Page 4 of A Storybook Wedding

Sure, this might seem like a heavy lift on top of an already busy day job, but keep in mind that minus a relationship status, I’ve got more than enough time to tackle these assignments. Also, my acceptance kind of felt like a dream come true. This was due in large part to the glossy catalog photographs, because the residencies at Matthias College take place on beautiful, remote Block Island at a retreat center called New Beginnings. I mean, really—does it get more perfect than that? You get to write and be amid breathtaking scenery, and the website features New England clambake dinners at sunset with people laughing and wearing lobster bibs. My library scholarship covered half the cost of my tuition, and I had enough in my savings account to cover the other half without having to dip into my rainy-day fund. But more than all that, the chance to become an author—to write a novel, send it out in search of a literary agent, submit it to publishing houses, and ultimately see it on the shelf in my own library—now that would be a real-life happy ending.

I packed like a madwoman for this first residency. Between Amazon and Staples, I purchased every school supply one could imagine. Unsure of what the ever-fluctuating evening temperatures on Block Island would bring, I brought sweatshirts and leggings along with business-casual-type outfits for daytime workshops and seminars. I hugged my colleague Ramona and made her promise to feed Blinky, the betta fish I keep at the circulation desk, and at sunrise the next morning, I drove my car a hundred miles from Little Neck, Queens, out to Montauk to catch myself a ferry to Block Island. My large suitcase sported a duffel on top, and I awkwardly carried a backpack filled with books, binders, and my laptop strapped to my torso like a bulletproof vest. In my free hand, I clutched the folder of information regarding travel and lodging at the retreat house, flyers advertising open mic readings, talent night, and more, sandwiched in between the collage of professional pictures boasting serenity along the coastline.

Let the record show that Trite Tim, Harry Potter, and Maleficent did not appear in any of these promotional materials. Nor did the model students adequately express in their motivational quotes throughout these brochures the emotional tug-of-war that could develop in one’s psyche as a result of participating in workshop, the only part of residency that was unequivocally mandatory.

I arrived on the island with my heavy luggage and, at the ferry terminal, was greeted by a shuttle van that had been arranged by the school. The driver, a woman wearing a surprisingly tight, low-cut T-shirt for the occupation of van driving, greeted me with a toothy smile. “Heading to Matthias?” she asked.

I nodded, noticing upon closer inspection that her shirt had a picture of Frog and Toad on it. A soul mate, I thought excitedly. Someone who appreciated classic children’s stories as much as me. I mean, what are the odds? But just as I was about to comment on Arnold Lobel’s brand of kid lit genius, I adjusted my glasses and read the caption beneath the screen print. Reading makes me horny, it announced, which certainly expressed a very different vibe than one might expect from a picture of a Caldecott Honor Award–winning book cover. I guess the shirt was youth-size on purpose to allow her ample bosom to present itself to anyone with eyes. I suppose that’s in the vein of the old adage, If you’ve got it, flaunt it. Just not the look of a typical livery driver is all I’m saying. “I’m Cecily,” I offered, holding out my hand to shake hers.

“Nice to meet you,” she replied. “I’m Maggie. Hop on in and buckle up. I’ll put your things in the back.”

I climbed in and sat on a bench seat, veins pumping with adrenaline, despite the attempted sedation of an earlier dose of Dramamine coursing through my blood. Maggie’s driving was as unexpected as her bookish thirst trap of a T-shirt. She sped up and down rolling hills flanked with kelly-green grass, around curves, hugging the edges of shoulder-less windy roads and making my stomach do flip-flops. Flocks of bicycles hogged the single-lane road close to the public beaches, but as we drove farther away from the center of the island, the bikes were replaced by mopeds with solo riders and the occasional compact car. I tried extremely hard not to toss my cookies everywhere and realized that had it not been for the Dramamine, this ride might have taken a real turn for the worse.

Maggie, I learned, was quite the Chatty Cathy. She disclosed that she was an employee of the retreat center who lived on Block Island all year round, she was a transplant from the West Coast, and that she once drove Nelson DeMille to Matthias to do a guest lecture. “I tried to get him to meet up with me for drinks after,” she smirked, “because I could tell he liked what he saw, you know?”

I nodded politely as her lips formed a pout. “But he said some nonsense about being married.” Maggie rolled her eyes. “He couldn’t handle all this anyway.”

We almost settled into a quiet lull after that, but Maggie decided to appoint herself my unofficial tour guide, telling me about the Mohegan Bluffs, the Great Salt Pond, and Dead Eye Dick’s, all must-dos on her list. She recommended renting a bike to get around. “You don’t realize how far three miles is until you have to walk it round trip with a bag of groceries in tow,” she explained. “There’s no delivery here either.”

I made a mental note of that as I took in the briny salt air. The luscious view permeated my senses. We turned into New Beginnings and bounced up the cobblestone road leading to the main house.

“You’re one of the first ones here, I think,” she informed me. “Lunch won’t be served until one. But if you go right in those big doors, I’m sure you’ll find someone who can get you all checked in.”

“Thanks for the ride,” I said as she retrieved my bags from the back of the van.

“My pleasure,” she replied. “I’m hoping my next fare will be that hottie, Nate Ellis.”

Nate Ellis, as in the PEN Award winner who would become my teacher in a few hours. Noted, I thought. I guess literary groupies are a thing here.

Inside the main house, an older, brusque lady with wispy, thin bangs covering half of her line of sight scurried over to me with a clipboard. She introduced herself as Lucy (no last name or title) and gave me a name badge with a lanyard to wear around my neck all week, a packet of information, and a room key. She explained that there would be a whiteboard in the lobby of the North Wind building that would have all of the important information for each day’s activities. “Any questions you have,” she shared, “will likely be addressed on the whiteboard. The whiteboard is how we keep everyone organized.”

The Whiteboard, I repeated over and over in my head, as if it was its own character in the Matthias University MFA story. I arrived at my room—a tiny little bedroom on the second floor of the residence hall fit for a Polly Pocket if she were entering a serious nunnery phase. Bare walls surrounded two twin beds, each home to a single folded threadbare towel and accompanying washcloth. A small closet featured exactly two old wire hangers and nothing else, no extra blankets or towels or anything personifying the notion of a warm welcome. A random bathroom sink, replete with greenish-teal stains around the drain and a fluorescent pull-string light topping the mirror above it, looked very out of place tucked into the corner, but alas, I came here to learn, and if my first lesson was that a low-res MFA and a high-security prison were cut from the same cloth on the accommodations scale, well, consider me schooled.

I set about unpacking my wardrobe into the miniature chest of drawers, placing my toothbrush, face wash, and other toiletry items over on the shelf by the sink, and putting my TBR stack of novels on the nightstand that lived between the twin beds. All of a sudden, the door handle jerked, and the plank of wood disguising itself as a privacy barrier flew open.

In walked a woman. Let me be clear: this was not a girl in her twenties or thirties; this person could easily have been my mother’s age. Possibly older. I’m not an ageist, though, so I perked up at the thought of this lost soul accidentally stumbling into my room and being offered not only directions to her own dormitory assignment but also a warm welcome from a potential new friend. Unfortunately, this particular woman had a rolling suitcase and a large yellow purse, cropped white hair, glasses, the pointiest canine tooth I’d ever seen on a human, and a chip. On. Her. Shoulder.

“Is this room two twelve?” she asked.

I nodded and gave her my best photo-day grin. “Sure is!” I said.

“Who are you then?” she demanded. A wily chin hair wriggled at me as she spoke, threatening my smile with its ferocity.

“I’m Cecily.” I reached onto the spare bed—the one I was using to house my luggage and my welcome folder—and showed her the page with my room assignment. “This is my room.” I pointed to the sheet of paper. 212, it read. “But I would be more than happy to help you find yours.”

“No need.”

I felt my smile fade as fear bubbled up in my belly to replace it. She sized me up and down with a death stare, as if she was considering her options with regard to how she might dispose of my body and make it look like an accident. “Looks like we’re sharing,” the obviously formerly incarcerated woman decided. “I requested a single,” she grumbled to herself.

We had to request a single? They actually expected two people to fit in each of these tiny rooms?

I didn’t know how to properly respond, so I tried on a fresh smile and went the route of If you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all, which somehow immediately made things worse.

“Perhaps you’d like to remove your items from my quarters,” Sergeant Snaggletooth declared.

“Um, sure,” I replied, quickly gathering up my things and dumping them onto what had now become my side of the room.

As my life was rapidly deteriorating into a bad episode of Orange Is the New Black, I tried to find the humor in the situation. Of course I should imagine that this older woman might be a seasoned writing pro who could guide and coach me as we become unlikely friends, like Matilda and Miss Honey in Roald Dahl’s classic of the same name. But instead she quickly morphed into an R. L. Stine–esque haggard creature of my nightmares. It’s okay, I told myself. All potential fodder for future stories I could write. Still, I’m the type of person who tries to see the rainbow beyond the thunderstorm, the glass as half-full, so I tried to engage her in more conversation.

---