The Old Broads' Club

By Mary Jane Russell

Maggie Saunders is an almost sixty-year-old lesbian who’s recovering from the loss of her partner. She lives on her family’s farm next to a man-made lake. She interacts with natives and newcomers by boarding horses, storing boats, and running errands while she farms. Her closest friends comprise her reading group of a retired schoolteacher with land developer son, a grocery clerk who introduces her to noncommittal dating with disastrous results, a closeted lesbian brainiac retired from the CIA who asks Maggie for her first female kiss, and an LGBTQ/elder rights attorney who ultimately abandons her husband.

Maggie relies on a lifelong friendship with a local marina owner that’s put to the ultimate test by a newcomer hiding that she’s a displaced native suffering from severe depression brought on when her family was forced from their home to make way for a lake to generate electricity. Luxury homes surround the body of water that hides its secrets 150 feet below the surface.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mary Jane Russell
• Release date: Mar 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005302085

Mary Jane Russell

Mary Jane Russell was born to William Withers Russell and Alma Keith Harvey Russell. She grew up on the Flat Creek farm in Campbell County, VA that had been in the Russell family for five previous generations.She was employed by the City of Lynchburg, VA for thirty-one years during which she accomplished a series of firsts—first female draftsman, staff engineer, project manager, and first female director of economic development.Since retirement, she’s written and had published four novels by Intaglio Publications, Walker, LA, self-published two print nonfiction books, and published nine novels with Smashwords.She lives at Smith Mountain Lake in Hardy, VA with her partner, surrounded by books, cats, dogs.

Book preview

Chapter One

Most people don’t realize the exact moment their minds are lost. It’s better that way. They may joke about insanity with an underlying fear of it being true. They may totally ignore the symptoms and consider the change their new normal. I feel my sanity snap as precisely as a three-way switch turning a light on upon entering a room and off when exiting on the opposite side.

My mind glitches from the present-day crowd of mostly active seniors and stay-at-home mothers milling about a shopping center parking lot all the way back to my childhood. Standing on the fringe of a clearing near the river, I had watched a group of what I considered ancient white men (younger than my present age) dressed in white shirts that had lost their starch in the heat with dark ties and suit trousers. Neighborhood men wore faded denim overalls. The businessmen wore fedoras to protect bald heads or keep hair in place, draping jackets not left in automobiles over arms. They had strolled and pointed like barnyard roosters, proud of what they were setting in motion. A difference of fifteen votes--130 in favor and 115 opposed--had carried the motion forward to create a hydroelectric dam and flood our home.

A half-century later, the crowd of residents mostly new to Franklin County, Virginia interspersed with a few natives feels the same as those old white businessmen. A hundred or so gather to celebrate the man-made lake reaching full pond fifty years earlier. It’s easy to spot the native families--their clothes are likely from Wal-Mart or Goodwill, their children have more siblings, their expressions are more resigned to what drives the economy than how much time they spend on the water in expensive boats.

The stores bordering the parking lot reflect casual lakefront dining, games for bored children, and tasteful souvenirs. Beyond the buildings is the massive lake. Adjacent to the lower parking lot of the shopping center is row upon row of covered boat slips with most boats costing as much as a native’s far-from-the-shoreline home.

I feel my sanity slip away as though a leaf caught in the wake of a boat’s 150-hp engine. As those around me welcome the speaker, I fight back a scream. Which was worse, I wonder, a tragedy such as Hurricane Camille happening in 1969 that swept unexpectedly through a community destroying families overnight or the slow torture of a man-made lake carefully planned and constructed in the years it took to buy and clear land, pour huge amounts of concrete for a dam, and wait for the water to rise, taking over everything in its path.

The executive director of the Chamber of Commerce means well. The woman’s in her early fifties, dressed in a stylish business suit, and attractive with short hair and tasteful makeup. There’s nothing like the start of the season here at the lake. Memorial Day’s almost upon us. Our population will increase as radically as does the daytime temperature. She waits for the hoots to quiet. We want to thank the Virginia Tourism Corporation for our sign. She gestures to the grass area between parking lot and highway.

The single word LOVE made up of four-foot square letters is a play on Virginia’s tourism mantra, Virginia is For Lovers. Each letter of the sign placed in communities across the commonwealth is representative of its region.

The director continues. L made from water skies and wakeboard, O as a large golf ball, V from two fishing lures, and E as a throw-ring buoy. All the activities we enjoy and have right here in our backyards. How fortunate we all are for the past fifty years of development and the lake community as we now know it.

Spontaneous applause and whistles break out across the crowd.

The Chamber director waits to be heard. Real estate values are climbing. More building permits have been issued this spring than the past three combined. Our unemployment rate is lower than the national average. 2016 marks fifty years, and our lake is booming! She eggs on the final round of applause.

I feel numb as I try to remember where my car’s parked. Fifty years pass like the blink of an eye when looked on in retrospect. Water covered 20,600 acres of farms, woodlands, and isolated postal stops. The dam’s construction cost of $60 million to generate 440 megawatts of electricity inundated a poor county with cash. Everything within forty feet of the lake’s projected surface was bulldozed into the deeper hollows. Who remembers the bulldozers but me? The older generation has passed; the younger remembers their lives after the relocations. Yet all the details are burned into my brain.

The lake guards its secrets amidst submerged homes, outbuildings, and tracts of timber no one bothered to demolish. It’s a watery grave of forgotten families who lived hardscrabble lives on tobacco farms and surrendered generational land once the term ‘eminent domain’ became the chief negotiating tool of the attorneys used by the hydroelectric cooperative.

People--mostly retirees from the north--living in multi-million-dollar mansions along the lake’s neatly rip rapped shore have no idea what lies beneath the calm surface. Many of the waterfront mansions sit idle awaiting their summer-only residents.

It’s no wonder my people disappeared. The wonder is that I survived. My father wilted without his farm, thinking the Army Corps of Engineers had carried out a socialist plot rather than managed flooding of a nearby city. My mother walked circles in the small house in Rocky Mount, repeating chores until she was exhausted enough to collapse into a chair with mindless handwork. Teenagers were expected to adapt.

Few, if any, gave thought to where fifty-five families relocated. The lake impacted forty miles of countryside. Fewer still, as in none, questioned my new name when I moved back to Virginia decades later. It’s mostly newcomers along the 500 miles of shoreline. Natives can’t afford the land prices.

It wasn’t my choice to return. My complacency was a ruse, though. What argument was possible against living in such a paradise of golf courses, shopping centers, and marinas with quaint restaurants?

I live in dread of the cyclical drought-induced low water levels of summer that expose the past in silt and debris fields created by fifty years of decay. I’m constantly overwhelmed by the possibilities of overgrown landmarks reappearing. I go through the motions of daily life and struggle to remember the prompts for pretended happiness.

There’s no joy in the retirement we worked for so long. I think about the past and wait to see if I’ll outlive the accidental discovery of whatever’s left of the decay that was my family home.

Survival was always a crapshoot once we were forced off our land.

I head home, realizing I’ve lost thirty minutes to subliminal driving.

It’s not the first time.

Chapter Two

Maggie Saunders forced herself to grocery shop once a week so that the sticker shock of her purchases didn’t derail her sanity or budget. At least she didn’t feel cart rage now that school had started, and the summer people were back home in other states. Labor Day had become one of her favorite holidays.

Motioning a stock clerk over, Maggie pointed to the potato bread pushed all the way back on the top shelf. Can’t reach it.

The red-headed teenager grinned revealing shiny braces. Yes, ma’am.

Maggie punched him in the shoulder. At 5’-6 tall she managed most tasks without assistance. She was twenty pounds heavier than when in high school but still trim enough in men’s 34 waist jeans thanks to the work about the farm. She didn’t appreciate being treated like a senior citizen. She wasn’t a member of AARP quite yet despite the grey taking over her black hair. I can climb and get it if you want to risk reassembling the shelves.

No, ma’am. The boy reached the back of the shelf as though picking an apple from a low hanging branch.

Thank you. Tell your mom that Socks is doing great. You need to come over and ride, give him more exercise than I have time for. Maggie knew the family well and boarded their horse.

The boy walked away, making a whinnying sound.

Maggie shook her head. She knew she was fortunate to live in the Saunders family home on land cleared by her great-grandfather. The original house had been moved uphill to increase the separation from the water’s surface. Her father had renovated and updated when Maggie was a teenager. Her debt was for the barns and equipment to work the land, board horses, and store boats and boat trailers for neighbors. Her father had run cattle; something she’d abandoned because she became too attached to the soulful faces.

The line for the one checker open this early was surprisingly short so Maggie avoided the self-checkout she resorted to with one or two items. She reminded herself to be more social. Fat chance.

Rhonda’s ponytail bounced as she nodded while sliding items across the scanner. She reminded Maggie of Lucille Ball in her heyday with the curly bangs and coloring Rhonda used for her hair. Rhonda Perez was in her early fifties, as trim as she was efficient, and always keen to engage Maggie. Perfect day for kayaking.

Don’t tempt me. Those damned dick boats are mostly in storage instead of skimming the lake faster than cars on the highway. Maggie shivered. She’d seen and had too many close calls with overpowered boats whose drivers didn’t pay attention to anything or anyone low in the water. It’s also a perfect day to mow before rain hits this weekend. Maggie grouped the freezer items together.

All the rain will stir up debris brought in from the river. We’ll have to wait again to go out. Rhonda wasn’t giving up. She was persistent whether exercising or saving money.

Are you off tomorrow? I could go early. Maggie enjoyed following the shoreline in the coves and watching for birds and bears.

Rhonda nodded. Now you’re talking. She held up a cardboard box. All the fresh produce in this store, much less what’s grown locally, and you resort to packaged meals. Shame on you. She shook her head.

Don’t hate. Maggie bagged items into her canvas totes. Why did she enjoy Rhonda nagging at her?

Rhonda leaned across the conveyor. I’d be happy to cook a real meal for you.

Maggie blinked. The undertone of the offer was unmistakable. Rhonda had unexpectedly stepped up their game. You’d throw me into digestive shock.

That would be a start. Rhonda winked, not missing a beat with moving the groceries. I can think of quite a few positions I’d like to throw you into.

Maggie balanced two canvas bags in each hand. I’ll text you about tomorrow after I see how much I get done today.

Rhonda gave her a thumbs-up as she engaged the next shopper in line.

Maggie walked slowly to her truck, almost tripping over a parking block, surprised that Rhonda had touched a nerve about dinner. She’d made it through five years of foraging for single serve meals just fine. She frowned at the mud splattered on the fenders of her truck, knowing she should run it through the car wash but wanting to get home. The front fields were right for one last making of hay that should be cut today and baled tomorrow before the rain. She had time if not distracted. Good luck with that now. She popped in Adele’s latest CD and listened to half the tracks as she made her way home.

Maggie drove around to the rear of the house, checking the field for horses as she parked. All were enjoying the sun. She’d done her chores for them before the grocery store, as usual keeping the stable neater than her home. She glanced toward the lake, looking longingly at the Sea Ray bow rider parked in the shed on the far end of the pole barn. She kept it on the trailer rather than out in the open along the fixed dock. It never ceased to amaze newcomers to boating how dirty boat interiors and below water exteriors were when the boat sat still in the open. Next on her list was adding a covered boat slip with lift. For now, the truck quickly hitched to the trailer to back down the ramp if she wanted to make a run for it. She sighed and continued to the house.

Before she made it all the way to the back door, her chocolate lab, Henry, bounded out of the flap to meet her. He was better behaved than most men she knew, staying within his boundaries of the invisible fence and doing his business discretely. His days were spent patrolling the yard around the house or hanging out with the horses. The barn cats paid him little mind other than occasionally using him for a pillow when they ventured inside the house. She generally didn’t put the fence-sensitive collar on him. Come along, old darling. I bought Dingo treats.

Henry’s ears perked at the brand name as she opened the door into the kitchen. Honey, I’m home.

Silence greeted her. She made quick work of restocking the freezer, carefully folding her reusable bags to return to the truck. She’d take the bag of dry cat food to the stable later. The barn cats shared their food with raccoons and opossums from the woods.

Henry. As if he wasn’t underfoot as she sorted groceries. She opened the Dingo mega bone. Sit. His butt hit the floor immediately. Good boy. The treat was taken to the padded bed in the corner to keep him busy.

You wouldn’t believe what Rhonda said. She’s cute, but she’s certainly not you. Am I wrong to be tempted? Maggie hesitated in the bedroom, glancing at the photograph of Lacey on the dresser. Seeing the two of them together and happy hurt.

I know. I’m crazy as hell to talk to you as though you can hear me. She never wanted to forget the little things about Lacey and was thankful, if tearful, for videos so that she held onto the sound of Lacey’s voice and the way she moved. Thinking about Lacey’s body didn’t help her let go of what Rhonda had offered.

I should’ve been with you. I wouldn’t be here alone now. How long was the guilt of a reversed decision going to weigh her down. Maggie felt that if she attempted to swim in the lake, she’d never maintain buoyancy because of what she carried in her head. No one else got that, and it wasn’t like it was something she could explain.

I’ll be outside. Wish you could see the horses in the meadow. It’s a beautiful day. Maggie hesitated. She said the words as much now as when Lacey had been alive. I love you. I won’t forget. She glanced about the room, always hoping for a sighting of her partner.

Maggie traded her denim shirt for a T-shirt, grabbed her water bottle, and headed to the shed for the bush hog. She pulled her shoulder length salt-and-pepper hair into a ponytail that went through the opening in the back of her baseball cap from Pagens Marina.

The John Deere stood ready. She topped off the fuel, checked the oil, and jumped up the step to the seat. It never ceased to amuse her that large riding lawn mowers were referred to as tractors. Real tractors had rear tires as tall as she was. She glanced at the vintage Cub Cadet with belly mower that she used for the yard. One thing she did differently than her father was wearing ear protectors. Hopefully, she’d hear as she aged rather than resorting to turning the volume up on everything as he had.

Maggie mowed the field along the county road in a neat oval, tightening the turns as she progressed, using reverse sparingly. She zoned out when mowing, enjoying the simplistic, repetitive work. Maybe she should’ve been more ambitious, but it suited her to work odd jobs, set her own schedule, and hold onto her independence. She drove and did errands for elderly acquaintances, cleaned for several building contractors, stored and winterized boats in the former cattle barn. She stayed busy and got by and answered to no one else.

Lights flashed from a car on the county road that slowed to a stop. The window rolled down.

Maggie broke out of her pattern, raising the bush hog as she drove to the edge of the field.

Beverly Moore smiled from her immaculate Honda Civic. Her brown hair was pulled back from her face in a loose flow of curls that hung midway down her back. She waved.

Maggie felt like a sweaty parody of The Walking Dead in old clothes covered with grass, dirt, pollen, and the lovely scent of diesel fuel. Bev was a few years younger and didn’t have the weathered lines at eyes and mouth that Maggie earned from being outdoors most of the time. Bev always dressed business casual and managed to look comfortable in slacks or skirts. Maggie enjoyed the librarian’s skirts.

You’re hydrating, right? Bev shielded her eyes with one hand.

Maggie held up her thermal bottle. Yes, ma’am.

Bev nodded. Just wanted to let you know that I’m holding the latest Felix Francis book for you. I know you have a soft spot for his continuation of his father’s horse mysteries.

Maggie grinned. I like simple pleasures. Their books are always a good, relaxing read. It’s like watching the British mysteries on PBS, my other favorite escape.

I can drop the book off on my way home tonight if you don’t have time to stop by the library. Bev glanced into her rearview mirror to make sure she wasn’t blocking anyone.

Maggie blinked behind her sunglasses. Her hormones were over-reacting today. It sounded as though Bev wanted an invitation. Don’t go to any trouble on my account, I’ll be there in a day or two.

Bev shrugged, smiled, and waved as she eased the car forward.

Maggie returned to her mowing pattern and made one full circuit before realizing she hadn’t dropped the bush hog. Damn, it must be a full moon, or my imagination’s in overdrive, or I’m in heat.

Thinking back to the community interview panel when Bev was hired, Maggie was amazed by how much she’d missed. It hadn’t occurred to her that Bev was a lipstick lesbian. She was impressed by how personable and friendly the woman from Ohio presented herself.

Bev had made it a point to talk to her and Lacey. I cannot believe this library has no copies of Rita Mae Brown’s books. She was a feminist pioneer alongside Gloria Steinem and lives in Nelson county, for crying out loud. Bev had looked around the group. Am I allowed to mention that? I see Republicans. She substituted political party for the usual ‘dead people’ in