The Girls of Tonsil Lake

by Liz Flaherty

  Table of Contents

  The Girls of Tonsil Lake

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Praise for Liz Flaherty

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part Two

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Part Three

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Part Four

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Part Five

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  The Girls

  of Tonsil Lake

  by

  Liz Flaherty

  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.

  The Girls of Tonsil Lake

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Liz Flaherty

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Last Rose of Summer Women’s Fiction Rose Edition, 2014

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-249-3

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-250-9

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Judith Palmer, Jenni Licata, and Tina Runge.

  Although we haven’t always traveled

  publishing’s bumpy road together,

  it was a letter Jenni wrote that started the journey.

  With thanks and affection to you all.

  And for Muriel Jensen, who told me to never give up.

  Bless you!

  Praise for Liz Flaherty

  “Liz Flaherty is one of my favorite authors, and THE GIRLS OF TONSIL LAKE is more delicious storytelling from this amazing writer. The bond between the four women is exquisitely wrought—I felt their closeness even when they drove each other crazy. We all hope to have friendships like these.”

  ~Nan Reinhardt, author

  ~*~

  BECAUSE OF JOE

  “A touching romance about the power of love, forgiveness, and family. The characters will stay with you and leave an impression on your heart.”

  ~M. Parcel

  ~*~

  “Ms. Flaherty knows how to build and develop her characters so they become three dimensional friends to her audience.”

  ~LAS Reviewer

  ~*~

  HOME TO SINGING TREES

  “The author has done an excellent job of capturing the flavor of life in a small Midwestern town in 1876, and I didn’t want to leave. Highly recommended!”

  ~Alicia Croft, Got Romance Reviews (5 Diamonds)

  Part One

  “The last thing I remember seeing was a cobweb above the lights that looked lethal. When I woke up, I felt as though I had been put in a stranger’s body.

  Therefore, at the age of fifty-one, I suddenly don’t know who in the hell I am and have developed an unreasonable fear of spiders.”

  Andrea Hart Logan

  Let There Be Hope

  Gunderson Publishing, 2007

  Chapter One

  Andie

  When my friends Jean and Suzanne were visiting me in the hospital, Jean told me I should write everything down. “If it’s on paper,” she said, “it won’t be on your mind so much.”

  Right away, Suzanne, who’s never had an original thought in her life, ran out and bought me this fancy-dancey journal to write in along with a package of gel pens in all different ink colors. When I tried to get her to take them back, saying I’d do fine with a coil-bound notebook and a few fine-point black stick pens, she got this hurt look on her face. I had to hurry up and smooth her ruffled blonde feathers. There, that sounded literary, didn’t it? Ruffled blonde feathers—hmm, I like that.

  Anyway, my first entry read, “This hurts like a sonofabitch.” When Jean read it the next day, she complimented my succinctness but suggested I try a little description, so the next entry was, “It hurts like a goddamned sonofabitch,” written in putrid purple ink. She said I was catching on. Jean knows these things because she writes romance novels.

  When I said maybe she should send my journal to her publishers, she told me that wouldn’t work because they wouldn’t let a writer say things like “goddamned sonofabitch” even if she was lying in a hospital bed with her one real boob sunk into her armpit while her new, fake one stood up proud on her chest like the left half of her was seventeen years old instead of fifty-goddamned-one.

  That made Suzanne start staring at my chest with something like horror in her eyes. I reminded her that she was going to be fifty-one on her next birthday and if her tits weren’t already falling into her armpits, they soon would be.

  Jean told me I was being a bitch, because we all knew Suzanne was going to have hers stitched permanently into place.

  We got to laughing so hard one of the nurses came in and said I was giving mastectomies a bad name. But that’s how I’ve gotten through this whole thing. Laughing and writing stuff down in that journal Suzanne got me. I got so attached to those silly gel pens that I asked her to buy me some more when they all, except the brown one I didn’t like, ran out of ink. It made her so happy, doing that for me, that I felt guilty because I’d never been as good a friend to her as she was to me. But I can’t help it. She drives me forny nuts.

  (“Forny,” in case you’re wondering, is a word we Tonsil Lake girls coined when we were young and we wanted to say the f-bomb but couldn’t make ourselves do it because deep down inside we knew we’d go to hell for it. Jean had read the Bible some and she knew what fornicate meant, so we created “forny.” It’s been real handy over the years.)

  Suzanne’s a beauty consultant. I mean, really, she is. She’s been with this same makeup company for over twenty years, and she looks so good her picture’s in their flyers that urge you to buy their stuff instead of what’s at eye level in the drugstore.

  Even though we laugh at the shallowness of her career, we accept the free makeup she’s always giving us and feel like we’re being punished if we have to use off-the-discount-shelf. The stuff she gives us never clumps up on your lashes unless you leave it untouched in your medicine cabinet for two years the way I do sometimes. Especially during chemotherapy, when I didn’t have any eyelashes, clumpy or otherwise.

  Suzanne’s got a heart of gold, but she’s like a southern belle caught in some kind of time warp. She’s always thin, always cute, and always able to coerce a man into doing what she doesn’t want to.

  She even uses this breathy little southern accent sometimes, which just drives me over the edge because she grew up in a trailer down from me on Tonsil Lake. Other than the occasional “y’all” no one
else on the lake has even a trace of a drawl.

  And, yes, the lake’s shaped just like a tonsil. Or at least some drunk’s idea of a tonsil’s shape, since most of us have no idea what one really looks like. But I’m digressing here.

  By the time I finished chemo and radiation and had gotten a nipple put on my stand-up boob, I had filled that journal. I’d been declared cancer-free—at least for the moment—and my hair had grown back, sort of.

  Only instead of being long and straight and the color of brown I’d kept it ever since I got up close and personal with do-it-yourself hair color while I was still in my thirties, it was as white as Christmas snow and so curly Suzanne took a curling iron to me to straighten it out some. She burned my neck, too, and I yelled like a banshee. She got smart right away, saying it looked like a hickey, probably the first one I’d had since high school, and I should be grateful.

  Jean, who was cooking supper for me because the radiation made me so tired I couldn’t see straight, laughed so hard she wet her pants. When I told her I was real glad to have entertained her so, she called me a bitch.

  When I got to feeling enough better I set about getting my house cleaned the way I like to do it a time or two a year. I got to looking for that journal, thinking maybe I’d burn it before one of my kids got their hands on it and decided their mother was a fruitcake. Well, the damned thing wasn’t to be found anywhere.

  And that’s when I learned that Jean had sent it off to Vin Stillson, a Tonsil Lake girl who had moved to New York after high school and made good. She’s an editor in one of those snotty publishing houses—the kind that doesn’t print books like Jean writes.

  Vin comes back to Indiana once a year to see her mother at the nearby retirement community she lives in. Vin stays with one of us while she’s here and at least once while she’s around, we load into a car and drive the fifty miles to Tonsil Lake just to convince ourselves we don’t mind going back.

  Not much has changed—though we always go in the dark; we’re only so brave. There is a little mom-and-pop tavern where the schoolhouse used to be, and we go in there and end up getting so drunk we have to call Jean’s husband David to come and get us.

  The first few times this happened, it took him an hour to get there. By that time, at least one of us would be to the puking stage and another—usually Suzanne—would be bawling. This made for a miserable ride home. Finally David went to giving us a few hours to get started and then would head on out toward the lake, bringing along someone to drive the other car home.

  Vin’s different from us. In the first place, once we finished going to elementary school at the lake and started riding into town on the high school bus, she started hanging out with kids who were a few rungs higher on the social ladder than Tonsil Lake kids were. This didn’t take much, since Tonsil Lake was caught somewhere between the county dump and the rows of ramshackle cabins where the migrant workers stayed come tomato-picking time.

  Later on, we all went to college because abject poverty looked good to financial aid offices. While the rest of us went to one of the state universities, Vin got a full scholarship to Bryn Mawr. After graduation, we settled into smallish Indiana towns and got married to guys we’d met while we were in school at Indiana University or Indiana State.

  Vin settled into a New York brownstone. She married a guy old enough to be her father who was also richer than any of us, who mostly lived paycheck to paycheck, could begin to understand. She had a housekeeper before any of us even had houses.

  Mark, her husband, died last spring. We all wanted to go to New York for the funeral, but she told us not to, so we made do with a planter. Jean sent it, so it was probably very tasteful.

  Oh, damn, I’m digressing again. I never used to do that, but cancer and medication and having lopsided breasts all conspire to do weird things to you. The point I’m trying to get to in this new journal I’ve started—in a coil-bound notebook full of lined yellow paper—is that Vin wants to publish the old one.

  Apparently her publishing house has no objection to the use of “goddamned sonofabitch.” They want to make my illness into a hardcover book and pay me a nice little bundle of money for it. I think I’m going to let them.

  Jean

  Sometimes when David’s gone to play golf, which he does at least once a day and sometimes twice, I sit and stare at my computer screen and think about getting divorced. I did not spend thirty years being married to his job just to turn around and be married to Fallen Tree Golf Course when he retired.

  If I got a divorce, the first thing I’d do is turn one of the kids’ bedrooms into an office. Our youngest daughter got married six weeks ago, for heaven’s sake, so why is it necessary that their rooms remain intact?

  “Megan might want this bed someday,” said Carrie, leaning against the poster of her old canopy bed with her arms crossed under her breasts.

  I caught myself staring at her, wondering how her thirty-six B-minus mother ever gave birth to two daughters who grew into thirty-four C-pluses. I also thought it was going to be at least a couple of years before my granddaughter Megan was ready for the tall white bed. She couldn’t even climb into it yet, though she was making a mess of the counterpane by trying.

  And then there was, “What if I need to come home?” Kelly stood in her underwear on the day of her wedding, her hand in a possessive grip on the footboard of her sleigh bed with her C-plus breasts spilling over the top of her strapless bra. “Do you want me sleeping on the couch? Or maybe on a cot in the basement?”

  My son was different. “You want this room?” said Josh, his David-blue eyes wide with incredulity. “Go ahead, but if you find a Reggie Jackson card in a plastic sleeve, it’s mine. I lost it in there in 2003.”

  Well, no, I really didn’t want his room, the tiniest in the house, so I turned it into a library, which David and I both love.

  When Josh and his wife Laurie come to visit, they sleep in Kelly’s sleigh bed. Laurie has thanked me for not bestowing Josh’s old football trophies and rock star posters on her when we cleaned out his room, although she wouldn’t have minded the Reggie Jackson baseball card. She says if she ever kicks him out, it’s perfectly all right with her if he sleeps in the basement.

  I love Laurie. She wears a thirty-four A and never tries to make me feel guilty because my son is occasionally a jerk.

  But, getting back to my divorce fantasy…David doesn’t think we should change the girls’ rooms against their wishes. So we don’t. And I’m writing my eleventh book as I wrote my first, in the corner of the dining room. It makes me mad, you know, makes me feel as though I don’t count. I don’t tell David that, of course, and don’t ask me to explain why not. I can’t.

  This journal, on the other hand, I’m writing in a book Suzanne bought me at the same time she bought Andie’s first one. I write wherever I please, whenever I please. I must admit, it’s liberating.

  I’m glad Andie’s speaking to me again. When she found out I’d sent the stories of her illness to Vin, it was a tossup over whether she was going to kill me or just maim me for life. She wouldn’t talk to me for days. I thought it would be bitterly ironic if I lost her friendship to something like that so soon after I’d come so close to losing her altogether.

  But then she bought me a package of rainbow-hued gel pens like hers and told me to mind my own blankety-blank business in the future. I almost sang with the relief of it, which would have horrified us both. Better than bursting into tears like Suzanne would have, but still not good.

  When I told David about it, he laughed and hugged me, rocking back and forth with our bodies in full contact. “Andie loves you, you dope,” he said, “and you love her. People don’t split up over every fight. We’d never have made our first week’s anniversary if they did, much less our thirtieth year.”

  That’s not strictly true. We never have fought very much, just minor skirmishes over money and the kids and toilet seats. One reason we don’t fight is that I hate confrontation. This has led
to many, many hours of silent anguish on my part. However, the other reason we don’t fight is that I still love David O’Toole as completely and mindlessly as I did the day I married him.

  So divorce is probably out.

  I have to admit that I was jealous when Vin’s publisher made an offer for Andie’s story. Her advance is more than mine was after ten books, and Let There Be Hope is going to be hardcover. Oprah would probably have wanted to bring her on the show, if she still had one, to talk about it. And there won’t be a nubile young thing in a pushup bra on the dust jacket the way there always is on the covers of my paperbacks.

  Vin called me first. “I’m glad for this,” she said, “and I’m sorry. I wish I could buy your stuff, Jean.”

  “Don’t be silly,” I said. “I’m thrilled for you both.”

  But then I went over to Suzanne’s and cried and drank a half bottle of white zinfandel, which I usually only do when we’re all together and I know David’s going to drive me home. Then I had to sober up a bit before Suzanne and I could go over to Andie’s and act surprised about Vin’s call to her.

  “It’s not fair,” I said, laughing, when we got there. “You get this great contract and I can’t even get an office in my house.”

  “Why not?” asked Suzanne.

  “Because David says—”

  Andie interrupted me. “Wait a minute. Don’t make David the bad guy here. You could have an office if you really wanted one, just by saying so. You’re still playing the ‘let’s please everyone’ game, but you don’t want to take responsibility for it.”

  I stiffened right up. What did Andie know about making a marriage work? She’d bailed on hers the first time the going got tough. She didn’t know the first thing about compromise and damage control.