Lessons In Being A Flapper Read online

  Lessons In Being

  A Flapper

  By Angela Smith

  Lessons In Being A Flapper by Angela Smith

  Copyright © 2013 by Angela Smith

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, places and dialogue are from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people or events, living or dead, is pure coincidence.

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher or author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2013

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dedication

  To my mom, Linda, who always inspires me and to my dear friend, Kora, aged 91, who showed me that age is nothing but a number.

  Also, to those who have been through tough times. Hang in there. Things will get better!

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to everyone who inspired me to write this novel, especially those who did so without even meaning to.

  A special thanks to Kora Silva, 91, who inspired the character of Marisol. Like Marisol, Kora is one tough cookie who livens up any room she enters. She may be 91 but her spirit is forever young.

  To my mom, Linda, who has persevered through everything and been there for me every step of the way. Thanks to her I found the most amazing illustrator in Sue Traynor who designed the cover of Lessons In Being A Flapper. It was so much fun imaging what Autumn would look like and how she’d be dressed for the cover image!

  To my friends (in no particular order) who read my rough drafts and gave me advice and great feedback : Susi Riggs, Shirley Benton-Bailey, Leah Eggleston-Krygowski, Marla Moretti-Penn, Mandy Inglis, Stephanie Pegler and Ivy Baker. You guys made me want to continue telling Autumn’s story when I was doubtful that I could.

  Prologue

  “So, tell me, how did your day go? Clara and I had a lovely time together. She didn’t try to wee in my poinsettias once – a marked improvement from the last time she was here, I think.”

  “Oh, it went fine. You know, normal office stuff…getting to meet my co-workers, arranging my new office. Those types of things,” I said as nonchalantly as possible.

  “What about the orchids, dear? Did you place them in a special place?” Marisol asked. I must have looked as stunned as I felt because she filled in the void by saying that they were a congratulations gift from my grandfather.

  “Didn’t you look at the little card? It was written in his own words and then delivered by one of the area’s most expensive florists this morning.” So that’s where they had come from. I was trying to figure out who had sent them to me and now I knew. I guess I still wasn’t used to having dead people send me flowers. It’s usually the other way around, isn’t it?

  “’Send Autumn flowers – orchids to be exact – I want her to know how proud I am of her!’ he said and continued saying until I ordered the damn things just to shut him up! Sometimes it seems like he just wants to barber on forever.” She looked slightly cross with my grandfather but at least she was nice enough not to say it aloud.

  “Well, tell him thank you, if you can. I’ve actually been meaning to ask you if you can tell the dead things or can you only receive messages from them and not the other way around?”

  “I’m a Medium, Chickadee. I can receive messages but actually sending them is a bit harder. It’s not like I can pick up the nearest Ameche – that’s telephone – and call him up. He or she has to come to me when they’re ready…like all spirits do.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder : What had I gotten myself into?

  Chapter One

  OK. This has got to be a joke. Yes, that’s it. It’s all one big, fat joke. I mean, it has to be, right? Because there is no way – I repeat NO way – that life can keep throwing me a curveball. Scratch that. Life can throw me a curveball as long as it wants but I’d appreciate it if it stopped throwing me a curveball containing more curveballs. Am I making sense or did I lose you at the first curveball? Well, anyway, at the end of the day, it all comes down to the fact that I have so many curveballs I could open my own screwed-up batting cage for people who couldn’t hit a straight ball if it killed them.

  You see, I’ve been dealing with far too much for a 28-year-old woman. A smart, vibrant 28-year-old woman, I might add. So as I stand here in the rain, soaked right down to my Spongebob Squarepants socks (don’t ask), I wonder just how much more is going to be thrown my way before I can catch a break. I deserve a break, really, I do.

  Today has been one of those days where you wish you’d never emerged from under your nice, warm duvet. It started off innocent enough. I got up, attempted some meditation (and failed miserably because I just couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes without thinking of something that needed to be done), then I made some breakfast, got dressed and ventured out into the cold, hard world.

  I didn’t have anywhere to be today. Like most days this past month, I walked aimlessly, thinking about what to do with myself and how to improve my extremely lackluster life. I didn’t even notice how far I had walked until the sea was right in front of me. Odd, how that happened. It seemed I always ended up here at the seaport, where I would walk along the soft-sand beach, in search of a sign.

  I never got one.

  “Shit!” I said, fairly loud, apparently, as families huddled on the beach building sandcastles with their innocent little children looked my way in disgust.

  “Sorry, so sorry” I mumbled, as I walked away. Ok. I was going to have to stop cursing in public. It was so not becoming. Ugh. I only swore because I realized that today I had to be home by 11:00 for a mysterious letter that was arriving by post. Apparently, someone out there had sent me something important. It wasn’t anyone I knew but I had to sign for this letter even though I dreaded what it said. And now, I was not home to do so. Shit. Of course, in my dream-like state, I had completely forgotten and walked over 45 minutes away – through the bustling city of North Beach and down to the shore. Now, in order to get back to the house within the next 15 minutes, I would need a miracle – or a car. Neither of which I expected to appear out of thin air. On top of that it had started raining, hence my soaked socks and shoes. And shirt…and pants. Double shit. I looked worse than a drowned rat. What was that about anyway? How could someone look like a drowned rat? Unless you had a long, pointy nose, a body ridden with hair and buck teeth, I see no comparison to a rat. But I digress. I better get home. Somehow. So I started walking. And walking. And walking. After what felt like ten hours, but was closer to 55 minutes, I arrived on my doorstep in my water-logged clothes and was met by the face of a rather irate postman.

  “You no here for delivery. I make wait! Why you make me wait, Autumn?” he said to me, in his usual broken English. Esteban was from Argentina and he had been my postman ever since I moved into this house. He was usually pleasant but any time I was slightly late or gave him mail without out the proper postage (oops!) his fierce Argentine side came out.

  “Sorry, Esteban. I had to walk about a gazillion miles in the rain and I got splashed by cars driving
through puddles and I lost my contact after getting mud in my eye…”

  “You think I care about your troubles? In Argentina, we walk everywhere. We no have taxis in my town. We walk!” he all but screeched. OK, enough of this. I just wanted to sign for my package and get the hell in the house.

  “Can I have my package, please?” I said, as sweetly as I could since I really wanted to screech right back at him. But, I didn’t, of course. I was far too polite for that. “Here. It must be something special. No return address, but lot of money on postage. Lot of money. I could buy herd of cattle with that money back in Argentina,” he said, shoving the parcel at me and narrowly missing taking out my mud speckled eye. What do I care about his cattle? He’s just my postman! I don’t know why I put up with him sometimes. The cheek of him, talking to me the way he does! Although, he is right. This person spent an incredible amount to mail this letter to me. This worried me even more. Who sent this to me and why?

  As I dragged myself into the house, pausing only to drop all my dirty clothes in the hamper, all I could think of was how tired I was. Tired of walking in the rain, tired of struggling, tired of people who didn’t really care or understand. Tired of the whole shebang that was life as I knew it. I felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, especially not here in San Francisco with a pushy Argentine postman, no good friends and a dog with three legs to deal with. I put down my mail and gazed out my window at the view. It was a pretty view, with the rolling hills of San Fran right outside and almost within reach. I could see the cable cars coming and going and on most days the sun came through my window, which lay just below Telegraph Hill, in bright bursts, instantly warming the house with its amber glow.

  But today, it just felt murky and dreary. Or maybe that was just how I felt.

  Wanting to get this over with sooner rather than later, I opened the letter. I had never seen the stamps used before and didn’t recognize what country they were from. Odd, I thought, they almost looked vintage. I pulled out the cream paper inside. Just one sheet, typed in a gorgeous calligraphy by someone named Marisol. I didn’t know a Marisol. Was she related to Esteban? Was this some joke of his?

  Dear Autumn, it read.

  I know you don’t know me, but take comfort in the fact that I know you. I know that you haven’t been happy lately and you feel like you don’t belong in this crazy world. Life will do that to you sometimes. But you’ve got to buck up and stay strong.

  I’ve been thinking about you and feel like you might need a break. While I know you want to go to Australia and Fiji, I was thinking more along the lines of oh, I don’t know…the 1920’s? You love that era, don’t you? With all its glitz and glamour, it was the epitome of cool and in your eyes it is the era you were meant to be born in. So I’m going to give you a chance to check it out for yourself, see how it feels to be a real “Flapper” (I saw your Halloween costume by the way and was pretty impressed with your spot-on style!)

  Meet me at The Painted Ladies. Number 3, to be exact, on Thursday at 6 P.M. sharp.

  Be there or be forever sorry, Kiddo.

  Yours in vintage beauty,

  Marisol

  OK then.

  The mysterious letter turned out to be from some weirdo who was stalking me. Was “Marisol” even a woman? There was no way I was going to meet some stranger at The Painted Ladies (even though a part of me has always wanted to see the inside of these Victorian era gems). I just couldn’t go. It was impossible and illogical. But wouldn’t it be amazing if Marisol really knew my feelings for the 20’s? My heart soared at the thought of someone who understood me. Before now, I only felt a kinship with Uggie the dog from the silent film The Artist, so it might be nice to have an actual human to talk to about life and the Roaring Twenties. Yes, it would. It bloody well would, but could I actually do something so impulsive?

  The next few days passed in a flurry of excitement and trepidation. I was excited to meet this mysterious woman, who seemed to know so much about me already. However, I was also rather terrified that she wouldn’t live up to what I was imagining in my head. What if she (or he, for all I knew) was some scam artist or sex crazed maniac who had gotten my address and been stalking me since I moved here? I toyed with the idea of meeting her as the days passed. It wasn’t like me to be impulsive and just jump into unknown situations at all. I kept asking myself if she could really help me find my place in this world with so little information. It seemed ludicrous and I was already afraid of being let down. Like air rushing out of a tire, I’d deflate in seconds if this all turned out to be one big joke. Because God knows I’ve been let down so much in my life.

  You see, I came to San Francisco from a little suburb outside of Boston after my life was turned upside down. Things happened that shouldn’t have and as a result my life spiraled out of control. I was left broken and unable to move on with my life in such a small town so I left for bigger and brighter things. I always dreamed of doing things with my life, of achieving the unachievable and showing everyone that I really had a purpose. Sadly, since arriving in San Fran six months, eighteen days and twelve hours ago and renting this gorgeous home in the heart of it all, the only thing I had acquired was the flu, my three legged dog, Clara, and a bad case of I-don’t-belong-here syndrome. Maybe running from my problems wasn’t the best idea, eh? Whether it was or it wasn’t, I couldn’t turn back now. For one thing there was Clara, who was named after the famous “It” girl of the 1920’s, Clara Bow. I found my Clara and the 20’s era Clara had much in common: a tortured life (Clara the dog lost a leg after being abused, Clara the woman was stabbed by her jealous mother) and a desire to persevere no matter what. They were one in the same. Sometimes I wondered if this sweet little dog wasn’t Clara Bow reincarnated. I had yet to see her try on a dress or sing jazz but I wouldn’t be surprised one bit to come home one day and find her in full make-up and ready for her close up.

  How I stumbled upon Clara is a miracle, really, both for her and I. I needed a friend and she needed someone to save her in her darkest hour.

  I was walking through the city, as I do most days now, but this time it was dark. I don’t usually venture out at night alone but that night I just so happened to need something at the store for a batch of cherry vanilla cupcakes I was making. Instead of waiting until morning, I felt the urge to go out and get the missing ingredient that night so I could have the decadent dessert ready for my mother’s visit the next day. As I walked down the street, which was crowded with young adults stumbling out of bars and drag queens swearing at me in stilettos and fishnets (seriously, they can be worse than a real woman if you look at them the wrong way!) I heard a whimpering noise and lots of shouting. As I got closer to a dark alleyway, I heard loud thumping and what sounded like glass shattering. Now, many of you would probably tell me that this was the point I should have turned around and either gone home or taken a different route but I didn’t. I felt propelled to go forward and as I crept towards the edge of the alley what I saw shook me to the core. Just a few hundred feet down the narrow space between two run-down buildings, there were a group of young men in their late teens to early twenties throwing glass bottles and kicking a terrified looking white dog. Backed into a corner, it was easy to see the fear in this little dog’s eyes just by the glint of a streetlight. Without thinking, I screamed “Stop!” over and over again, then rushed forward and sheltered the dog from the blows. It wasn’t my smartest move but it was all I could think of at the moment. The men were stunned to see someone in the dogs place but not stunned enough to push me over and steal my wallet before running away.

  Left on my own with a severely injured dog, no money and no phone to call for help, I decided my best bet would be to wrap the dog in my coat, carry her home and then call a taxi to take her to the emergency vets at San Francisco Pet Emergency Clinic. Within an hour, I was there. Cold, exhausted and in shock, I sat in the waiting room and prayed that this innocent animal would be saved. Her injuries were much worse than just cuts from glass, I
was told. She had also been shot at and as a result her hind leg was dangling like a tree branch in danger of snapping off at any moment. It was a horrific sight to see. It seemed like I waited there all night, but it must have only been an hour or so before the vet came out to tell me that the dog was in critical condition and would need her leg amputated. He thanked me for saving her but told me that since she was a stray, they did not have the funds to perform the surgery only for her to end up in one of California’s (many) high kill shelters. He said they would instead euthanize her and end her pain. Once again, I was shocked to the core (that had to stop; I was getting annoyed at physically recoiling every time someone said or did something appalling). I just couldn’t understand how this dog could be so tortured by life and then killed because no one claimed her. Had society really become so cruel and heartless that it would kill an innocent dog just because the system was overloaded? I immediately said that I would adopt her -- leg or no leg – and pay for all her medical bills. So that is how I inadvertently came to own a three-legged black and white Pit bull puppy named Clara. I may not have gotten my ingredients or made my cupcakes but I gained a loyal and loving friend in Clara. She’s been my confidante from the start and has never once let me down. This is probably why I was so afraid to go meet Marisol. In my experience, humans were more likely to let you down than any animal ever would be.

  Thursday afternoon I went for tea and scones at my local bakery cum café. I had bought a book written on The Painted Ladies and the Colorist Movement, which found normally dull colored homes painted in bright pinks, greens, yellows and even orange, that I planned to spend some time reading over my “calming” herbal tea and a warm cranberry apple scone. They were definitely a sight to be seen (the homes not the scones) and to actually know someone in them was an exception. They were a tourist attraction but very rarely did anyone actually get to look inside and see the décor or the no doubt fabulous people living behind the ornate doors. I researched Marisol’s home (or what I presumed to be her home) at number 3 Summerhill Road. I found that it had sold in 1999 for nearly $4 million dollars ($4 million!!) to a person or persons who wished to remain anonymous. Was this Marisol? Was she married? I couldn’t help but wonder. I knew the homes were worth money but yet I was still shocked by the sum of it. I was broke from still paying off Clara’s vet bills so being invited to a multi-million dollar home was way out of my league! As I left the café, I couldn’t shake the feeling that my life was about to change and despite my fear of being hurt or let down, I felt that things were going to go well tonight if I went. So, on a whim, I decided to go and see Marisol. If I thought about it too long, I knew I’d change my mind, so I figured I’d better get this done and over with quickly.