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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Testament” cc&d (v256) (the July/August 2015 issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book from Smoke the cc&d July - Dec. 2015 collection book		get the 318 page July - Dec. 2015 cc&d magazine issue collection 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Summer Comes at Four O’clock

Nora McDonald

    It had been a mistake to come. San Francisco was no different to Aberdeen. Jenna stood at the floor-to ceiling window, looking out at the vast ocean of fog that had left her hotel lonely and isolated, and wondered if summer would come at four o’clock. Like it did in Aberdeen.
    She thought of Aberdeen. Clothed daily that summer in a depression of dampness from the incessantly falling rain. Like her spirit.
    It had been the last rejection that had done it.
    Not that she wasn’t used to rejection. That was what the life of a writer was like.
    Writer! Who am I kidding? thought Jenna.
    She’d been writing for almost three years now and received nothing but the standard rejection slips. But that had not deterred her. After all, what was the advice given? Never give up. And she hadn’t.
    Until that day.
    The morning post had brought it. Along with the despondent feeling. Jenna picked up the damp, brown manila envelope with her handwriting on.
    Funny how the sight of one’s own writing can be depressing, she thought.
    No, she wasn’t going to get depressed. She’d do what she always did. Open the envelope, remove the crumpled manuscript, go upstairs to the laptop, print off a fresh copy of her story and a new letter to the next magazine editor and post it off that same day. She wasn’t going to be defeated.
    She slit open the envelope with her finger, wincing as she felt the paper cut her skin.
    She looked for the standard rejection slip.
    It wasn’t there.
    For the first time, she wished it was. She read the letter.
    “Thank you for sending the enclosed material. Unfortunately we felt the story was too downbeat.”
    The remaining two sentences drowned before Jenna’s eyes in a sea of anger.
    Downbeat! she thought.
    She looked at her returned manuscript.
    How can they say it’s downbeat? she thought.
    She looked at the ending.
    Wasn’t it uplifting? Hadn’t she put all her effort into thinking of a good ending?
    Downbeat! How dare they!
    She picked up the rejected manuscript and headed purposefully up the stairs to the laptop. She switched it on and waited for it to boot up. Outside her window, the tops of the trees were heavy with their early morning burden of water. There would be no respite for them today. The next reinforcement of rain was already making its way steadily downwards, unceasingly.
    The trees’ depression settled on her. If only summer would come! What was it her friend had said?
    “In Aberdeen, you’re waiting for something that never comes.”
    Her friend wasn’t right.
    Summer would come all right. At four o’clock. The rain would mysteriously dry up and the sun would come out. Too late.
    Like my writing, thought Jenna. Too late. I started too late. If only I’d started when I was young.
    But there had always been some distraction. Or some excuse.
    Boyfriend, fiancé, husband, children, home, work.
    And now they were all gone. And she had all the time in the world to write. Too late.
    What was left to write about?
    She switched off the laptop. Why was she wasting three years of her life doing this? Life was for living. It would soon be too late.
    Sun, I need sun, she thought.
    She’d booked the holiday to San Francisco that very morning.
    San Francisco, she thought. The sun and the Golden Gate. That should cheer me up.
    But the bridge wasn’t golden and the sun hadn’t shone. She’d seen that the first day she’d arrived. And each successive day had been worse. Grey, leaden skies and a biting bay wind reminded her reluctantly of Aberdeen. And her depression had deepened.
    And now this, thought Jenna. The mist in the morning had been feeble and looked as if it might even give way to some sun but gradually as the day progressed, it had given up the struggle and the thick coat of fog had wrapped the city, eerily.
    Jenna looked at her laptop lying on the hotel desk. She should be writing. She was in a new place. She should be inspired. But she didn’t feel that way.
    Why did I bring the damn thing? she thought. I should have left it at home.
    She lifted it off the desk, opened her case, put the laptop in it and shut the lid, locking it loudly.
    I’ll never bring that on holiday again, she thought with satisfaction. That bit of my life is over.
    Over, thought Jenna. Everything at my age seems over. I’m in the winter of my life.
    She looked at her watch. Two o’clock.
    She wondered if summer would come at four. It didn’t look like it.
    Well, I’m not staying in to find out, thought Jenna, throwing on her jacket and making her way down to the hotel reception.
    “Can I get a taxi to Union Square?” she said to the young receptionist.
    “Sure. You’ll get one just down the road,” said the girl. “Turn right outside the hotel and go straight.”
    The journey to Union Square was silent. The moody mist seemed to have settled on the taxi driver.
    Why did I come to San Francisco? thought Jenna, looking out at the fog. She knew she wasn’t the first writer to be attracted to the city. San Francisco had always been a haven for artists. Danielle Steele, Jack Kerouac, Amy Tan.
    Yes, but they were real writers, thought Jenna. Not like me. A real writer would find inspiration in this city. A real writer would know what to write about.
    Her mind was blank.
    The biting bay wind almost knocked her off her feet as she climbed out of the taxi.
    A spot of shopping should cheer me up, thought Jenna.
    The warmth of the mall was a welcome relief. Jenna found herself relaxing for the first time as the distractions of the department store deleted her depression.
    Strrange, she thought, how I always like American things. Clothes, food, culture. Even though San Francisco was so different to the rest of America, it still contained the seeds of what she loved. Though why, she didn’t know.
    An hour later, laden with carrier bags, Jenna was heading for the nearest exit when she saw the sign.
    “The Cheesecake Factory.”
    Remembering her daughter raving about it, she forced herself into the overcrowded lift that was transporting its customers to the top of the building.
    It was a mistake to come, thought Jenna, as she emerged into an even more crowded lobby, where noise and chaos seemed to reign.
    The wait for a seat was long and tiring but everyone seemed happy.
    “Good day and how are you? Can I take your order?” said a cheerful young man, though Jenna could fail to see how he could remain so cheerful in such a busy, working atmosphere.
    And yet she found herself caught up in the frenetic joy of the place. The food was excellent and there was a vibrant, exciting atmosphere. It was with regret that she left the building a half hour later.
    “The Carlton Hotel, Van Ness Avenue, please,” said Jenna to the taxi driver, climbing in the back of the cab.
    “Sure,” he said, fiddling with his radio. Tony Bennett’s rich rendition of “I Left my Heart in San Francisco” filled the cab.
    A cabbie with good taste in music, thought Jenna, though why anyone would leave their heart in San Francisco, she wasn’t sure.
    “That’s a British accent, if I’m not mistaken,” he said, when the cab had moved off from the kerb and Jenna had settled herself and her packages comfortably in the rear.
    “Scottish,” she corrected him.
    Even in the mirror she could see a smile.
    “You don’t sound American either,” she said.
    “No, I’m from London,” said the voice.
    “What on earth made you come over here?” said Jenna, wondering why of all the places in America anyone would pick San Francisco.
    “It’s like back home,” he said.
    Jenna knew what he meant. San Francisco had a definite European feel. And the weather.
    “But what about the earthquake risk?” said Jenna.
    “That’s what makes it exciting. That’s what gives it an edge. You live for today and you make sure it’s a good one,” said the voice. That’s what I like about America. It’s so positive.”
    Jenna thought back to the Cheesecake Factory and knew what he meant. She looked at the back of the grey head. He was older than the usual taxi driver.
    “I guess you see a lot of life driving a taxi,” she said.
    “I sure do,” he said, and added, “and meet a lot of interesting people.”
    The eyes in the mirror met hers. She looked away. She was too old to flirt.
    “It helps with the writing, too,” he said, after a short pause.
    “Writing!” said Jenna, thinking she’d mis-heard him.
    “Yeah, the taxi driving pays the bills while I write. That’s why I came here. I took early retiral in London from my job as a teacher. The children were grown up. I was divorced. I’d always wanted to write and now I had the time.”
    “Me, too,” said Jenna suddenly. “I have the time too but don’t know how to.”
    “How to what?” said the voice.
    “Write,” said Jenna.
    “You write too?” said the voice incredulously. “What do you write?”
    “That’s the problem,” said Jenna, thinking what a strange conversation she was having. “The wrong thing.”
    “I know what you mean,” he said. “Rejection slips. Mine paper my wall.”
    “They do?” said Jenna.
    “Sure. Exciting though, aren’t they?”
    “Exciting!” said Jenna. “How can you say rejection slips are exciting?”
    “It means you’re a real writer – getting real rejection slips.”
    “I’ve never thought about it that way before,” said Jenna.
    And she hadn’t.
    The taxi slid into Van Ness Avenue and stopped outside her hotel.
    The taxi driver got out of the cab and came round to open her door. He was taller than Jenna, broadly built and smartly dressed in a casual American way.
    “Say, I hope you don’t think I’m being forward but I’ve never met another writer before. I just wondered if you’d like to meet up, have a coffee or something and discuss writing.”
    Jenna hesitated. Meet a complete stranger – by herself – when she was travelling alone. Against everything that was advised.
    He saw her hesitation.
    “How about the Cheesecake factory!” he said. “Pretty public, wouldn’t you say?”
    He laughed.
    It was a nice laugh.
    He seems a nice man, thought Jenna. And after all what harm could it do? Live for the day. Wasn’t that what he’d said? It was time she did.
    Jenna laughed too.
    “It sure is!” she said.
    “That means you’ll come!” he said, sounding surprised.
    He hadn’t expected it, thought Jenna. I like that. She nodded.
    “Great!” he said. “Tomorrow?”
    “Fine,” she said.
    “Eight o’clock in the evening?”
    “Yes,” she said.
    “I’ll pick you up at your hotel.”
    “Okay,” she said, offering him the fare.
    He waved his hand, declining it.
    “I’ll look forward to that,” he said, climbing back into his cab.
    Tony Bennett’s strains disappeared along with the taxi. The faintest glimmer of sunlight was breaking through the mist. Jenna looked at her watch. Summer comes at four o’clock in San Francisco, too, she thought. But not too late. It was never too late.
    She opened the door of her hotel room and crossed to her case. She removed the laptop from its case, placed it on the desk and switched it on.
    Downbeat. The rejection slip had been right after all. She’d known that all along. That’s why she’d been so angry. The truth had hurt. But the truth you could learn from. And other people. She’d been wrong. It wasn’t too late. It hadn’t been a mistake to come. San Francisco was different. And so was she. She sat down on the chair and placed her hands on the keyboard. This time she had a feeling it would all be all right. And even if it wasn’t, she wouldn’t give up. She was a writer and writers wrote. Whether they were eight or eighty. Better late than never.
    The late afternoon sun shone strongly down on her as if in agreement.
    She began to type.
    “Summer Comes at Four O’clock.”

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