Reinventing Rita: A Midlife Moxie Novel

By Nancy Christie

Is fifty too old to start over and reinvent yourself?

That's what Rita Reynolds has to decide after a series of unwelcome occurrences arrive in time for her fiftieth birthday. First, she learns that her college-age son would rather spend the summer with his new girlfriend rather than at home with his mother. Then comes the unpleasant news that her part-time job might be ending, which will toss her back into the job market.

Underscoring it all is the realization that since her divorce, she's been coasting on the highway of life. Now, it's time to hit the gas and start moving ahead, despite the bumps in the road that keep slowing her down!

A chance to teach a six-week baking class brings Rita's almost-forgotten dream of becoming a professional baker back to the surface. Can she overcome her fear that it might be too late for a midlife makeover? With the help of her friends—including Donna, her employer, and Karen, her ex-husband's second wife—she's about to find out.

If you enjoy reading stories about women fifty and older who are wondering if it's too late to pursue past dreams, and whose friends play an important and integral part in their life transformation, then you'll love Reinventing Rita!

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Feb 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781667883489

Nancy Christie

Nancy Christie is the award-winning author of two novels in her Midlife Moxie Novel Series: "Finding Fran" and "Reinventing Rita" (both from BookBaby); three short story collections: "Mistletoe Magic and Other Holiday Tales," "Traveling Left of Center and Other Stories" and "Peripheral Visions and Other Stories" (all from Unsolicited Press); two books for writers: "Rut-Busting Book for Authors" and "Rut-Busting Book for Writers" (both from BookBaby) and the inspirational book, "The Gifts Of Change" (Atria/Beyond Words). Her short stories and essays have appeared in numerous print and online publications, with several earning contest placement. The host of the Living the Writing Life podcast and the founder of the annual "Midlife Moxie" Day and "Celebrate Short Fiction" Day, Christie teaches writing workshops and gives talks at conferences, libraries, and schools. She is a member of the American Society of Journalists and Authors (ASJA), the Florida Writers Association (FWA) and the Women's Fiction Writers Association (WFWA).

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Praise for Reinventing Rita

"Delicious! And in more ways than one. Reinventing Rita features a woman in transition creating beautiful baked goods and desserts as she creates a new life for herself. She suffers her share of self-doubt and there are many obstacles, but a little luck, a lot of determination and an unfilled dream are the recipes for her success. Those and the power that’s unleashed when women come together to support each other. Reinventing Rita is encouragement to all of us to follow our bliss whatever our age."

–Dorothy Rosby, award-winning

author and humor writer

"Anyone who has ever had an Act II will relate to the empty nest syndrome Reinventing Rita brings to life. Rita is a woman lost, now that her son is grown and everyone around her seems to be finding their own happiness. But a chance opportunity comes her way, and soon Rita is on a new journey that helps her reconcile her past and dive into an inspiring future. With a dash of humor, a slice of reality, and a sprinkle of charm, Reinventing Rita is a delightful addition to author Nancy Christie’s Midlife Moxie series."

–Clarissa J. Markiewicz, novelist

"Reinventing Rita is a tasty soufflé of a novel with a nourishing message at its heart. Rita, a divorced empty nester, is approaching her fiftieth birthday. She put aside old dreams of running an elegant Parisienne-style bakery when she married, but her son is now grown, and her husband’s moved on to a younger, more glamorous wife. Does she still have the recipe for success as a baker? This wonderful tale, full of humor and delicious insights into the plight of starting over in mid-life, is a sure winner for anyone interested in good writing, good food, and a good story. Highly recommended."

–Patricia Averbach, award-winning author

Other Books by Nancy Christie

Fiction

Mistletoe Magic and Other Holiday Tales (2023)

Peripheral Visions and Other Stories (2020)

Traveling Left of Center and Other Stories (2019)

Nonfiction

Rut-Busting Book for Authors (2019)

Rut-Busting Book for Writers (2017)

The Gifts of Change (2004)

Upcoming Books

The Language of Love and Other Stories (2025)

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Copyright 2023 Nancy Christie

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by BookBaby

Printed in the United States of America

First Printing, 2023

Print ISBN 978-1-66788-347-2

eBook ISBN 978-1-66788-348-9

https://www.nancychristie.com/

A

cknowledgements

I owe a huge debt of gratitude to all those who have helped me along the way as I wrote this book.

First, to all my writer friends who served as beta readers: Angela Palazzolo, Chante Thomas, Clarissa J. Markiewicz, Dorothy Rosby, Nicole Miller, and Pat Averbach—your insights helped me shape the characters and events in the story to make them more relatable and realistic to the women who read this book.

Big hugs to author Dawn Reno Langley who, in her role as developmental editor, not only praised the parts that were working but also identified areas that needed revising.

And finally, to all those women—the ones I have met and those I only know through their own writings—who epitomized what a woman with moxie looks like and more importantly, how she finds her inner moxie and lives her dream: you are my role models!

Dedication

To all those out there wondering if it’s too late or if they’re too old to try something new.

It isn’t and you’re not. Find your inner moxie and go for it!.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

About Nancy Christie

Chapter 1

"Well, that’s not how it was supposed to look! Can’t anything turn out right?"

I dropped the paint roller on the tray and pushed my hair out of my face, then took a better look at the color. It was meant to be Marine Blue to go along with the nautical theme I had envisioned for my son’s room, figuring it would be more appropriate for a twenty-one-year-old than the sports motif wallpaper that had been on the wall since Zack turned twelve.

That was the idea anyway. But as the paint dried, it was a darned sight closer to robin’s egg, giving it the unmistakable air of a nursery. Granted, he would only be staying here during summer break, but still I wanted it to be perfect.

I wanted everything to be perfect—the color, the room, the entire three-month visit. I wanted it to be so perfect that, when Zack graduated next June, he might just come back here to live.

But so far, nothing was going according to plan. Not only had I selected the wrong shade of paint, but I was also now left on my own when it came to picking out new curtains and bedding for Zack’s room, since my mother had backed out of our Sunday shopping plans.

Oh, honey, I forgot to call you, she said when I finally reached her. Lately, every time I called my mother, it either went straight to voice mail, or if she answered, it was a brief conversation because she was on her way out. For a woman in her mid-seventies, she sure had a busy social life. I can’t go. I promised the group that I would be one of the drivers for the trip to the outlet mall in Pennsylvania.

Couldn’t you have told me this sooner? I asked.

I’m sorry, Rita. But can’t you get your boss to go with you?

"No, I can’t. Weekends are busy days at Design2Go, and Donna can’t take time off from her business to go shopping just because I need advice," I said.

Well, maybe we can do it another day. But now I really must go. Have a good day, sweetie, and without waiting for my answer, she ended the call, leaving me thoroughly aggravated, although I wasn’t sure whether it was at her or the prospect of venturing alone into the home linen and accessory arena.

Design had never been my strong point, which made my position as a salesclerk at Design2Go problematic. People flocked to our thousand-square-foot store for everything from curtains for the kitchen and towels for the bathroom to décor for living room walls and throw rugs for the laundry room. And my job is to help them develop a look that was uniquely theirs—despite my woeful inability to distinguish between trendy and classic, modern and contemporary, or organic cotton and polyester.

And apparently, if my most recent purchase was any indication, between nursery room blue and the navy shade I really wanted.

Maybe if I turned on the overhead light the paint color would look different. I stepped back, reaching for the switch behind me, but instead my foot collided with the edge of the roller tray and suddenly the floor was awash with Marine Blue.

Damn it! I reached for the roll of paper towels, but then heard the distant ringing of my cell phone. Hurriedly slipping off my paint-covered shoes, I headed down the hall to the kitchen where I found my phone buried under a dishtowel.

Hello, I snapped, thinking about the mess I had left in the bedroom.

"Wow, what’s wrong with you?"

At the sound of my son’s voice, all the irritation of the past few hours melted away. How nice to hear from you, Zack! But you just called last week. What’s wrong?

Nothing, he said. Can’t I just call you? as if I heard from him every day, when, in reality, he rarely called at all, preferring to communicate via short and to-the-point texts.

It’s either that or call you at midnight, he had said when I complained about those impersonal messages. You know how crazy my schedule is with school and work.

What he didn’t understand was that I would gladly take a call from him at two in the morning, just to hear his voice. Ever since he went away to school, he rarely seemed to have a spare moment to talk to me. Although he had found enough free time to acquire a girlfriend—a pre-med student named Angie, whom I only heard about in passing but had yet to meet.

I guess, I said, my concerns only partially allayed. "I was just painting your room. I was going for a sea captain style—remember how much you loved reading Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea when you were younger? I still have to get curtains and bedding though, but don’t worry—it’ll be finished before you come home," still wondering why he called.

Uh, yeah, about that… He paused for a moment, setting my maternal antennae vibrating. Don’t go to a lot of trouble. I won’t be home long—probably under a week. Just until my passport comes through.

Passport? Why do you need a passport?

Yeah, well, I got this great chance to go overseas with Building a Better World. We’re doing this cool project over in Ethiopia, a country I knew little about but whose name immediately brought to mind disease, famine, and a lack of sanitary facilities, and I’ll be heading the team constructing wells for a water supply at one of the villages. Isn’t that great?

Yes, yes, just great, all the while thinking that my baby—the infant I had nursed through months of colic, the child who took four years to get through a two-year regimen of allergy shots, the adolescent who caught every germ that entered Ohio—was now going to some unhealthy, unhygienic, and undoubtedly politically dangerous locale instead of coming home to spend three months with his mother.

And what’s even better is that Angie is going along, too, as part of her pre-med volunteer activity, so we’ll be working together in the same location.

I wasn’t sure if his enthusiasm was for the volunteer work or because he wouldn’t have to leave his girlfriend behind for ninety-plus days. Of course, she could have come here during the summer to visit him had he stayed at home where he belonged. After all, I knew the two of them were living together and I was perfectly willing—well, maybe not that willing but would agree to it anyway—to allow them to continue their relationship while they were here, assuming Angie’s visits didn’t last for weeks at a time.

But that was now clearly irrelevant since they wouldn’t be sleeping together under my roof but in some tent or hut or whatever volunteers slept in.

You aren’t saying anything.

I immediately noticed the edge in my son’s voice. Evidently, he expected me to instantly agree that it was a great idea and would be a worthwhile experience. And it would be. For someone else’s child—not mine.

I took a deep breath. Sorry, I was just taking it all in and really, it sounds like a wonderful opportunity. Tell me more about it. And either I sounded sufficiently reassuring or Zack decided to take my words at face value because he then launched into a lengthy explanation about what he was supposed to do and how it would benefit the locals.

So, I just need to crash at home for a few days, he said finally. And, if it’s okay with you, Angie is coming, too. She already has her stuff, so we’re flying over together.

Angie, I said. Then, hoping I hadn’t paused too long, Well, of course, and I look forward to getting to know her.

That was a lie. What I had looked forward to was getting to know this boy-turned-man who was now willing to go halfway across the world to help complete strangers. While he had always been a kind, caring person, I couldn’t imagine Zack wanting to go somewhere where his cell phone might not work, where the internet could be a non-existent commodity, or where he would have to wait for weeks to find out what his favorite team had scored.

If that won’t work—if you have something going on or whatever—Dad said we could stay with him and Karen, Zack added. They have that guest suite on the second floor, and Karen said it would be no trouble at all.

"Well, it’s up to you, but of course I would love to have you both here," trying to keep a lid on my temper. This conversation was going from bad to worse. Not only had Zack destroyed my dream of a summer-long visit with him—just the two of us, mother and son—he had made it clear that it really didn’t matter where he spent his last few days before he took off, and that Paul’s place was just as fine with him as here at home. His home. The place where he had been raised. Where I had spent all my time and energy doing my maternal best to make sure he was fed and healthy, safe and sound.

It was also obvious that he had told his father about his plans before he told me. In the game of who is loved more (which, in my more honest moments, I suspected I was the only one playing) my ex had clearly scored a point.

"Really, I’d love to have you here—both of you, hoping the emphasis did not go unnoticed. Just tell me when to expect you both and I’ll have everything ready. Oh, and is there anything in particular Angie likes to eat? Or doesn’t eat? I want her to feel welcome."

No, she’s totally cool with anything, he answered enthusiastically. Really, Mom, she’s great. And we won’t be any trouble at all. We’ll probably be running around town anyway, and then Thursday night we’ll stay at Dad’s since he’s taking us to the airport the next day and that’s when the party is anyway.

Party? What party?

Well, Karen said they wanted to have a party as a kind of send-off—oh, I’m sure she’ll call you about it, he added hastily.

An invitation to stay at their house, a ride to the airport, and a party—just exactly when had Zack told his father about his plans? Last week? Last month? Why was I only finding out now, just two weeks before he came home?

How nice, I answered, trying not to sound as annoyed as I felt. I mean, that they are having a party for you and all. And taking you to the airport—not that I would have minded doing it, I couldn’t resist adding.

Okay, great. Well, I gotta go now. The relief in my son’s voice was evident. Apparently, he had dreaded having this conversation, but certainly not as much as I hated the reality of it. I’ll call you when I know whether we’re coming on Saturday or Sunday, okay? and without waiting for my answer, he hung up.

Chapter 2

I dropped the phone back onto the counter and rubbed my forehead, not caring that I was most likely leaving blue streaks behind. Ethiopia? Really? Couldn’t he be doing his volunteer work here in our country, where he didn’t need a passport or inoculations? This wasn’t even close to how I had hoped this summer would be.

My thoughts were interrupted by the buzzing of the oven timer, signaling that the muffins were done. I pulled out the baking pan and removed each muffin. They looked beautiful, with nicely rounded tops and sides wrapped snugly in fluted pastel-colored cupcake liners. Baking was the one skill I had that I was justifiably proud of, and I could easily spend hours in the kitchen experimenting with different ingredients to create my own special recipes. These muffins represented my latest one. It took three tries to get the proportions just right: a mix of oatmeal, whole wheat flour and raisins, with a bit of cinnamon added to the batter and rich dark molasses drizzled on top as the final touch.

I always brought in something homemade on the days I worked and, since I was scheduled to be at the shop at one p.m., I had decided that a quick-bread recipe would be the easiest to do considering what else I had going on. Donna once said that, even if they didn’t increase sales, the fresh-baked aroma added a nice homey air to the store. I also secretly suspected that she scheduled her own hours to coincide with mine, just to get some of my goodies.

Sometimes I wondered if that was why Donna had hired me and then kept me on, even after it became clear that I had no design talent. After all, it wasn’t as though we knew each other before I applied for the job. Did I look so desperate for work that she took pity on me? Was it because she was short-staffed at that time and needed someone who could at least ring up sales and unpack inventory? Or maybe she hoped that with her guidance, I could become a useful member of the staff, able to help customers choose the right items to fit their design goals. If the last, the past three years had proved her wrong. Despite Donna’s best efforts, I still couldn’t pull together a selection of accessories for clients that made sense, artistically speaking. Or, as my recent home update demonstrated, the right color to create the right effect.

The recollection of my failure in that area and the spilled paint I had yet to clean up combined with Zack’s news pushed my frustration level to a boiling point. Maybe if I had something cool to drink, it would help lower my emotional temperature, I thought wryly. But all that was in the refrigerator was pineapple-orange juice, Zack’s favorite. I don’t know why I bought it, especially because he hadn’t been home for weeks. But somehow, having the juice on the shelf made me feel as though any minute he might come walking in the door, open the refrigerator and grab the carton, tilting his head back to drink straight from the container.

That used to drive me crazy. But now, I wouldn’t mind at all if he did it, because that would mean he was here.

Here—not in a foreign country.

In reality, I shouldn’t have been surprised by Zack’s news, I thought, as I poured myself a glass of ice water. He had always been the kind of kid who wanted to do something to help other people. It had been his idea to get his Scout troop to arrange a once-a-month pizza party for the kids at Second Chance Mission to celebrate their birthdays. And once he was at college, he passed up more than one chance to have good-paying summer internships to volunteer at Building a Better World.

It just makes sense, Mom, he had told me. Since I want to get a graduate degree in non-profit administration, this is a great way for me to get hands-on experience.

Hands-on indeed—although maybe more hands-on than he might think, thanks to this overseas adventure he had agreed to. And had he given any thought to what he’d be making once he graduated? It was no secret that at most non-profits, the starting wage for those behind the desk tended to be on the low side of the corporate pay scale—something I had pointed out to Paul just a few years ago, when we had met for coffee one afternoon to talk about Zack’s college plans.

Is it unreasonable for me to want him to have a good-paying job? I asked. Of course, I want him to be happy, but I also want him to have enough money to live on!

I had hoped Paul would see my side of it, that he would even be willing to sit down with Zack and talk about the practicalities of life. But that didn’t happen. Instead, he just finished his espresso and glanced at me with that same determined expression he would wear when he had already made up his mind about some course of action.

Zack’s eyes are the same bright blue shade as his father’s, I had thought irrelevantly at the time, and his hair is the same golden blond shade. There is nothing about my son that looks like me.

Rita, it’s Zack’s life. It’s what he wants. And if you’re worried about how he’ll pay for his college loans, Karen and I talked it over and we agreed to finance his schooling.

That’s very nice of you, I had said. And it was nice. The truth was I was a darned sight luckier than most ex-wives. Paul had never once been late with the child support checks. He had even paid off our mortgage as part of the divorce agreement, saying, I don’t want you to have to work while Zack is growing up, although at the time I had suspected it was more due to a case of guilt and relief: guilt because the divorce was his idea to begin with and relief that I didn’t oppose him but simply gave in.

Not that I wanted the marriage to end. I firmly believed in the happily ever after story and honestly expected I would be in the other fifty percent category—the marriages that lasted. But since this was what Paul wanted, or, more accurately, since our life together wasn’t what he wanted anymore, I agreed. After that, he never refused any request that involved our son, and when Zack wanted to go to college in Cincinnati, Paul stepped up to the plate once again.

Yeah, thanks, Paul, I said aloud even though he wasn’t there to hear me. Of course, if you hadn’t coughed up the extra money, he would have stayed here to go to college, instead of ending up nearly three hundred miles away.

I hated the fact that he had gone away to school, since it meant that the only time I could see him was on those rare visits home. The last time he came here was months ago, and I hardly recognized him. His blond hair was longer, and he had grown a beard and a mustache. But it was more than a change in his appearance that bothered me. When he was in high school, I knew all his friends, since they spent as much time in our home as they did in their own. But now his life was filled with people I didn’t know and events that I couldn’t share in. And while I recognized that it was all part of the process and that other parents went through the same adjustment, that didn’t make it any easier.

I drank the rest of my water as I debated heading back to the store for a different paint color. Oh hell, I might as well use this one and just rehang the same white curtains, I muttered, returning to my labors. He probably won’t even care what the room looks like. He’ll be too busy visiting his friends and being with Angie to notice, rolling on the paint with more force than was necessary. He won’t give one thought to how much work I put into making this just right for him or, for that matter, how this whole crazy idea just ruined my plans for our summer together!

I finished the last section of the wall by the door, hammered the lid back onto the paint can, and dropped the roller cover into the trash. As for the fantasy of my summer with Zack, well, I might as well drop that in the trash as well.

While I cleaned up the paint trails on the floor, I thought about how I had envisioned the next three months. Breakfasts with Zack, with me making homemade waffles or elderberry pancakes. Dinners on the deck, with Zack barbecuing steak while I made his favorite salad dressing. And for dessert, homemade cranberry-apple cobbler topped with hand-churned vanilla ice cream from Harry’s Frozen Custard, the exclusive (and expensive) shop in town that was Zack’s favorite.

And, of course, the Friday night parties with Zack, his buddies and their significant others as well, which meant Angie would also be present. But that was a small matter in the greater scheme of things. It would be just like the old days—the boys talking about what team would be heading to the Super Bowl that year