Invisible Anna

By Coralie Moss

On the cusp of a new decade, Anna Granger thinks she knows who she is: widow, attentive mother, accommodating businesswoman. But with the Big 5-O comes the realization she's rendered herself all but invisible. Longtime clients aren't renewing, her adult children are moving on, and—hardest to admit—men no longer look at her, only through her.

Anna's best friend takes the reins and organizes an uplifting girls-only weekend in Vancouver, where a beginner's intimacy workshop reconnects Anna with her body. And when emails from former flame, Daniel, move from hinting at rekindling their romance to the offer of an all-expenses-paid trip to Cabo San Lucas, Anna takes another step out of her comfort zone.

Small-town island life goes from humdrum to hopping with the addition of Liam, the visiting New Yorker who rents the cottage next door. As romance reorganizes Anna's personal life and her client list grows, dreams she abandoned when she embraced motherhood clamor for attention. Though the future holds no guarantees, can Anna claim her newfound confidence and find her way back to herself?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pink Moon Books
• Release date: Apr 26, 2018
• ISBN: 9781775264606

Book preview

One

Turning fifty wasn’t so bad. It was the turning invisible that sucked.

One day, you felt reasonably attractive. You were having a conversation with a guy, and next thing you knew, he was scanning the room and walking away mid-sentence. Then it was just you, a wall of bad art and a half-filled glass of wine in the corner of yet another gallery opening or book signing.

Mom.

On the way to invisible, sales women handed you one-size-fits-all caftans when what you really wanted was the adorable eyelet mini-dress on the mannequin in the window. Your adult children begged you not to wear a two-piece bathing suit. Better yet, they suggested, why go to the beach at all?

On the way to invisible, you began to understand why many women of a certain age dyed their hair fire-engine red and stopped giving any kind of a fuck, whatsoever.

"Mom!"

Anna floated out of her reverie, a gentle hand patting her upper back. The linseed-oil finish of Gary Jr. and his wife, Suki’s, porch glistened in the late afternoon sun while the cluster of family and friends ringing the circular metal and glass table held their collective breath.

Mom, Anna’s daughter, Gigi, repeated. Your candles are dripping.

Anna pursed her lips, ignored her children’s worried glances, and managed to blow out all five flames. Everyone applauded. Suki plucked the smoldering tapers out of the buttercream frosting, placed them on a painted tray, and handed Anna a silver cake knife and a stack of dessert plates.

The rest of the birthday celebration passed in a blur. Gary Jr. drove Anna home afterward. She mounted the steps of her narrow side deck, the vase of flowers from the party propped against her hip. The key she kept meaning to recut stuck in the lock. Again.

Inside, she moved a set of salt-and-pepper shakers out of the way and put the generous bouquet of farm-grown poppies in the center of the kitchen table. Before her husband died, everything in her modest home had its place. And each of those things continued to have its place.

Five years ago, she and Gary had begun to find a new rhythm to their married life. They had made plans to travel away from their home in coastal British Columbia and to expand Anna’s sewing business.

Then Gary had suffered a massive heart attack and everything—everything—changed.

Anna put her client orders on hold, helped her two newly adult children grieve their father’s passing, and mourned in private for future grandchildren who would never sample Gary’s walnut penuche fudge or spend a summer night stargazing with him from the top of Mount Maxwell.

She startled at a knock at her door and exhaled when Gary Jr. stepped inside to hand her a gaudy gift bag stuffed with cards and gifts. He placed a bakery box—which box promised the leftover dessert she’d eyeballed when Suki removed the cake stand from the table—near the flowers and opened his arms for a quick hug.

Love you, Mom.

Anna drew the shade on the door when he left and opened the cardboard container. Her thoughtful daughter-in-law had added a thick schmear of frosting to the paper plate. She swiped the added, unused candles one by one through the mocha confection, sucking the sweetness off the blunt ends before lining them beside the plate. She rinsed off the candles in the basin of the chipped porcelain sink and set the slender sentinels of her five decades on the windowsill to dry.

She wasn’t tired, and she wasn’t about to give in to the tug of melancholy pulling her toward the couch, a sad movie, and a glass of wine…and another. She brought the bag of birthday goodies to a side chair, tugged on the pull chain of the old milk-glass lamp, and sat.

The rosy red envelope from her best friend, Elaine, beckoned to be opened. Inside the enclosed card, she’d written, Anna Banana, Time for a couple of old birds to learn some new tricks! Happy Birthday, Love, E.

A gift certificate, decorated with stylized pen-and-ink drawings of nude bodies, dropped into her lap. Anna flipped the rectangular paper and read a jumble of words informing her she would be attending a workshop on Intimate Breathing the following weekend. When she unwrapped the accompanying pink-striped package, a wave of prickly heat flushed over her neck and cheeks. She ignored the chirp of an incoming phone call and fanned her face with the birthday card.

Elaine, that paragon of wild womanhood, had given her an assortment of palm-sized vibrators in sorbet-colored silicone, along with a sampler of personal lubricants. Her friend must have charged the sex toys or put in fresh batteries because the one covered with translucent bumps wiggled in her hand. The button to make it stop wasn’t obvious. Anna giggled despite her embarrassment, dropped it into her lap, and found herself swallowing a surprised squeak as the kitchen door unlatched.

Gary! She grabbed the vibrator, stuffed it between her thighs, and prayed she had enough padding to muffle the insistent buzz.

Hey, Mom, I was halfway down your road when I remembered there was another bag of presents in the back seat. Where do you want these? He lifted the remaining haul and stepped closer to the couch.

Right there. She pointed to the table behind him, hoping he’d leave the bag and hightail it back to his car and his lovely wife.

Instead, he dropped it on the floor next to her calf. What’s that noise?

He reached into the partially unwrapped box and lifted a raspberry-colored, bullet-shaped item from the tissue paper. Grasping the keyring attached to one end, his eyes went wide as he mouthed the words printed along the side of the object. Pleasure Plum?

Anna prepared to die on the spot. It’s from Elaine, she said, holding out her palm. She thinks she’s being funny.

Gary reddened.

I need to wipe this from my memory. He relinquished the toy, planted his face in both palms, and scrubbed at his cheeks. I’m heading to the cottage, he mumbled. Call if you need anything. And tell Elaine I’m scarred for life.

Thank you for bringing my other gifts.

He waved without bothering to turn around and closed the door with a decisive pull.

Anna leaned into the armchair, closed her eyes, and let out the breath she’d been holding. Lesson number one for mothers with sons—or maybe it was lesson number four—was mothers didn’t have sex, let alone possess an arsenal of sex toys.

The happy little vibrator hummed for attention. The toy came with instructions, and the off switch was obvious once she got over her reluctance to handle the damn thing. She slid her forefinger into the ring-like holder and pressed the small button at the device’s base.

Her entire hand buzzed as her eyes filled with tears.

Elaine knew where to aim her arrows. The gifts were meant as a loving joke, a tease at her protracted celibacy, but when Anna acknowledged her five-year drought, the floodgates opened. She rested the side of her head on her hand and let the tears seep down her cheeks.

What the hell was Elaine trying to make her do? And what was this Intimate Breathing nonsense? She reached for a tissue. Her finger slipped out of the vibrator, leaving the tangerine-colored pleasure inducer tangled in her wavy hair.

Really, Elaine? Wouldn’t one regular-sized, generic…object have been enough?

Her phone sounded again on her way to the bathroom. She answered the call, her left thumb stiff and unused to the task of swiping and tapping.

Did you open my gift? Elaine’s excitement on the other end was palpable. Thank God she hadn’t insisted Anna open her gifts in front of everyone.

You have no idea what you’ve done, Anna said. Let me put you on speaker.

She couldn’t keep the annoyance out of her voice while she balanced the phone on the narrow lip of the pedestal sink. Disentangling the mini-penis required a mirror and a modicum of patience she was currently low on. Lifting her bare heels and leaning forward, she ignored the menopausal rolls pushing at the seams of her party dress.

"You have no idea what you’re missing, Elaine gushed, and it’s my job to help you reclaim your sexuality."

Anna snorted. How did you find out about this breathing workshop thing?

Do you remember the guy I’ve been dating, the tree-trimmer?

The one who’s barely out of the cradle? Detangling was slow. She hoped to salvage the hair on the right side of her head, her arms were getting tired, and Elaine had no business bringing her happiness into this moment.

Richie’s in his mid-thirties, Elaine stated, matter-of-fact. Anyway, turns out he’s into Tantric sex. Turns out everyone in their twenties and thirties on this island is into Tantric sex. Or maybe it’s Taoist sex. Shoot, I’ll have to ask him again.

I had no idea. She faked surprise while freeing a few more strands of hair. Visions of half the island’s population cavorting naked with one another spooled through her head. She closed the mental curtains on the unsettling scene.

Me either, until Richie took me to this place in Vancouver where they have all these classes. I tell you, learning how to breathe my way into better orgasms changed my life.

Anna’s eyes went wide. The mini-toy hung by a last few strands of hair, her bra strap showed, and the horizontal stripes of her olive-and-black dress did nothing to enhance her sexual appeal. She looked like a deck chair cushion come to life and scared out of its wits.

So you want to pay your newfound knowledge forward, she said, and you think I’m the perfect candidate?

"Yes, I am, and yes, I do. Clear your calendar. I’ve booked us a hotel, my treat. You are going to love this."

Anna retained her right to be skeptical as she dislodged the last bits of hair from the vibrator’s rubbery clutches. Her scalp was red from the tugging, and tears of frustration made it hard to see.

Anna? Are you there?

I’m here. She put the phone to her ear and wiped the sink clean with her free hand.

You won’t know anyone, Elaine reassured her. I asked them to check the registration list. They have a beautiful room for the classes, everyone keeps their clothes on, and we’re the only participants coming over from the island.

You’re positive? Anna would die on the spot if any of her offspring’s friends, or their parents, knew she needed help breathing intimately. Oh, Elaine. She muttered, We’ll also be the only participants who had back row seats at the first sexual revolution.

I heard that, Elaine chided, and I will personally guarantee anonymity. If you see anyone who looks familiar, we walk out. So does this mean you’re coming?

I’m coming. No pun intended.

Good. We on for coffee in the morning? It’s my day off. We could even take a yoga class or something.

Can’t, Anna said, blowing out a short breath and swiping at her outer eyes once more with the backs of her wrists. I’ve got errands and a client meeting at the marina.

---

Anna made it into town early on Monday morning. The first full day after entering her next decade felt like the perfect time to turn over any number of new leaves. Or polish old ones, starting with checking in with clients who regularly used her sewing skills for updating their boats’ interiors.

First up was Harry D’Arville. She was seeing him at nine-thirty sharp, and the garrulous owner of a mini fleet of sailboats and refurbished fishing boats was the intended target of the Cadbury Milk Bars in her shopping basket.

She was crouched on one knee, going over her spiel for Harry and rooting through the boxed teas relegated to a low shelf when a man’s voice penetrated her search for her favorite blend of hibiscus and ginger.

Do you know if there’s a coffee grinder in this store?

Anna’s gaze swept the polished concrete floor. There was only one other person in her vicinity, and he was talking to her. She followed a pair of out-of-the-box hiking boots up trouser-clad legs, tugging at the back of her sweatshirt to hide where her waist muffin-topped her jeans.

The grinder’s over there, in the same section with the beans. She held her sweatshirt and pointed up and to her right with her other hand. Tourists walked by the machine all the time. Someone in management thought lack of signs meant customers and employees would be forced to interact more. The man followed the direction of Anna’s lifted arm to where the tall, black metal grinder sat tucked between large canisters of loose beans.

I think someone might have been blocking my view, he admitted.

No problem. Let me know if you need any help figuring it out.

The man’s eyes sloped downward a little at the edges, and his irises were almost as dark as the espresso roast he’d chosen. Deep crow’s feet fanned out when he smiled and thanked her. Anna twisted a clump of curls behind her right ear and darted her gaze back to her search as his attention wavered between her and the grinder.

She found the last two boxes of tea, checked the dusty backsides for expiration dates, and kept her midsection covered as she stood and continued through the aisles with her basket and list. Her fellow shoppers were mostly year-round Gulf Islanders, although she tagged the brown-haired man with the very long legs as a tourist.

The lines at the checkout moved at their usual glacial pace, giving her ample time to fret about Elaine’s takeover of her social life. Other shoppers used their time in line to catch up on newsworthy topics, and daytime cashiers, drawn from the island’s retired population, were happy to oblige. She eavesdropped on the conversation the check-out person next to hers was having with the man she’d helped earlier.

Tourist. Her hunch was right.

Purchases rung up, paid for, and packed into reusable cloth bags, Anna loaded her cart and made her way to the parking lot. Her next stop was the marina, where she’d see Harry and convince him to approve fabric for curtains and cushions for his new boat. If the chocolate bars worked, she’d walk away with a deposit too.

She inched her compact gray pick-up truck into the only available parking slot and managed to maneuver herself and a canvas bag of supplies between her vehicle and a camper van without adding more scratches to either vehicle. The front of her sweatshirt and the back of her jeans collected dried mud from both. Anna peeled off her hooded top, turned it inside out, and brushed the worst of the dirt off her butt, grateful there was no such thing as island chic.

Or maybe she’d been holed up in her cottage on a dead-end road for too long. The slender young man walking toward her evinced an innate sense of style. Garbed in skinny jeans, a spotless white T-shirt, and a motorcycle jacket that would never ride a Harley, he carried a satchel brimming with fabric swatch books while texting on an oversized smart phone.

Anna pressed against the rickety railing and waited for him to pass. His eyes never left his device. At the end of the ramp, she hefted her bag over her shoulder again and searched for her client amongst the boats tied up at the docks.

Anna! boomed a voice from behind a row of glistening white hulls.

Hey, Harry. She smiled, released the handles, and accepted the man’s bear hug.

Did you meet my nephew? he asked. He passed you on the ramp.

A plummeting sensation tumbled through Anna’s belly, pulling her confidence in the general direction of the water below. Harry had purchased a seiner-style fishing boat with the intention of doing a complete refitting so the vintage vessel could be leased to summer visitors as a floating bed-and-breakfast. She felt the potential for profits slipping away like the tide.

No, I didn’t meet him, she said. And he didn’t even see me.

Oh. He lowered his arms and stepped to the side. Well. I had him come out here to look at the new boat and give me some ideas. He graduated from some fancy design school out east and wants to build his portfolio. Whatever that means.

Are you telling me you don’t need me for this project? Anna asked, acutely aware she hadn’t exactly dressed for success that morning. After cleaning the sides of two vehicles with her ample chest and rear, she looked more like a stall-mucking horse hand than someone who regularly worked on private yachts.

Harry crossed his arms over his barrel chest, apparently preferring to consult the water slapping at the sides of the boat in front of them than look her in the eyes. In the interest of family relations, I think I have to give this one to the kid.

---

Anna pulled into her driveway a little after four and jammed on the parking brake. Dried big-leaf maple leaves crunched underfoot as she stomped from the truck to the porch stairs. Opening the door to an empty house continued to unnerve her, and once she put the groceries away, ate one of the chocolate bars, and swept the kitchen floor clean of the grit she’d tracked in, the stillness inside her house pressed at her chest and shoved her outdoors.

She grabbed a slicker off the coatrack and headed to the beach to clear her head.

Losing a client like Harry delivered a double blow—to her income and her ego—and she could kick herself. Twice. She’d neglected to stay on top of design trends she once tracked with a sharp eye. And by lowering already low-key island chic to new levels of I-don’t-care, she’d neglected to present herself as a business owner, to other business owners.

She stalked from her end of the pebbled cove to the other and back, continuing to fume at Harry and herself. The rocks underfoot were slippery in places, and her silent venting was interspersed with a few arm flails and yelps. At least there was no one around to witness her lack of grace, and when chilled air threaded its fingers through her layers, she walked the half-moon-shaped circuit for the last time and headed home.

Tossing her jacket onto the hook by the door, she toed off her boots, padded to her bedroom to change, and emptied the last of a bottle of wine into the first glass she grabbed. Standing at the sink to rinse out the bottle, the view through the window toward the cove revealed her favorite sitting rock, now occupied by a man decked out in a red jacket and a knit cap.

She could begin to rectify her sense of social isolation by putting her coat back on, going out, and introducing herself. He might be the man she’d met earlier, the tourist who appeared a bit lost in the grocery store. They could laugh about the coincidence.

Or she could stay in her cozy kitchen, comfortable in her flannel pajama pants, and sip inexpensive wine from a cheap glass while she reheated last night’s leftover vegetable stew.

Anna tugged the café curtains across the window and stirred the contents of the cast-iron pot, rehearsing her thanks-but-no-thanks argument for when she informed Elaine she would not accompany her to Vancouver. Intimacy workshops were too far a reach for her short arms, and if the walls of her cottage could talk, they would all but affirm she was a fifty-year-old woman anchored by routine, grown complacent with her worn and familiar surroundings. Her closet, filled with clothes that no longer fit, marked a growing indifference to how she presented herself to the world outside.

And wine in a juice glass was pure laziness.

Movement on the beach shifted her attention off the dive into the pool of self-abasement she kept filled for nights like this. The man in the red jacket made his way to the flat-roofed cottage next door. Lights went on in the front room and in the kitchen. Anna sipped at her wine. Her inner chatter mellowed, giving over to alcohol-infused musing.

Maybe her new neighbor would be around for a while.

Maybe he had a wife, or a husband, and they could get together for dinner and conversation and she could figure out how to be witty again. She didn’t need any special breathing techniques to hold her own at a dinner party; she just needed someone to set her a place and offer her a seat. When Gary was alive, gathering with friends was practically effortless. But the longer she was single and the longer she went between trips into town, the longer the time between invitations to socialize.

And here it was, the end of September, with Canadian Thanksgiving two weeks away, and she had no idea where she would celebrate the holiday.

She drained her glass, turned from the window, and switched on her desktop. The ancient machine went through its repertoire of wheezing and whirring until the screen glowed blue. Birthday greetings formed a short queue in her inbox. She opened half a dozen animated cards from familiar senders, left the rest for later, and scanned for any work-related emails.

One sender didn’t register at first, but the opening salutation set her pulse racing.

Dear Annalissa,

I have been trying to find you, on and off, for the past few years. I wasn’t having any success, and then I came across a notice in an old alumni newsletter of your husband’s death.

My sincere condolences on your loss.

Now I know I couldn't find you because your name changed. I hope you remember me. Would you like to correspond?

The six-line message settled itself on her lap like a pet unsure if it would be stroked or pushed to the floor. Anna rested her palms to either side of the keyboard, the beat of her heart thudding, and stared at the signature at the bottom of the note.

Daniel Strauss.

A rogue wave of longing made short work of the fragile clasp on her chest of memories. Another wave tumbled the container, spilling its contents over the living room floor.

Anna rose, those same waves compelling her to the door and out onto the porch, no stopping for a coat or shoes, no stopping for something that would shield her from the uprising swells of emotion or the downpour of rain. Outside the house, she could let the wide expanse of the Salish Sea carry away whatever had been uncorked by one simple email. Inside the house, her memories were too entangled with her years as a wife and mother.

She could not have predicted Daniel Strauss would reappear in her life, especially at a moment when she was in such a funk. She could not have predicted six lines of text would deliver a punch strong enough to crack the shell she’d built up around her version of the unmet expectations and unlived dreams she imagined everyone carried.

Daniel Strauss had been her first adult boyfriend. Only two or three years older, he’d also been one of her earliest creative mentors. She remembered wanting to impress him with her drawings and sculptures as much as she’d wanted to impress her favorite professors.

There had been no drama when they parted. He’d graduated, and Anna still had two years left to complete her degree. It hadn’t made sense to make promises or plans. Later, she’d thought about him in an offhand way whenever the art school they attended was mentioned in the news. Oh, and she had thought about him when passing highway signs for his hometown during a road trip from Toronto to New York City.

Sharper pangs, edged with guilt, reminded her she thought about Daniel a lot during a rare rough patch with Gary.

The skin across her chest and down her arms prickled. Embedded shards of memories pushed to the surface, their glassy veneer washed clean by splattering raindrops. She had been an awestruck freshman living in a big city, hesitant to approach the worldly, self-possessed junior until that day in the university’s dining hall.

Brooding, dark-haired Daniel, dressed in snug jeans and a pressed white shirt with perfectly rolled sleeves, sat at the head of a long table. His chair was turned toward the entrance door, his legs outstretched, bare ankles crossed. His gaze had made it clear he’d been waiting for her, and his pointed appraisal had cut through the cacophony of voices and clanging metal trays, unfurling an invitation of the most delicious sort.

Anna lifted her head, inhaled the scent of cedar and salt water, and welcomed the raindrops pelting her face. Cold wind teased at her patched pajama pants, slapping the soaked cuffs against her ankles, reminding her she wasn’t eighteen and in lust. She should go inside, change into dry clothes, and wash her face before the water pouring down from the sky finished wearing away whatever barrier cordoned off the Daniel part of her past from the discomfiting