Fairy Tale Blues - Softcover

Welling, Tina

3.02

66 ratings by Goodreads

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0451225945 ISBN 13: 9780451225948

Publisher: Berkley, 2009

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From the author of Crybaby Ranch, who ?writes with insight, humor, and complete control? (Tim Sandlin).

On the night of her twenty-sixth wedding anniversary, AnnieLaurie McFall does the unthinkable. Without a word to her husband Jess, she walks out on their celebration dinner and catches a flight to Florida. It?s time for a sabbatical from marriage?and some serious soul-searching. So she sets herself up in the small coastal town of Hibiscus and creates the perfect six-month retreat to reimagine a storybook ending that could actually come true with Jess still her prince. What she discovers along the way is far more surprising, outrageous, and just plain fun than she ever expects.

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About the Author:

Tina Welling�’s essays have been published in magazines and several anthologies.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Acknowledgements

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

A CONVERSATION WITH TINA WELLING

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

Praise for Crybaby Ranch

“Suzannah’s happy ending is a well-earned one that readers of inspirational fiction will appreciate. —Publishers Weekly

“Twists and dances like a bouncing bronco, but beneath the humor beats a strong foundation of heart.”

—Jacquelyn Mitchard, New York Times bestselling
author of The Midnight Twins

“Crybaby Ranch follows the up-and-down and all-around adventures of a brave woman who’s willing to ask questions we’ve all asked ourselves. The writing is vivid and will hold you through to the end—bringing home fresh answers to old questions about strength and weakness.”

—Clyde Edgerton, author of The Bible Salesman

“A more winning heroine than Suzannah...would be hard to imagine. From page one, we are in love with this wry, insightful, funny survivor of the Sandwich Generation, squeezed between her mother’s Alzheimer’s and her husband’s detachment. In reflections both luminous and humorous, she charts her way to love and independence.” —Sarah Bird, author of How Perfect Is That

“Women and men are suddenly revealed in Crybaby Ranch, an illuminating arc-of-life writing that unfolds in a rich detail of simple and complex feelings.”

—Craig Johnson, author of The Cold Dish
and Death Without Company

“Like a cliff diver, Tina Welling’s fiction flies, tucks, and slices into the dark depths of her characters. She writes with insight, humor, and complete control. If they ever make compassion an Olympic sport, Tina will have a room full of gold.” —Tim Sandlin, author of Jimi Hendrix Turns Eighty

Written by today’s freshest new talents and selected by New American Library, NAL Accent novels touch on subjects close to a woman’s heart, from friendship to family to finding our place in the world. The Conversation Guides included in each book are intended to enrich the individual reading experience, as well as encourage us to explore these topics together—because books, and life, are meant for sharing.

Visit us online at www.penguin.com.

Also by Tina Welling
Crybaby Ranch

NAL Accent
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80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published by NAL Accent, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

First Printing, March 2009

Conversation Guide copyright � Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 2009
All rights reserved

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

Welling, Tina.
Fairy tale blues/Tina Welling.
p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-01960-3

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are 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 publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

For John Buhler,
who gave me the best line in this book.
And now I give it back to him.

Acknowledgments

It adds a special pleasure to the creative process for a writer to have readers in mind as they work. I had very special readers in mind when I wrote this novel: my sister and brother and their mates. Both in-laws and outlaws take openhearted pleasure in my work. It’s only fair that they take something, because I take so much from them: their stories, funny lines, and unique perspectives and experiences. Thank you, Gayle Caston, Tom Welling, Debbie Welling and Bob Caston.

My sons and daughters-in-law contributed to this project, and I am grateful to them: Trevor Buhler, Amy Buhler, Toby Buhler, Amber Buhler.

I feel profoundly privileged to have John Travis as my teacher. Going on meditation retreats in Jackson Hole and in India with him has enhanced my life with meaning and joy. The fictional retreat leader in the novel is a mere shadow of him.

Ellen Edwards is a perceptive editor with a strong sense of ethics, a clear vision of story and mastery over language. I feel immensely fortunate to work with her. Thank you, Ellen.

My husband, John Buhler, offers support in every way from his heartfelt happiness over my pleasure in the writing life to creating delicious ragouts and pasta sauces for our dinners together. And always he is my first reader.

My gratitude goes to Susan Marsh and Patti Sherlock, two exceptional writers, who offered steady support as readers of my manuscript—a considerable gift. Gratitude also to my agent, Charlotte Sheedy, for her expertise over the years. Through the professional assistance of Rebecca Vinter and Meredith Kaffel, my writing life is smoothed and eased. Susan Wasson, Judy Johnson, Eric Boss and Judy Boss, thank you once again for your generous spirits.

For financial support my thanks goes to Pursue Balance, a non-profit organization in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, that offers Growth Grants to individuals who are pursuing personal or environmental balance through adventure, study, the arts. I also offer thanks to the Wyoming Arts Council for personal support and statewide support of writers.

An enormous part of my pleasure in this work is the weaving of chance remarks, stories or shared events that find their way into my creative process. In this project I thank Coulter Buhler, Libby Vallee, MacKenzie Caston and Elaine Mansfield. Inspiration and support for my subject came from two books in particular: Medea’s Folly by Tanya Wilkinson (PageMill Press, 1998) and The Light Inside the Dark by John Tarrant (HarperCollins, 1998).

One

Annie

It seemed longer than just twelve hours ago that I walked out on my husband during our anniversary dinner. This morning after a shower, I smoothed lotion supplied by the hotel over my body, nose to toes. Not that my skin needed it in the humid warmth of Florida like it did back home in the dry cold of Wyoming, but this old habit grounded me. And besides the clothes I had been wearing, old habits were all I’d brought along.

We were celebrating at the Granary, a restaurant high atop Gros Ventre Butte, the lights of Jackson Hole glittering below. Surely Jess had caught on by now that I wasn’t returning, yet I still pictured him sitting where I’d left him, watching champagne bubbles spiral up his glass.

Before Jess left for work yesterday morning, I had sneaked a gift bag filled with his favorite chocolate-covered raisins into his backpack with a mushy card and the time and place of our dinner reservation. Last night, once we had ordered our champagne at the Granary, Jess slid a package across the table to me. I recognized the gift wrapping from the goldsmith’s on the town square. I read his note written on the back of our store’s business card.

I love you for a hundred raisins.

I dissolved into a teary laugh at his silly note, and a surge of love for Jess flooded my heart. My fingers tugged on the ribbon to loosen the bow. I paused and looked into his eyes, aware of the difficulty I’d been experiencing with him lately. Yet aware, too, that we had shared a deep and resilient love during our twenty-six years together. Though Jess’ note exposed the fact that he had likely shopped for his gift after being prompted by my gift to him that morning, I instantly forgave him.

I read the note again, out loud this time. “I love you for a hundred raisins.”

My voice softened into a whisper near the end. I reached across the table with both hands and looped the ribbon around my husband’s shoulders. “I love you, too,” I said.

He held one of my hands and grinned at how touched I was by his card. When Jess directed his attention my way, he knew just how to reach me, and he could always make me laugh. For the past two and a half years, though, his attention had often felt tucked away, unavailable to me. To be fair, since our sons, Cam and Saddler, had left for college, I may have expected more in the way of intimacy from Jess than I had before the house became ours alone. Perhaps starting tonight things would improve. Inside of me, a party balloon floated with hope.

“Go ahead, open it up,” Jess said, releasing my hand and leaning forward to watch.

I unwrapped the package. Inside glimmered blue topaz ear studs. Topaz was my birthstone and blue my favorite color.

I looked up, eyebrows lifted, my smile still in place, assuming he was teasing me. Jess smiled back at me, looking open and at ease.

“To match your beautiful eyes, AnnieLaurie,” he said. They were the same words he had said last Valentine’s Day when he presented me with this exact gift. A pair of topaz ear studs, same starry blue. Which at that moment I was wearing. In fact, hadn’t removed since he’d given them to me eleven months before.

It all came rushing in. How Jess lived in perpetual unawareness, like a second grader who came to school wide-eyed that he was late, wearing unmatched socks, having forgotten his lunch. Jess walked through his life and our marriage with this same benign look of happy innocence. Yet until now I had never been conscious of this as a source of our trouble. Or felt quite so angry.

I could barely breathe. I felt as if a geyser churned in my chest, and at any moment it would explode noisily into scalding tears.

“I’m going to the restroom,” I said when I could speak. I grabbed my purse and the satiny gift box. I passed the waiter bringing our bottle of champagne down the wide staircase from the lounge above. The Granary was built on the side of the butte, full of windows full of Tetons, though on this January evening I only saw myself reflected in the window glass, long rippling velvet skirt and silky shirt, standing at the banister.

Some women say they could live through anything but the loss of a child. But, for me, just as unbearable would be the loss of my mate. I stood on the steps, watching my husband follow the beads of champagne as they spilled into the glasses. I was forty-six years old, married to Jess for more than half my life. And I felt then as if I had lost him just as surely as if he hadn’t shown up for our anniversary dinner at all.

Jess didn’t look toward the staircase, though by then the waiter was glancing my way, as were a few other diners, so I continued up the steps. In the coatroom I wrapped my handwoven scarf around my neck, removed my coat from the hanger, found my fringed leather gloves and stepped out into the whipping snow to the car.

The switchbacks down the butte were iced and treacherous, and I gripped the steering wheel and negotiated the steep, curving road in four-wheel drive. This road always made me uneasy, but this January night my thoughts scared me more. I was heading for the airport.

I caught a shuttle to Denver, then another flight to Orlando, rented a car and headed straight for the Atlantic Ocean, a place where I’d always found comfort. I arrived a couple hours before dawn. Now wrapped in a hotel towel, I stood before the sliding-glass doors that led to a balcony overlooking the beach, undecided about what to do next. I barely noticed my lack of sleep; instead, I felt stunned by a sense of loss. I realized that I had been working hard on a marriage in which my partner worked very little. Resentment, built from years of keeping this fact from myself, finally toppled like a many-storied building, burying me beneath it. For two hours I had been tossing and turning in a hotel bed far from home, as if trying to wriggle out from under the rubble.

Now I realized it would take more than a few sleepless nights to tidy up this mess. Yet I didn’t have any notion of what it would take. All I knew was that once my marriage had been a romance full of laughter, sweetness and spirit, and that Jess and I had met every tough time with the determination to work it out, while couples around us broke apart, switched partners, sued each other for custody of kids, cutting horses and golden retrievers.

I checked the clock beside the bed—seven a.m.—and subtracted two hours for Mountain Time. I should phone Jess, report my whereabouts.

I didn’t look forward to the call. Jess’ first response would be to construct a story to excuse his actions; his second would be to diminish the issue. This time, I’d refuse ...

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