DOWN DOROTHY

Chapter One

How I Got Here from There

            So a day, a train and a bus ride later, this Philly girl found herself deposited outside a trendy little market in excessively twee Dorothy, New Jersey. After the bus pulled away and its obligatory cloud of exhaust cleared, I saw a bare-chested man in overalls and knee-high rubber Wellies turn from a pyramid of heirloom watermelons. Before I could reach the shade of the store’s canvas awning he was calling, “Dorothy Moss?” over what sounded like a hundred dogs barking.

            “Who…wants to know?” I said, absolutely stricken by the deep green of his eyes.

            He wore a cap with a jumping fish on it over short-cropped black hair. “That would be me. So, are you or aren’t you?”

            Little hairs spiked on the back of my neck. “It’s Jane Moss. Who’re you?”

            As he closed the space between us, as he thrust a hand toward me, I swore this was the last time I’d ever ever listen to Reed  

* * * * *

            “Ever hear of a town down the Shore called Dorothy?” Reed asked.

            “What’s that supposed to be, some kind of ironic karma-type thing? No,” I said, “I haven’t heard of it.”

            “Dorothy’s built around a snug little harbor on Barnegat Bay. Fairly infested with Park Slope. They’re calling it ‘Little Newport.’ You sure you never head of it?”

              Okay, I had. But I still hated any place that smelled of salt air. “Maybe. Why?”

            “Because—excuse the pun—the town’s got your name written all over it. Perfect place for you to go away and chill for awhile. And maybe write something I’ve got a chance of getting published.”

            Reed was down from Manhattan for an editors’ panel at Philadelphia’s Free Library, allowing our schedules to finally converge. And the fact he wanted to meet at Old City Coffee and talk about my manuscript had me thinking mine wasn’t one he was about to reject.

            “So about my—”

            “No.” He shook his head with purpose.

            “I’ll give it another edit.”

            “You’re not listening, Jane.”

            This was precisely why we no longer wrestled with the same blanket. I plucked lemon peel from my espresso. “Then get to the point.”

            He took my hand, and for a moment it felt like old times. “Jane, I still think you’re one of the most original writers out there. You have a real voice, not like those Times list junkies I get everyday. For crying out loud—you had a short story in The New Yorker.”

            Shambles, a few 20 Under 40 fiction issues ago. We edited it in my bed, naked, sipping wine, the only things getting me through his ruthless blue pencil. But that’s the reason I was sitting here now. “So shouldn’t that mean something?”

            “Sure, but what’s happened since?” He glanced to his tablet, the first page of my opus up. “How long have we known each other, Jane? Ten years? Back when you just started that textbook manager job at Quaker State University?”

            I couldn’t help it. I smiled with archived and in the moment affection. “Back when you were still hustling textbooks.”

            “Back when you used to take my advice.”

            Still so smug in that power suit. “You know, I really don’t have to—”

            “Oh yes you do,” he said, turning a few heads. “Damn! You’re so stubborn. Did you even read the notes I made on your chapters?” He jabbed the screen. “If you did this wouldn’t be like a bomb exploding over and over. I should call the Think Tank at Princeton and say, ‘Hey! I’ve got the answer to fusion right here.’”

            I squinted at him. “Not funny.”

            “Not trying to be. Look, historical fiction still has to have living, breathing, real-life characters.”

            “I’ve done my research.”

            “If you call research banging back Sidecars at the Stratus till two a.m.” His jaw tightened. “I don’t even want to think about what goes on after.”

            “Good, because it’s none of your business.” 

            “Jane, characters need to hurt and bleed and transform, do more than just argue and jump in the sack. It’s not enough to know the royal mortar was 5.4 inches caliber if you don’t give a damn if one of them blows your hero apart. Historical minutiae is fine but only if it advances the plot. But you’ve got such a mish-mash of non sequiturs— it’s like an Indiana Jones warehouse of Antique Roadshow rejects.”

            I was too impressed to be insulted. “Look at you—Sir Metaphor Mix-a-Lot.”

            He huffed, reaching into his inside pocket. “Here.” He handed me a business card. “It’s from a real estate agent, name of Alice Munson. Found us a nice place on Long Beach Island for Fourth of July week.”

            Us. Meaning he and his glamorous new wife, Carole. Met, engaged and married her in under a year, something I couldn’t get out of him in three. Not that it ever crossed my mind, but still. “How wonderful for you.”

            “In-season rentals with boat slips start at four grand a week in Dorothy. She’s got a listing for $3500 for six. But you’d have to jump on it now, like today, because after the Fourth the price will explode.”

            Our meeting was going south and fast. “Reed, I’m not looking for a vacation. I’m looking to get back in the game.” 

            “Look, Jane.” Oh no. Look, Jane meant it was all but over. “If you want me to buy your historical fiction you’ll have to give me something fresh. Dorothy fairly bleeds history, but it’s also quirky enough for your inner urbanite.”

            “And you think going there will lead to a story?”

            “So much I’ll make you a proposition. Get me something by say…the Fourth of July, and we’ll talk contract.”

            Was he joking? “You expect me to write a book in six weeks? I couldn’t do that in six months.”

            “I’m only talking an outline and a couple of chapters.”

            “But what about my job?”

            “You said you haven’t had a vaca in two years. Take a leave of absence if you have to, or…” He shrugged. “Jane, I’m done.”

            I felt sick. He wanted me to toss three years of work? “Reed, I can fix this. You know my best work always comes out in the edits. I mean, would The New Yorker have taken a chance on me if they didn’t think I had potential?”

            “Potential, yes, but at thirty-six? Jane, your 20 Under 40 days are getting further behind you, but I know you’ve enough juice left to convince my senior editor if you give me something new. C’mon. Take my offer. You’ll never get a better one.”

            Not that I believed it, but I allowed him the ego stroke. “Let me think it over.”

            “Think fast,” he said, rising. “Alice’s expecting your call tonight. And I have a team meeting in the morning.”

            “No pressure, then.” And he was off.

            I stared into my empty cup. Maybe I did need to think about it. Maybe over another cup of coffee. Coffee, I knew, could fix anything.

            Coffee was the duct tape of my life. I ordered another espresso.

            So Reed wanted me out of the city. But what he didn’t get was how bred into Philadelphia I was. I loved its old, scrolly buildings, its walkable streets, Citizens Bank Park and the blue Ben Franklin reflecting off the Delaware. Loved University City where I was born the one-and-done child of two math academics, loved Society Hill where I lived now. Concrete and compact living was what I was made for. My Granny got that, and when she died she willed me her townhouse, I smiled even through my grief. How could Reed possibly think I’d want to go to New Jersey?

            Men. Reed’s a nice guy if a bit bossy, but the men I allowed in my life were mostly like a new pair of shoes. They looked great at first, but ultimately they wore themselves out. That dinner, a couple of drinks, and a protected toss between the sheets was as good as it was ever going to get. If I wanted faithful, I’d be better off getting a dog.

            And I don’t even like dogs.

            But I did like getting published. When my coffee came I gave it all a think, and by the end of the cup I’d reached a decision. Reed wanted fresh? I could do fresh. As in one more refresh of my book. I pulled out my phone, dialing my boss.

            “Marilyn? It’s Jane. I need a favor…”

            And just like that, the first part of my plan fell into place. I slid over the card Reed gave me for the second. After I left a voice mail I sat back to wait. Ten minutes later my phone buzzed.

            “Jane? Alice Munson, Lighthouse Realty. You said a friend referred you?”

            “Yes, Reed’s his name. He said you have something nice in a vacation rental in…” I felt myself cringing, “…Dorothy.”

            “Oh! You’re the writer!” She seemed really excited over that. “He must have told you about the cottage.”

            The cottage? “He really didn’t—”

            “Just listen. ‘Historic cottage on creek. Two bedrooms, one bath, eat-in kitchen, screened-in porch, boat dock. Walking distance to shops and restaurants. Only $3500 from immediately to the Fourth of July.’ A steal, right?”

            I took a deep breath and said, “I’ll take it.”

            “Wonderful! Now let’s get your info for the deposit. Bring a check for the balance. Now, your full name…?”

            My legal name. This was going to be cute. “Dorothy J. Moss—”

            “Dorothy?” she said. “Oh boy—it’s fate! Isn’t that funny?”

            If fate was playing a joke I failed to find the humor. I gave her the rest of what she needed and hung up. Just one more call to make.

            “What’s the word, Jane?” Reed said.

            “Just two. You’re on.”

            It appeared I was.

* * * * *

            “Who are you?” I asked again.

            The green-eyed Wellie man slipped the suitcase from me and lit a thousand watt grin. “Restrain your enthusiasm, Dorothy Jane. I’m your landlord.”

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