I didn’t know a lot about architecture, but I knew enough to label it Edwardian. A number of steps led to the porch. A porch, the length of the house and dotted with white wicker chairs, invited the stranger to come and sit a spell. The second floor possessed a balcony and large, elongated, curved-top windows decorated the front. It boasted a cupola on top opening onto a balcony.

As I sat in the driveway, my PT Cruiser idling, I surveyed the myriad of trees and bushes spread around the small front yard. Since it was December, and most of the plants were bare, it leant an eerie feel to the portly old house. The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention and a chill ran up my spine. My heart beat rapidly for just a minute, but then I shook off the ominous feeling. I chuckled out loud and scolded myself. For goodness sake, what can happen at a writer’s workshop? Probably just the excitement, like a girl feels on the first day of school, right?

CHAPTER THREE

A horn blared and jarred me from my musings. I looked around to study the offending car behind me. Guess they wanted to use the driveway, too. I drove around to the back of the house where a small gravel parking lot greeted me.

I’d wait to carry in my luggage. The proud owner of a new knee, I wanted to see what challenges I faced first. Playing sports and being thrown from a horse named Grace had damaged my original knee beyond repair requiring a total replacement this past year.

A little red sports car pulled into the space beside me. A pair of the longest legs I’d ever seen slid out of the little car. How they fit in the tiny car was a mystery. The elongated limbs were attached to a middle-aged redheaded woman.

I took the initiative and introduced myself. “Hi, I’m Trixie Beaumont.” She looked at my extended hand like it was covered with warts. I withdrew it.

“Hi.” She marched past me, into the house. I wondered if she’d signed up for the workshop. If everyone possessed her charming personality we were in for a wild ride.

“Hello, you must be Trixie Beaumont.” I was pleasantly surprised when an older woman greeted me with a hearty welcome. She grabbed me by the arm and pulled me inside. “Come in, come in.” She shut the door behind us.

“Okay, I give up. How did you know my name?”

“Well, dear, you’re the last participant to arrive. It was just a matter of elimination. Now that I know who you are I’ll return the favor. I’m Annie Henderson, the workshop director. It’s good to meet you.” She grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down.

“Who was the friendly red-head that breezed in before me? Is she a member of the workshop?” Annie confirmed my worst fear.

“Yes, she sure is. That, my dear, is Tippi Colston.” She pointed to a table set up with pastries and a pot of coffee. “Help yourself. When you get through, I’ll show you to your room. Our first class will start at nine,” her smile disappeared, “and don’t be late.”

My room exuded charm. A double bed with a canopy would be a welcome sight at the end of the day. An antique chifferobe stood in the corner of the room, in place of a closet. I would have to use the vintage piece of furniture to store my clothes. An antique wash bowl and pitcher sat atop a tall dresser. A full length mirror framed in cherry wood inhabited another corner of the room. I imagined I’d been transported back to a simpler time. There were times in our age of hustle and bustle that I yearned for a time when life moved at a slower pace.

I looked at my watch. I’d better hurry if I didn’t want Annie to get upset on our first day. So much for a slower pace. I descended the steep steps as fast as my knee allowed. Some of the participants had already taken their seats, while others talked among themselves. I found a chair and scooted up to a round table.

Annie cleared her throat and looked at us over half-glasses. “Everyone take a seat please.”

I acquired a quick head count – six including Annie. I looked around the table at an eclectic group of writers. Three women and two men made up the class, four women including me. The men were outnumbered. I realized I’d be spending the next few days with these people. Everyone looked amicable enough, but I’d learned the hard way, looks could be deceiving.

“Let’s go around the table and offer introductions,” Annie said. “Start with Trixie and go to the right.”

I introduced myself and relinquished the floor to a scruffy looking character sitting beside me.

“Hi there! I’m Bodene Tate, and I plan on making a lot of money telling my jailhouse story.” He pushed his shirt sleeves up revealing a myriad of tattoos. “I ain’t never wrote nothin’, but it can’t be that hard. I’m here to learn how to write, so I can tell the world I didn’t kill nobody.” All eyes turned to the burley parolee.

Annie appeared to have swallowed her tongue. She coughed a few times then begged the next person to continue. I’d noticed the young woman, who had the pleasure to sit on the other side of Bodene, when I entered the room. With her mocha colored skin, short spiked hair, and a tall, slender body, she held the air of an exotic creature. She stood erect with the poise of a dancer. She struck me as someone who possessed self-assurance.

“Good morning. I’m Lori Wilson and I’m editor and contributor for the Tennessean, an ad driven magazine that we offer free to the public. My goal is to someday be on the staff of a major women’s magazine.”

Annie had finally found her voice. “Thank you, Lori. Do I know you from somewhere? You look familiar.” She scrunched up her face and tapped her finger on her chin.

“No ma’am. I don’t think we’ve met before.” Lori stared straight at Annie and held her gaze. I saw the wheels churning. Annie might not know Lori, but I had no doubt Lori knew Annie.

Lori looked to her right, relinquishing her turn to the next person. It was the gorgeous red-head that brushed me off in the parking lot. Envy’s a dangerous emotion, but I had to admit I was jealous of this woman’s looks. But then again, I remembered when Mama always said “pretty is as pretty does.” Time would tell if she was as pretty as all that.

When she opened her mouth, I swear she sounded like a valley girl. “Hi. I’m Tippi Colston – Tippi ‘with-an-i.’ I’m free-lancing right now with the hopes of owning my own magazine. I don’t think I’d be happy working for anyone. I’m used to being my own boss.” Tippi “with- an-i” looked around the room as if she dared anyone to disagree with her. “I’m not sure if there’s anything new I can learn, but I thought it would be a nice vacation for a few days.”

A Cheshire Cat grin spread across Annie’s face. I suspected Annie saw Tippi as a challenge, and somehow I didn’t think this would be a vacation. I for one, looked forward to wrapping my mind around Annie’s lessons. It would be a break from the article Harv had recently assigned me. The subject was an unsolved murder case that occurred on Lookout Mountain.

Harv wanted me to work on the article while this close to the small Georgia town, but I didn’t know how I was going to make time. I brought along my research as well as pictures I’d acquired from people I’d interviewed. I had a lot of organizing to do. I’d have to find a way to squeeze in some work to meet the deadline Harv had set for me.

The next person on Tippi’s right introduced himself as George Buchanan. I pegged him to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He sported curly brown hair and the thickest eyebrows I’d ever seen. His face was pock-marked, probably from a severe case of acne when he was a teenager. I couldn’t imagine the teasing he endured from fellow classmates.

George informed us he worked for the Rossville Express reporting the arrests, divorces, and things you wouldn’t want others to know about your life. His aspiration was to be a photo-journalist for a newspaper or magazine. I was glad to hear he didn’t want to be stuck reporting the misfortune of others.