Sanibel Scribbles Read online

  Books by

  CHRISTINE LEMMON

  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 knif
e and went for the kill.

  “Busted,” said a voice from above. “You know the fine for picking a tulip.”

  She jumped, sliding the knife up the stem and accidentally popping the tulip’s head off. It looked full of life as it went flying through the air with its petals flapping in the breeze, but then it crashed onto the ground near the men who were discussing the screenplay, completely limp.

  “I’ll tell you what,” said Rebecca Vanderhill as she sat down across from Vicki. “You treat tonight, and I won’t tell anyone what you just did.”

  “And hello to you too. You’re late,” said Vicki as she bent down to collect the object of her obsession before anyone noticed.

  “Were you your usual early self tonight?” asked Rebecca.

  “Of course, and you were late. I’ve been waiting,” answered Vicki, cupping the flower in her hands as if she had caught a butterfly and didn’t want to let it go. “I’m going to the ladies’ room where I can discreetly flatten this between two menus,” she said. “I might as well preserve what’s left of it.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Rebecca. “Put it in the dirt and leave it there.”

  Vicki hesitated and then laid the tulip to rest in the soil.

  “Well, we survived,” said Rebecca, pulling her navy sweater off over her head and hanging it on the back of her chair. “We survived our hectic semester. All I want to do now is breathe. Inhale, exhale, sip my coffee for starters,” she said.

  “There’s no time for inhaling and exhaling. I’m leaving for Florida in the morning.”

  Rebecca took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “You’re always busy, productive, organized. Don’t you ever want to hang out, relax, do absolutely nothing?”

  Vicki rolled her eyes. “I’ve got too many things on my mind,” she said. “Things I want to accomplish in life, things I want from life. There’s so much to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like finish school, launch a career, make money to survive, and hopefully afford my own apartment.” Vicki rubbed her forehead and sighed. “I look around at all these other students, and they’re eager as I am to figure out who they want to be in life and what they can do to make a mark in this world.” She dipped her silver knife into the melting butter ball and painted her roll. “So, Rebecca, who has time to relax?”

  “There is a time for everything, Vicki. Remember that.”

  “Okay, if you say so, if there truly is a time for everything, then I’ve got an idea. Right now, it’s time for planning our futures.”

  “All I know about the future is that you are spending the summer in Florida, and I’m spending it here. So let’s enjoy the moment.”

  “I can’t,” Vicki said with a laugh. “I told you, I have too much on my mind. Let’s set some goals, and I mean, really set them, so specifically we can see, taste, and smell them.”

  The waiter delivered Rebecca’s drink, and Vicki used her white cloth napkin to push bread crumbs off the table. Then she stacked their tiny plates on top of each other and neatly set everything in the empty breadbasket. “We’re going to scribble something special on our tablecloth tonight.”

  “You mean something other than naked male stick figures?” asked Rebecca.

  “Yes. Tonight we’re going to write down all our dreams and goals. I heard it’s the only way they come true. Something about writing one’s dreams turns those dreams sacred. It sets them in stone. And I promise you, Rebecca, this is going to change the courses of our lives.”

  Vicki picked up a purple crayon that was lying on the center of the table and let the white, yellow, and red crayons remain napping between the crystal salt and pepper shakers. Those colors weren’t noble enough for her purpose.

  “It’s a bit odd scribbling our dreams on a tablecloth,” said Rebecca, taking a long silver spoon and searching the bottom of her mocha for the sunken espresso bean, determined to find it before the melted chocolate slid off. “But we may as well celebrate the fact that we’re twenty-first-century modern American women and we can do anything we want in life.”

  “That’s right. Now you’re catching on to the significance of this activity. Everything that goes down in crayon tonight must be accomplished.

  Okay?”

  “Okay, Madam Type A. You start.”

  “I will.” In purple crayon, Vicki neatly wrote the words “Semester in Spain” on the white tablecloth, then clamped her mouth shut as an ambulance roared down College Avenue, reminding the outdoor candlelit diners that life speeds, slows, turns, and detours as it likes, without warning. “I know Spain is coming true. In fact, it’s four months away, you and me, American women studying in the country of romance. You may as well write it down too.”

  “Write it for me, over here. Good. Thank you,” said Rebecca.

  “There. We’ve both got one goal down. You go now,” Vicki insisted. “Okay. While studying in Spain, I’m going to fall madly in love with a mysterious, intelligent, sophisticated Spaniard.” Rebecca wrote “Spanish hombre” and laughed.

  “Do you honestly believe that loving a Spanish man might be any different than loving an American man? I’m sure they both leave their dirty clothes all over the floor and probably chew with their mouths open.”

  “But a Spanish man sips red wine and chews olives and calamari while an American man guzzles beer and chews greasy buffalo wings.”

  “And what does that have to do with loving him?”

  “There’s something to be said about no beer belly. But more importantly, poetry,” said Rebecca. “Picture a man sucking an olive and whispering poetry in your ear. Now picture a guy tearing off a bite of buffalo wing and dipping it in blue cheese dressing, grease rolling down his arm. I don’t think the poetry would sound as romantic.”

  “Why do you think a Spanish man is going to recite poetry to you while he eats?” asked Vicki.

  “I don’t know, but I’ll find out. I’ve written it down as a goal of mine, so ask me again in six months. I’ll share all the juicy details with you then. Your turn.”

  “Five to ten pounds, nothing more. Lose it and maintain it for life.” Vicki wrote “Lose weight.” She closed her eyes and could see the skinnier her wearing a skimpy red bikini, jumping up from her beach towel and jogging toward the water. “I know I’ll be a slightly happier person once I lose ten pounds. I also want to start lifting weights and tone up.”

  “My turn, and no mocking me for this one.” Rebecca scribbled, “Noah.” “It’s odd, but I know I’ll name my first son Noah. I’ve told you that before.”

  “You don’t have a boyfriend, let alone a husband, and you’re already naming your firstborn son. What about your career? You better launch that first before thinking about any baby, let alone man in your life.”

  “These are my dreams. I can write whatever I want, and I want a baby by age thirty-one. I can hopefully launch my career, save up money, find a man and get married, then sit outside on the porch of my dream home somewhere in the mountains.”

  “I was told that when you write down goals, you must also visualize them. Can you see that baby standing up in his crib at two o’clock in the morning? Can you hear him crying for mommy while you’re in the bookstore trying to read?”

  All at once, as the waiter tried pouring water and ice through the mouth of a silver pitcher, the rectangular cubes took off like logs over a waterfall tumbling down onto Rebecca’s last goal. “I hope that’s not an omen, Noah getting flooded out of my future,” she said.

  Vicki laughed, displaying the tiny space between her two front teeth. “My turn.”

  She moved her coffee cup over to make space for her growing list, and then wrote “Grow nails.”

  “If I don’t stop biting them, I’m going to see a hypnotist, or maybe, once I start practicing psychology, I’ll just treat myself to self-therapy. It’s really dysfunctional the way I bite them. I’ve tried manicures, lotions, stress balls, prayer. I still bite. You go.”

  “Family time
,” wrote Rebecca. “This will be easy. I’ve got all summer with my family.”

  “Travel the world,” wrote Vicki. Then she closed her eyes and saw herself taking a train through Europe, backpacking past the Leaning Tower of Pisa in Italy, then the Eiffel Tower in Paris, and …

  “Climb a mountain,” interrupted Rebecca, scribbling quickly, and then closing her eyes. “I’m on the top of Mount Everest, and savoring the moment, viewing my life from an entirely new perspective,” she mumbled in a hypnotized tone. “Oh, but now I have to survive the descent, which is where most people die, you know.”

  “Acquire the world’s largest collection of shoes,” wrote Vicki. “Shoes are what walk us toward our goals. There is nothing as important as wearing the right pair of shoes. They set the mood. When my toes are warm, I’m warm and friendly. If my toes are cold, well, don’t mess with me. If they’re cramped, like when I wear my thin little black pointy pair, I almost always feel socially uncomfortable.”

  “That’s absolutely crazy. You’re crazy,” said Rebecca.

  “A little insane, maybe. But the shoe thing is a fetish passed on from generation to generation in my family. My grandmother claimed her shoes could talk.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Talking shoes. It’s true. She heard them calling her from the closet.”

  “And what did they say?” asked Rebecca.

  “Well, she had this pair of red high heels, and they used to whisper out to her in a sexy, raspy voice, ‘Seduce grandpa, take him out for jazz music at the local club and show him a super sexy time.’”

  “You’re totally making this up,” laughed Rebecca.

  “I’m not. And when she was younger, she had these stocky moon boots that used to yell at her every time it snowed. If she didn’t put them on, look out! They were the meanest moon boots …”

  “You know what I think?” asked Rebecca. “I think your brain needs a rest.”