Pages: A Thought-Provoking, Compassionate, Thrilling Women’s Fiction Read

By Kathy Weyer

Jade Robinson has inherited Iris's estate, and she has no clue what she's doing, plus she's scared this new spotlight will bring her unwanted attention. She opens up a store at Heritage Art Park called Pages with writer Robert Graham, catering to the novice and experienced literati in town with writing classes, books, and readings. Jade has taken on quite a lot, including taking in Helen Sullivan, a cantankerous stroke victim, and opening up Iris's house to women she doesn't quite understand. Her past is haunting her, and she's nervous but somehow intrigued by a new man in her life, the last person she ever wanted—or expected—to see. Iris's lessons are coming home to roost. A witty, relatable, and engrossing read for fans of Jennifer Weiner and Nora Roberts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kathy Weyer
• Release date: Nov 2, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201493585

Book preview

Chapter One

Ikind of miss Iris; it hits me around four o’clock.

Jade? she’d screech, It’s teatime! Every single afternoon. That first day I thought I’d have to sit like a princess with a crisp linen napkin draped over my knee and sip tea with my pinkie out; we’d have crumpets and an etiquette lesson in her proper, sunny, blue and white living room that always had fresh flowers delivered from the flower elves.

Nope. Teatime meant the bar was open; Iris liked her martinis. Terence would enter the parlor, his flip-flops clapping on the marble floor, and weave his way behind the bar wafting Maui-Wowie. He wore board shorts and a Hawaiian shirt that worked with his long hair and surfer tan. Our butler. Iris loved him.

Terence made the perfect martini. He mixed three items, placed exactly five ice cubes in a silver martini shaker (clink, clink, clink, clink, clink), slowly stirred with a glass rod, strained the liquid into a chilled martini glass, added three olives on a glass toothpick, and presented a frosty martini glass to Iris on a fancy silver tray. She winked at him every time.

That’s when Iris started with the stories. I knew that no one ever believed her stories; they were all unbelievable.

I was her companion; since she was ninety-something, my job meant I drove her everywhere, waited while she had her hair done, visited with friends, or went to her knitting group. I never saw Terence except at cocktail time. He spent his days surfing. Nice job.

She let me be, getting that I didn’t want to talk about myself. Iris laughed a lot, which made her blue eyes sparkle. I began tea time with beer, then Iris suggested a Dubonnet, then I tried the martini. I stuck with the Dubonnet, sweet and calming.

Trickster Iris hid keys from her friend Helen, an old lady who didn’t like anybody except Iris, and had no use for me. But Iris defended Helen with a ferocity I had never seen before. I wished I had a friend like that.

Iris died in her sleep a while ago, quietly and without drama. I did not discover her body, her friend Jen Conrad did, and that was good with me. When I learned of her death, I couldn’t catch my breath. I’m not a crier–that’s for the weak. But as it sunk in, my heart got heavy and I had a hard time breathing. It hurt.

Her friend Helen had a crooked back and a huge hair on her upper lip. I swear that thing moved on its own. She seemed pissed with the world; bored, unhappy, or friendless. She wore cotton dresses of dainty prints with lace collars, like a schoolmarm from the fifties. Helen barely spoke to me and showed me she didn’t approve of me at all in different ways. Iris kept her under control by just being . . . well . . . Iris; she told me I must accept Helen for what she is, and to consider her bark worse than her bite. Iris never took matters too seriously. Everything is temporary, dear.

Iris’s funeral was done to the instructions left with the funeral director. She was very precise in that bagpipes would accompany her white coffin up and back down the aisle in the church. The pallbearers all looked alike: tall, dark and handsome. They wore matching suits and ties, and you couldn’t tell one from the other. They turned out to be Chippendale dancers.

Friends of Iris’s laughed. I didn’t see the humor, and it pissed me off. There were few tears; the service felt like open mic night at a comedy club. Everyone trooped over to Heritage Art Park, a community of old houses now coming together as an art colony, for her Celebration of Life right after the church service.

After that, a small crowd followed us back to the manse for a private party. This event came together at Iris’s direction once again, a private affair just for about a hundred of her closest friends. Iris’s parties were the stuff of legend, and I guess this one topped them all.

I entered the manse for the last time. My bag was packed and I felt so heavy, so lost. A familiar feeling.

The house smelled like a garden shop and looked worse with the flowers brought over from Heritage Park. Caterers had set up bars around the compound and waitstaff skittered everywhere, carrying silver trays. I went up to what had been my room, cleaned out the bathroom, and packed last-minute items.

An impulse hit me to throw on Iris’s diamond tiara. I knew she would love the thought, and I didn’t care if people considered it disrespectful. It was my way of bringing Iris to her own party.

I crept to her bedroom and opened the door, inhaling her perfume and her energy. The bed where she had died, crisp and made up, looked normal. Fresh flowers sat on the night stand as usual. I made my way over to the closet and opened the drawer I knew held the tiara. Iris never locked anything for security; to her they were just things. According to her, it’s why God made insurance brokers. Her perfume filled the air; I touched some of her clothes as I passed them, then pulled back my hand. This was all too sentimental. I took a deep breath and told myself to get a grip.

It was over.

I balanced the tiara on my head, holding my breath. I turned to see myself in a mirror and in the reflection spied a box about three feet tall and two feet wide plopped in the corner. Covered in wallpaper that matched the walls of the closet, it was practically invisible. I slowly crept over to the box, threw back the flaps and took a peek: a mound of scrapbooks, boxes, pictures, and papers sat on top of each other as though they had been tossed in. I quickly folded the top back over and left.

None of my bidness.

My heart squished when I passed the yellow room and saw the ratty old backpack, filled with the few things I had brought with me a year ago, waiting beside the dresser. Not wanted any more. Time to move.

Story of my life.

Helen frowned at me so deeply when I appeared in the living room I thought that hair on her upper lip might cut her. How dare you? She hissed. Take that off. Helen and I had a terse relationship; she tolerated me because Iris had taken me in, but clearly loathed me; now she would be rid of me and wanted me to know my place.

Is that the tiara Iris wore to Buckingham Palace, or the one she wore to Truman Capote’s Black and White Ball? Jen Conrad asked with a wink. Her BFF Renee snorted and people around us laughed. I smirked at Helen and moved on.

Iris’s tales, many and impressive, were local lore. She was a shameless name dropper of people she couldn’t possibly have known. Not one person made fun of her or mocked her stories; they were for entertainment purposes only.

Helen slunk over to the other side of the room and glared at me. Jen grabbed my arm and asked if I was okay. I had to nod, unable to speak. She hugged me and moved away. Jen was the one person I felt comfortable with; a friend of Iris’s, a bit younger, she was the owner of one of the retail shops at Heritage Park. Iris had taken me to her shop every Tuesday to learn to knit and get to know the group that had formed there, including Helen.

The band played swing music from the forties, and guests indulged in food and alcohol and stories. Some people left early; an elegant party in the late afternoon was not their idea of paying respect to the dead.

They must not have known Iris very well.

Iris always said you knew a party was a success if it showed up in the papers. Well, this party would be in all of them, thanks to Robert Graham, the social writer for all the reputable papers in town. Wearing a dark green velvet jacket, he nodded and waved to me in passing and kept chatting with others in the room. Young, with light blond hair, Iris called him Our Man About Town.

She gave him lots of scoops and inside information, and she was not above planting a rumor from time to time just to stir things up. I watched a few of her quiet missions take place when she thought someone needed a lesson. I don’t think I’m wrong to say she enjoyed making people think about how they treated others, but she was no better.

By five o’clock the last partiers were out the door and I began to feel like a tire going flat. An unbelievable urge to throw myself on the floor and have a two-year-old tantrum took over me, but Helen was still there, sharp eyed and bitchy. She strode over to me in her orthopedic shoes and put out her hand.

What.

The tiara. Give it to me. That damn hair was shaking.

No. I’ll put it back. I’m not stealing it.

Give. It. To. Me.

No. I thought Helen would have a heart attack. I kind of enjoyed the power of it.

Jade, can I talk to you a minute? Iris’s attorney Carl Henshaw said, thankfully interrupting. In his early thirties, short, soft and bald, I had him pegged as a drone, a loser, a corporate sellout. He and I had met several times and had what Iris called a nodding acquaintance.

Uh-oh.

Chapter Two

Helen pointed to Carl and said, You’re a witness. That tiara belongs in Iris’s estate. Take care of it. She glared at me and left.

Carl had come to tell me the house was being sold and I had to find another place to live. My voice wouldn’t push beyond the lump in my throat, so I looked over his shoulder and saw the mess in Iris’s blue living room. Plates that held disgusting half-eaten food, glasses with lipstick marks and fingerprints clouding the once-polished glass, used napkins–cloth, not paper–showed traces of food, drink and spit. It felt like an insult. I darted in, almost frantic to erase the mess.

I needed to keep busy. I wanted a joint. God, so much of my life had been running, bobbing and weaving. Now I was going to have to start over–again. I was so tired and depressed I knew I couldn’t keep it going for much longer.

Sit down, Jade, you’re making me nervous. I had gathered a handful of napkins so I dropped them on a dirty plate, then plopped next to him like an obedient dog. I placed my hands under my thighs.

So. I’ve learned a lot about you these past few months.

Oh, shit. He knows.

Carl looked at my face and said, It’s okay. I’ll be by your side throughout this, but it might get rough. Maybe it was for the best. If he knew the truth, this would be over. You know what’s coming, don’t you? You can’t be surprised after all this time.

I suppose not, and let out a deep breath that caught halfway out. I had to cough to cover the sob trying to come up my throat, along with the few appetizers I had inhaled.

Iris had some specific bequests in her will. After we satisfy those small bequests, a larger portion goes to her charities. It took me a minute to shift gears. This was about Iris and the fact that I’m out.

I got it. I took off the tiara and stood.

Where are you going?

To get my stuff.

He smiled. Sit down. There’s more. I plopped and turned the tiara in my hands.

Shit. More. Here it comes. Why is he smiling, the sadist?

He stood and pulled out a piece of paper folded in quarters from his pocket. An arrest warrant?

Let me get this right, he said and cleared his throat, extending the document straight out in front of him in an exaggerated way. Yada, yada, yada . . . and to my faithful companion and friend, Jade Robinson, I leave the residence at 17495 Mansford Way in its entirety and all of its contents, including artwork, jewelry, furniture, fixtures, operating capital in trust, and memorabilia, to do with what she wishes. He spied me over his glasses, then looked back at the paper. The only caveat is that she provide full support and aid to Helen Sullivan for the length of her life.

He folded the paper back and held it out for me. It’s a copy. For you. He extended it out again, closer to me.

No fuckin’ way. It slipped out. I felt a virtual slap from Iris. Speak like a lady, dear. People will take you at your worth. Not only was I still known as Jade Robinson, apparently I was rich.

Way. He smiled. It’s a lot to take in. He took my hand and placed the paper in it, closing my fingers around it. Call me at the firm; we’ll sign all the paperwork and transfer the house and all personal property to your name.

But I don’t . . . what about mortgages and taxes and stuff like that? My true age was showing. And Helen? What does that mean, help and support?

I’ll explain everything when we get together and sign the documents that will transfer ownership. My instructions are to give you whatever help you need. Don’t worry, you’re not alone.

That’s a new one.

Call me. He kissed me on the cheek and turned toward the door. And, just so you know, there is no mortgage. He smiled and left, the door making a soft click as it closed against the rest of the world.

I let out the breath I had been holding for a long time. In the space of one minute I was sure it was over, I was going to jail. The next minute I was the owner of somebody else’s life.

Terrence appeared at my side holding a silver tray with one lone frosty martini with three green olives, just the way Iris liked them. Today he had on tennis shoes and a long-sleeved shirt and cotton pants, to show respect. I thought perhaps this would be in order, Madam, he said in mock seriousness with an awful British accent. Iris was Madam. I had been Miss.

A promotion. I put the tiara on the tray and took a gulp of the martini. How did you know?

We all received envelopes just now explaining what Iris had in mind. I was sure they received a nice compensation as well. I finished the drink in another gulp. Well, Terrence . . .

Yes, Ma’am. He smiled.

It seems we have an estate to run. Although what we’re going to do with it I have no idea. Relief flooded over me. Safe–for now, behind iron gates. He smiled and walked away, back up to his apartment above the garage.

And I planned to take a pair of Iris’s silver candlesticks to make a ton of money that first day.

Now I get the meaning of the word irony.

I lived in Iris’s house by myself now. Terence lived above the garage; I heard his music all the time, some head-banging stuff I liked, but didn’t dare play in the main house. It would be disrespectful. I like that he was there but not there.

Now I might do what I wanted, so, just for something to do, I hooked up the speakers and played my own music. It didn’t feel right. I switched to The Chieftains and Manhattan Transfer and some of the Big Band music from her party; I found it suited the house better. Besides, you can’t be sad listening to swing music.

I wandered around, totally freaking out about my new circumstances. What am I going to do? This will shine a spotlight on me, and that’s the last thing I want. Do I put everything in Jade Robinson’s name or my real one–wait–do I even have one? I tried to get a grip. Breathe. Count. Move.

I went from room to room, taking in the old furniture (antiques, dear), beaten up rugs (Persian; priceless), pieces of art I knew nothing about, but had been told belonged in a museum, the dust catchers she insisted on displaying, statues and vases, plates, awards, and her collection of foxes. She loved the fox; even her cane had a silver fox.

As I toured the house and inspected it from a different angle (mine), I began to feel off. This was surreal. Who do I think I am? I should just go. Leave now and escape this madness that might get me arrested, tried, and convicted in the blink of an eye.

Something separated from my body; my grounding was off. My stomach rumbled, and I wanted to puke. I couldn’t find my feet. I sunk into the deep carpet and wrapped my arms around my chest. I made animal noises and gave into the fear. I had lived with it so long, but now it has come to a head. Faced with the reality that I am a fake, a fraud, a liar, a cheat, and a murderer, this was no longer about survival.

Iris didn’t live her life with any pretense; she was what she was. She spoke her mind, but kindly, and somehow got her point across without being blunt. I had lived just the opposite. Iris’s message to me was to be true to yourself and do no harm. I watched her play cat and mouse with people who were snobby or self-important, and they didn’t get it until they walked away, not sure Iris meant what she said, which was always the truth. People talked about her as an eccentric with a few screws loose who told tall tales, but in reality she knew what she was doing.

Never complain, never explain. She was a good human. I am not. There is no comparison.

All this came to me as I rocked on my ass, my arms holding my knees up to my chest, taking deep breaths and trying to feel like myself. My heart pounded and I heard nothing but waves crashing loudly mixed with loud music in my ears. I rocked and rocked and heard sounds like a wounded animal. Slowly things calmed down and I could breathe again; the crashing waves disappeared.

When I opened my eyes, I found Terence across from me on the floor, legs crossed, watching. We locked eyes for a bit and he held out his hand. I took it and we stood.

That was intense. You okay now? He reached over for two cold beers he had placed on the antique end table and handed me one. My skin was soaked and slippery; I needed two hands to hold the bottle.

I think so. What happened? My voice was like a little girl’s. I rubbed the cold bottle on my forehead, feeling instant relief. My heart slowed a little more and my vision came back into focus.

I’m no medic, but I think you had a panic attack. I’ve seen it a lot, so I waited for you to come back. I wasn’t going to let you hurt yourself.

I showed how offended I was and forced my voice back to normal. Bullshit. I’m strong. I wouldn’t have a panic attack. Something’s wrong with me.

He cocked his head. Okay. Then get to the doctor and find out what’s wrong. You are strong, but I’ve seen Army guys do this. Big, strong, Army guys who have had enough. It’s not about how strong you are, dude, it’s about how much you’re expected to take and sometimes it just, then he makes an explosive noise with his hands over his head, boils over.

Has it happened to you?

More times than I can count.

Shit. You were in the Army?

Afghanistan.

Shit, Terrence.

It’s Terry. He smiled Iris liked to rename people.

I laughed. My name is Jett, but I like Jade better.

Jade, it remains. He bowed to me and left the room after reaching into his pocket and handing over a joint.

I didn’t tell him I had been in the Army, too.

Chapter Three

So this is how I met Iris: About a year ago, I sat on a curb having a smoke in the Rancho Santa Fe commercial block, the rich section of San Diego, wondering what the hell came next. Clearly out of place in this posh neighborhood, wearing my favorite camo pants and a wife beater t-shirt with dog tags hanging from my neck, I knew I looked like a tough lesbian. I was also high.

I had joined the Army using a new identity that said I was two years older than I was. Rather than rebelling, I bent to authority, knowing this life would give me structure, training, and a way out. I had no other choice.

They put me in Information Services, computer work. I learned how to build a computer, how to find the dark web, how to interpret threats to national security and how to watch what are known to be nefarious websites. I made few friends, went out for a beer now and then, played poker a few times, but mostly I was known as a loner.

I learned a lot and made some good observations. I passed on recommendations, never to learn what happened from that info, but my superiors kept giving me good performance reports and I never had any negative feedback. I was the nerd who didn’t socialize, which was fine by me. I didn’t like to drink the way I knew everyone else did, and I stayed away from the groups that formed, only being polite and officious when I needed to.

My reading habits changed, and I began to absorb political and historical reference books. I got quite an education, just reading and researching.

It did not go unnoticed.

When my time was up, I was called in for a private chat with my superior officer. He offered me an extended stay in the Army with another signing bonus to entice me. My job would be in intelligence; my work had provided some good input and was very much valued.

Something told me to hold back. I told him I was flattered but that I had in mind something else for my life, but that I would weigh my options. He handed me a folder and I walked away.

Inside the folder were consult forms for an in-depth, deep background check for Jade Robinson, who didn’t really exist. I had manufactured some history for Jade Robinson and even had some documentation, but it wouldn’t stand up to a tight investigation. I was to list friends, neighbors, and school friends who would vouch for my character. The form was eighteen pages, double sided. There was no way I was going to bluff my way through thirty-six pages.

I had to decline. He spent two months trying to change my mind. When my time was up, I left the Army and went out into the big, bad world.

San Francisco was my home base for a year, where I took more computer classes focusing on technology.

I honestly didn’t know what else to do. I figured I’d be a computer nerd the rest of my life. Until the day I met Iris.

What are you doing out here? Do you need a ride? This old lady looked down at me. Her dark glasses, like from the ’60s, slid down her nose.

I looked up and shielded my eyes. What’s it to you? What the fuck does she want?

She straightened, looked around, then at me, and said, "None at all, my dear, except I am a human being who happens to care about other