If you’re lucky enough to get that bonus time, what are you going to do with it?
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(Scroll down to read an excerpt.)
For Glenda, Harmony and Jan, it’s heading south to age feistily in side-by-side townhouses on St. Simons Island.
One minute they’re just out of college and working together in Marshbury, Massachusetts. The next, they’re using their golden parachutes to land just south of Savannah on the Golden Isles.
They’re ready for reinvention, not withering on the vine. Plus all this ageism is getting really old. So they hatch a plan to take care of Butt, the dishonest, lecherous head of their HOA. To ramp up their supershero skills, they get jobs working as role players at FLETC, the massive, hot-guy-filled Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.
Because age is just a number and you’re taking names and kicking butt. And when your life starts to feel like an I Love Lucy episode, you know you’ve got the right friends.
With an adorable chihuahua-pitbull rescue named Chickpea, plenty of twists and turns, plus some terrific hacks for rocking your own bonus time, this wise and witty Claire Cook novel is filled with hope, heartache, hilarity and the power of female friendship.
“Charming, engagingly quirky, and full of fun, Claire Cook just gets it.”—Meg Cabot
“Cook’s poignancy and sassy humor resonate with readers; her theme of reinvention uplifts and inspires.”—Savannah Magazine
“Claire Cook has an original voice, sparkling style, and a window into family life that will
make you laugh and cry.”—Adriana Trigiani
Read an Excerpt!
Excerpted from Bonus Time
Copyright © 2024 Claire Cook. All rights reserved.
Heading to an island over a four-mile causeway is smooth sailing in a beachy blue EV named Evie. Like driving but not really driving. No sound of a motor running. None of those little transmission jolts pre-electric vehicles make as they jump from gear to gear.
The truth was Evie didn’t need any gears. I was switching enough gears for both of us.
A soft canine snore reminded me that there were, in fact, three of us. I peeked in the rearview mirror just in time to see Chickpea, my chihuahua-pitbull rescue, stretch adorably in her faux fur-lined bucket booster seat.
Dogs were so much easier than husbands.
Evie, Chickpea and I had been traveling for almost sixteen and a half hours over two days, way too much of it spent on the nation’s longest running north-south interstate, that gridlocked, ridiculously hazardous, tractor-trailer truckers’ paradise I-95. I was pretty sure the I in I-95 stood for Interminable. Inexcusable? Idiotic? Or maybe just plain Ick.
The good news was I’d had plenty of time to work on my theme song. I was a firm believer that every stage in your life deserved a theme song, an anthem, a manifesto. And if you couldn’t find one, you just had to make up your own. And then you had to keep belting it out at the top of your lungs.
Because when you sang in your car, or even in the shower, it didn’t matter if you’d crammed a few too many syllables in, or if your hook wasn’t very hooky and your bridge wasn’t all that bridgey. It didn’t matter whether or not you could hold a tune, or stay on key, or even if your voice wasn’t one hundred percent sure what a key actually was.
All you had to do was sing it like you meant it. A theme song was a touchstone, a talisman. A theme song helped you walk through the world with purpose and intention and attitude, with spring in your step.
“We’ve got bonus time,” I sang. “So how we gonna use it. What a gift to find . . .” I was going for little bit of an island sound in this rendition. Not quite reggae, but maybe more like Jimmy Buffett meets Gwen Stefani.
I’d originally planned to make an adventure out of the trip, frittering away time and miles, stopping to do fun things and visit family and friends in New York and Philadelphia and D.C. But in the end, I simply wanted to cut to the chase and drive straight through to the next stage of my life.
“The world counts you out,” I sang. “But only if you let it. While they’re looking right through you . . .”
This time I leaned a little more singer-songwriter, maybe Carole King meets Dolly Parton. It was a high bar, but I could see Chickpea’s ears perk up in the rearview mirror when I tried singing it to the melody of 9 to 5, so I thought I might be on to something.
“Go for it, you won’t regret it,” I roared. Chickpea jumped in at the end with a sleepy little howl.
At about the halfway point, somewhere around Richmond, Virginia, I’d checked in to a chain motel right off 95. The area was nice enough to feel safe walking a diminutive dog at night. The room was clean and had a small fridge and a microwave so I could zap the rest of last night’s drive-through bean burrito for breakfast. The bed wasn’t quite as comfortable as the one I’d carried in for Chickpea, but hey, you can’t have it all.
In the morning, I’d pulled a fresh oversized T-shirt that said VIBES ATTRACT YOUR TRIBE over the same old yoga pants. I slathered all the skin that showed in copious amounts of broad-spectrum mineral sunscreen until I looked like a cross between a geisha and Casper the Friendly Ghost.
I was probably more concerned with dodging my fair share of skin cancer than avoiding more wrinkles. For the most part I embraced my wrinkles as the squiggly roadmap of a life well-lived. But I’d also seen that horrifying photo of the trucker with a dense jumble of deep lines carved into one side only from decades of driving.
So I’d paid extra attention to applying sunscreen to my left arm and the left side of my face, as well as the backs of both hands. By the time I stopped for the final bathroom break of the drive, my skin had even absorbed most of it.
“Marshbury, Massachusetts,” I said, switching over to my best fake travel show host voice, “is now approximately one thousand one hundred and twenty-five miles to our north. Any future jaunts between the two locations will be conducted exclusively by air.”
I gave Evie a quick pat on her dashboard screen. “Nothing personal. Think of it as you time, a chance to relax and recharge.”
After yet another gulp of caffeine, I worked my blue stainless-steel tumbler back into the cup holder.
I sighed.
As lives go, it could be worse. I’d been around the sun enough times by now to know that it could always, always be worse.
And it could always get better. A lot better. And that part was pretty much up to you. You could sit around whining about what wasn’t working, or you could shake things up and reinvent your life one more time. I mean, at this point, who’s counting, right?
The truth was that life was going to keep getting all lifey on you whether or not you were actively living it, so you might as well slather on some sunscreen and jump back into the fray.
I pressed Evie’s voice button on her steering wheel, asked her to find me the local classic rock radio station. While she searched, I watched a bright yellow sun pop out from behind some fluffy white clouds. A peek of blue ocean in the distance glittered in response. As if on cue, The Beatles broke into “Here Comes the Sun.”
It felt choreographed just for me, a bit over-the-top maybe, but a good omen all the same. I belted out the sun, sun, sun, here it comes parts along with The Beatles. Chickpea’s chihuahua genes kicked in and she barked along to the do-do-do-do parts.
Between the causeway and the sea, gold-hued marsh grass was blowing in the breeze as far as the eye could see. The Golden Isles, a group of small barrier islands south of Savannah, were named for the vast marshes that comprise a full one-third of the marshland along the entire Atlantic coast.
Up ahead, a pod of brown pelicans in V-formation led the way for us, then veered off across the marsh toward their next meal.
My stomach growled at the thought of food. As I rooted around for my last Larabar, I searched my memory banks for more names for a group of pelicans. A scoop, a squadron. A pouch. If they’re fishing, you can call them a fleet.
For better or worse, I had the kind of brain that retained random factoids like these.
I resisted the gasp-worthy views that were like a siren’s song daring me to take my tired eyes off the road for a millisecond too long. I smiled at the loggerhead turtle-crossing signs, made a mental note to track down an I Brake for Turtles bumper sticker. Wondered if I should ask Evie for approval since she’d be the one wearing it. Decided that while I fully supported giving human characteristics to cars, as well as all other forms of anthropomorphism for that matter, bumper sticker choice remained firmly in my domain.
At the end of the causeway, a carved wooden sign read: WELCOME TO SAINT SIMONS ISLAND.
Trees dripping Spanish moss flanked winding island roads. Glimpses of unspoiled beaches led the way to a sweet throwback village. I considered my food options, decided I couldn’t handle one more takeout meal. Circled around to one of the island’s two grocery stores.
I tucked Chickpea into her ultra-chic shoulder carrier. Gave my fake emotional support animal line a quick run-through in case I needed it to keep from getting kicked out of the store. Grabbed some fresh provisions for both of us.
St. Simons is only about twelve miles long and not quite three miles wide at its widest point, so in no time we pulled into the charming townhouse community, perfectly executing the turn into my driveway.
I dug deep and gave my theme song a grand finale finish. “We’re talking bonus time. We’re rocking bonus time!”
When I leaned my head back against the headrest, I closed my eyes. It felt like they were lined with sandpaper. I opened them again, removed my oversized sunglasses and took a quick peek in the visor mirror. Tired hazel eyes peered back at me. Tufts of hair had escaped from the messy bun on the top of my head, and curly gray tendrils were dancing around like they were happy to finally be here.
I considered a brief EV nap so I wouldn’t have to move. Instead I gave Evie a goodbye pat.
“Teamwork is the dreamwork,” I said. Then I grabbed the groceries, hoisted Chickpea under one arm.
Before we reached the welcome mat, I stopped for a deep breath of salty, semi-tropical air, so thick I could feel my hair frizz.
“I can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” I said to a palm tree.
I punched in my four-digit passcode, pushed the door open.
Four girls in disheveled, formerly cute outfits were sprawled across the open living area of my first floor, like a Gen Z version of the movie Bridesmaids.
Keep reading!
Buy your copy of Bonus Time:
Paperback
Kindle
Nook
Apple Books
Kobo
Google Books
International Links (if not in USA)