacked the glamour and sophistication that her stepsister, Jocelyn, enjoyed as a fund-raiser for a wealthy entrepreneur’s foundation. Jocelyn frequently traveled to exotic locales and mingled with the rich and famous—all in the name of convincing them to donate to the foundation. Nevertheless, Charlotte had no desire to trade places. She found her job far more satisfying than anything else she had tried to date.

The only real drawback—and admittedly it was a big one—was having to walk past the memorial board in the elevator lobby on her way to and from her office. Rarely did a week pass without a new name being posted. Because of her position on the staff, she was usually acquainted with the deceased. She often knew some of their family members, as well.

She had attended more memorial services in her year at Rainy Creek Gardens than most people did in a lifetime. And somewhere along the way her attitude toward the inevitability of death had begun to change.

Lately it had dawned on her that until she had come to Rainy Creek Gardens, she had spent her life living mostly in the future. As a child, that had meant looking forward to holidays and birthdays and, most of all, becoming a grown-up. Upon achieving adulthood she had discovered that being a grown-up wasn’t nearly as satisfying as she had anticipated. What was more, the future was uncomfortably unpredictable.

At Rainy Creek Gardens she had finally begun to realize that, no matter your age, when you looked back it always seemed that your life had passed in the blink of an eye. The past could not be changed and the future was unknowable. The residents of Rainy Creek Gardens were teaching her that the real trick to a good life was to learn to live in the present.

She smiled reassuringly at Ethel Deeping and the other people in the room.

“Ethel makes an excellent point,” she said. “She is allowed to write her life story any way she wants. And it’s certainly true that there have been a number of very successful memoirists who have, to put it mildly, embellished their memoirs.”

“Makes ’em more interesting,” Ethel said.

“But it’s wrong,” Ted Hagstrom thundered.

Ted was a retired engineer. He tended to be a stickler for the rules.

There was another round of disgruntled murmuring. Once again Charlotte signaled for silence.

“Before we critique Ethel’s essay, I think we should ask her why she chose her rather unexpected ending for the chapter on her marriage,” she said. “Ethel?”

Ethel beamed. “It’s more exciting that way.”

“Well, yes,” Charlotte agreed. “But are you certain that it fits with the rest of what you have told us about Mr. Deeping? You’ve made it clear that your husband was an excellent provider and well respected in the community. You said he was a churchgoing man. You mentioned his military service and you said that everyone liked him.”

“Good golfer, too,” Ethel said. “Seven handicap.”

“Right.” Charlotte cleared her throat.

“Looked good in his uniform,” Ethel said. She winked. “Never could resist a man in uniform. That’s how I met him, you know. We were both in the military. I was a nurse. Left to get married and raise the kids.”

“Yes, you mentioned that. You also made a point of saying that after his death you struggled as a widow with two young children to raise.”

“Yep.”

“Is it possible that, as much as you loved your husband, deep down you perhaps felt some resentment toward him because he left you and the children alone?” Charlotte suggested gently.

“Well, it certainly wasn’t easy making ends meet after he was gone,” Ethel allowed. “But we managed.” She beamed. “My son is a doctor, you know. My daughter is a lawyer.”

“You already told us twenty or thirty times that your kids are all
successful,” Hazel Williams muttered, not bothering to conceal her resentment.

Hazel Williams had raised three children, but she had included only two of them in her memoir—a daughter who was a teacher and a son who worked in construction. Although she had dutifully recorded the birth of a second son in the family tree chapter, there had been no further mention of him. Every family had a few secrets, Charlotte thought. It was an unwritten rule in the class that the members of the group were entitled to their secrets. No one had a right to pry into another person’s past.

“I’m just telling you that we did all right after Harold was gone,” Ethel said.

“That’s obvious,” Charlotte put in quickly, hoping to change the topic. “It was a tremendous accomplishment, raising two children on your own and working full-time. You have every right to be proud.”

Stan Barlow snorted. “Why is it that when a woman raises kids by herself, everyone thinks it’s some kind of big deal? But if a man raises a family without a wife, he doesn’t get any credit.”

Mildred Hamilton, seated at the desk in front of Stan, turned in her chair. “I don’t know any men who raised a bunch of kids on their own. All the men I know who lost their wives or got divorced were married again within six months. Take yourself, for instance.”

Stan reddened. He had recorded three marriages.

“I’m just asking a reasonable question,” he said.

“I think we’re getting off topic here,” Charlotte said. She rose to her feet and made a show of looking at the large clock on the wall. All the clocks at Rainy Creek Gardens had big, easy-to-read numerals. “I see our time is up and it’s almost happy hour in the Fireside Lounge. The assignment for next week is to work on the section of the booklet titled ‘My First Job.’”

Most of the memoirists pushed themselves upright, collected their canes and walkers and filed out of the classroom at a brisk pace. Happy hour was another popular activity that Charlotte had implemented. Management had voiced some alarm at the start, but Charlotte had pointed out
that many of the residents were already in the habit of enjoying a predinner glass of wine or a martini in the privacy of their own apartments. She had convinced her boss that an organized happy hour was a better alternative. It not only enhanced socializing in a segment of society that was at high risk for loneliness, it was safer than drinking alone.

The reaction to the introduction of happy hour had been so enthusiastic that Charlotte was fairly certain the residents would revolt if it were ever terminated. But it was highly unlikely that the event would be removed from the schedule of activities because there had been an unexpected upside. It turned out that featuring a daily happy hour had proven to be a highly successful marketing tool. The business of selling the retirement community lifestyle to seniors was a highly competitive industry.

Ethel waited until the others had left. Then she levered herself up out of her chair, gripped her walker and fixed Charlotte with a determined expression.

“I still say killing off Harold makes for a better ending,” she said. “More dramatic. Sort of like you getting left at the altar a couple of months ago.”

Charlotte tried not to wince.

“It’s dramatic, all right,” she said. “But keep in mind that you are writing this for your children and your grandchildren and your great-grandchildren. This memoir will become a permanent family legacy that will probably be handed down for generations. It will be uploaded online. If your descendants question the reality of some parts of your story, they might decide that you made up other elements, as well. It could call into question the authenticity of your version of your family’s history.”

“Huh.” Ethel squinted a little. “Hadn’t thought about that angle.”

“I suggest you do consider it,” Charlotte said. “Writing a memoir entails certain responsibilities.”

“Good point.” Ethel nodded. “Okay, I’ll think about it. Now, I’ve got to go change for happy hour.”

Charlotte smiled. “Enjoy it.”

“Always do.” Ethel paused at the door and wrenched the walker around so that she once again faced Charlotte. “You got lucky, you know.”

“Lucky?”

“Just think how you’d be feeling now if you’d married the bastard.”

“As a matter of fact, I have given the issue considerable thought and you’re absolutely right, Ethel. I had a very narrow escape, didn’t I?”

“Yep. Remember that when it comes time to write your own memoirs.”

Charlotte smiled. “I will.”

Ethel maneuvered her walker through the doorway and disappeared.

Charlotte listened to the soles of Ethel’s sturdy shoes clumping down the hallway. Ethel was not the first person at Rainy Creek Gardens to point out that she had dodged a bullet. Everyone in the community—staff and residents—knew about the fiasco with Brian Conroy because they had all been invited to the reception.

Charlotte had booked the Fireside Lounge for the festivities. Jocelyn had been shocked by the choice. She had even offered to pay for a more elegant setting as a wedding gift. With her charitable foundation connections, she had access to any number of high-end venues. But Charlotte had been adamant. She had pointed out that she was new to Seattle, so most of her friends and acquaintances were connected to Rainy Creek Gardens. It had made sense to hold the event there. Besides, as she had told Jocelyn, most of the residents would have had a difficult time getting to an off-site location. Very few of them still drove.

The upcoming wedding reception had been the talk of the community for weeks. The sudden cancellation five days before the nuptials had stunned everyone. There was no getting around the fact that it had been the most dramatic thing that had happened at Rainy Creek Gardens since the last earthquake drill, when several residents had mistakenly believed it was the real thing.

She had, indeed, been lucky, Charlotte reminded herself. But the knowledge that she had come within a hairsbreadth of marrying Brian Conroy—aka Mr. Perfect according not only to her own criteria, but to Jocelyn’s, as well—sent chills down her spine.

When she went through her list of desirable traits in a husband, it seemed as if she could put a check mark in each box. Brian was a friendly,
outgoing, well-mannered man. He had appeared to be thoughtful and kind. He was intelligent and interesting and he had a good job teaching social sciences at a local college. He was easy to talk to and the two of them had enjoyed many of the same things, including long walks, the symphony, blah, blah, blah.

Mr. Perfect. Right. What could possibly be wrong with this picture? Oh, yeah. Nobody was perfect.

But as devastating as the canceled wedding had been—dealing with the sympathy from others had been the hardest part—she knew she could not blame Brian, at least not entirely. She knew exactly why he had gotten cold feet at the last minute. Her therapist had made it clear that she had to accept a large portion of the responsibility. She had tried to play it safe, as usual. The bottom line was that at some point Brian had awakened to the realization that she was boring.

You need to push yourself out of your comfort zone,
the therapist had said.
You need to try new things, open yourself to new experiences
.

She’d given it a whirl with a class in kayaking—and quickly discovered that she did not like getting wet, especially when the water was cold. She’d also experimented with skiing lessons, only to find out that she really hated falling down in snow. As a last resort she had bought a bicycle, determined to bike to work for the sake of the environment. That plan had been shelved when she had nearly been crushed under the wheels of a delivery truck.