A former gun for hire and a federal agent find themselves on the right side of love but the wrong end of a bullet in this Richter installment from New York Times bestselling author Catherine Bybee.
On a fateful night in Las Vegas, FBI agent Leo Grant is working on a critical detail in a high-profile child prostitution trial when a beautiful woman jumps into the path of a bullet meant for him. Little does Leo know that the woman is Olivia, an ex-assassin who is seeking redemption one good deed at a time.
One minute, Olivia is lunging in front of Leo on the Vegas Strip. The next, she’s waking up in the hospital in a haze of pain with no memory of her past, her enemies, or even her own name.
With Olivia suffering from memory loss and completely unaware of the danger she is in, it’s up to Leo and Neil MacBain’s team of operatives to keep her safe. With Olivia and Leo both unaware of her past crimes, the two have little reason to avoid their growing attraction. Slowly her past seeps in through the cracks as she struggles to find the answers of who she is. When the veil is lifted and her dark past is staring her down, Olivia must turn her back on Leo and the love she can never allow herself to have, and race to find her would-be killer.
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Elise’s Thoughts
A Thin Disguise by Catherine Bybee delves into forgiveness, love, and redemption. There are very few authors that can write a riveting mystery with gripping characters. Bybee does both along with humorous dialogue, a lot of action, and romance.
The story has FBI Agent Leo Grant working a protective detail for a child witness against a Russian mob boss engaging in sex trafficking. Olivia Naught, a former assassin and Richter student, is working the same detail for MacBain Security, keeping her eye on the witness and the people protecting her. Although Olivia knows about Leo, he knows nothing about her. They meet on the Las Vegas Strip where Olivia takes a bullet meant for Leo. Following this incident, she suffers amnesia. To protect her and to make Olivia a permanent part of the team, MacBain Security seizes upon the opportunity of her memory loss to show her, with help from the smitten Leo, the new life she could have if she no longer worked alone. As Olivia’s memories return, she feels guilt and unworthy of love because of her past. The team, Leo, and Olivia try to figure out who is responsible for the shooting, while the unlikely pairing of Leo, an FBI Agent and Olivia, a former assassin, navigate their personal feelings and chemistry for each other.
Olivia realizes how much she cares for the team and decides to disappear, fearful if she stays, she will jeopardize their lives. She has wit, strength, and intelligence. Bybee does an excellent job is peeling away all the layers of this female protagonist.
The Bybee readers are once again treated to another wonderful story. The team of Claire Kelly, Cooper Lockman, Jax Simon, Sasha and A.J. Hoffman and Neil and Gwen McBain joined by Olivia and Leo are riveting characters. They are not only a team but a pseudo family who care, protect, and do anything for each other. It is a story of characters who survive in spite of the circumstances of their pasts. Hopefully, this series will continue with a lot of future books that have this team of characters. It is one of those series that should have a book out every year.
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Elise’s Author Interview
Elise Cooper: This series has characters from previous books?
Catherine Bybee: If someone is a Bybee reader they know there will be glimpses of character crossovers between series. I hope to continue writing with this team. It comes down to the publisher asking for more books from the Richter Series. I would love to write a Richter espionage book every year.
EC: Olivia is from previous books?
CB: She showed up in Sasha’s book, Say It Again, and briefly in the first book of this series, Changing The Rules, along with Leo. Each book can be read on their own.
EC: You definitely redeemed Olivia in this book?
CB: She was an assassin, but I wanted her to be sympathetic. The only way I could do that is to have her get Transient Amnesia. Once she could not remember anything she became the person who was a student at Richter. She felt connected to the team and knows she can count on them. She allowed herself to feel for others.
EC: How would you describe assassin Olivia?
CB: She was afraid to love because she did not want anything to happen to those she cared about. After she had graduated from Richter, she thought she was being a spy who was good and altruistic. She did not see the sinister side because she was young and naïve. She wanted to connect but would not allow herself to. Both Olivia’s are bold, stubborn, and independent.
EC: How would you describe the relationship between Leo and Olivia?
CB: A tug of war. In the beginning she was in charge, but after she is shot, he gets some control until she gets her memory back. Once that happens, she has an internal battle. Overall, they are two peas in a pot that are attracted to each other. She would not have fallen for him if he was not an FBI Agent. I think she was more of a teaser than Leo.
EC: Do you think Sasha, the lead of the book Say It Again, is similar to Olivia?
CB: No, they are different. Sasha is not as damaged or jaded as Olivia. If Sasha put a bullet in somebody, she knew why she was doing it. Olivia is the alias character who never got a say in who she killed. Sasha had people who loved her as well as freedoms in her life whereas Olivia is always on the run. Sasha did care for Olivia and made sure she got what she needed to survive. Sasha and the team were a pseudo-family. In all my books the family is not blood relatives because of my own personal life.
EC: Who do you identify more with, Sasha or Olivia?
CB: Sasha is the hero to my own heart. She is the best operative. I could see Sasha as a heroine on the big screen. Sasha can be clandestine and lethal, but she is also someone who supports other women. Olivia knew if the chips would fall, Sasha would have her back.
EC: How would you describe Leo?
CB: He gave Olivia humanity and heart. He is outgoing, loyal, and assertive, helping Olivia make choices in her life.
EC: Claire and Jax, the younger generation, are not the same personality types as Sasha and Olivia?
CB: They have more of a sense of humor, are spunkier, and more demonstrative. I think that is because they were never faced with the sinister side of Richter. Sasha actually helped Claire get out, so she did not turn into Olivia. Claire and Jax are huggers and more happy- go- lucky. What I wanted to show is how different people from the same place have different home lives with different families.
EC: How were you able to write about the details of a sniper?
CB: I own certain weapons. Since I am a successful single female, I am not afraid of having weapons to protect me. I have used many of the guns I describe. What is interesting and ironic is that I found out the teams I made up exist and I got it right. If I think about it, then it probably has been done professionally.
EC: What about your next books?
CB: The next Richter book will be Jax’s story. The title is An Unexpected Distraction, out in November of this year. This book will come full circle, but I am hoping there is a clamoring for more in the series. I love writing these characters and want to write them for some time.
I am currently working on a non-espionage book, but more women’s fiction, set in San Diego. It is family driven and inspired by my own life. I have to deal with putting my elderly father in an assisted living residence. It is hard to try to create, while taking care of someone else.
THANK YOU!!
BIO: Elise Cooper has written book reviews and interviewed best-selling authors since 2009. Her reviews have covered several different genres, including thrillers, mysteries, women’s fiction, romance and cozy mysteries. An avid reader, she engages authors to discuss their works, and to focus on the descriptions of their characters and the plot. While not writing reviews, Elise loves to watch baseball and visit the ocean in Southern California, with her dog and husband.
Today I am posting on the Harlequin Trade Publishing Summer 2021 Historical Fiction Blog Tour. I am excited to be sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for THE WARSAW ORPHAN by Kelly Rimmer.
Below you will find an author Q&A, an about the book section, my book review, an excerpt from the book, an about the author section and the author’s social media links. Enjoy!
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Author Q&A
Q: Tell us about The Warsaw Orphan in your own words.
A: The Warsaw Orphan is a novel about two teenagers living in Warsaw during the occupation. Elzbieta Rabinek lives a sheltered life with her adoptive parents in an apartment a few blocks from the Warsaw Ghetto. After she stumbles upon her neighbor’s resistance activities, Elzbieta becomes involved in a scheme to smuggle children out of the Ghetto to be placed with Catholic foster families on the other side of the wall. Through this work, she meets a young Jewish boy, Roman Gorka, who is trapped in the Ghetto with his family.
Q: What do you think drives authors to continue to find stories to tell set around WWII?
A: Authors keep returning to the era for the same reason readers do — these periods where the whole world was in chaos have so much to teach us about human nature. I feel like I could research and write a thousand books set during this period and still be shocked by the depths humanity sank to during that time, and amazed by the stories of resistance and courage.
Q: How are you hoping readers will relate to this story?
A: For me, the wonder of historical fiction is that it gives us the chance to experience history ourselves as we journey through a story. I hope the readers find Elzbieta and Roman relatable characters, even if the circumstances they live through are very different to ours.
Q: What’s something that you connected with personally as you researched and wrote this story?
A: I was particularly inspired by the story of the city of Warsaw as I researched and wrote this book. Warsaw was left in ruins by the end of the war, with 85-90% of the city reduced to rubble. Today, Warsaw is a vibrant, thriving metropolis. The Polish people rallied and rebuilt the city, just as they rebuilt their lives, and ultimately their nation. This is a story of resilience that I found particularly inspiring, and a timely reminder of the strength of the human spirit, as we live through chaotic times ourselves.
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About the Book
With the thrilling pace and historical drama of Pam Jenoff and Kristin Hannah, New York Times bestselling author Kelly Rimmer’s newest novel is an epic WWII saga and love story, based on the real-life efforts of two young people taking extraordinary risks to save their countrymen, as they try to find their way back to each other and the life they once knew.
Following on the success of The Things We Cannot Say, this is Kelly Rimmer’s return to the WWII category with a brand new novel inspired by Irena Sendler, the real-life Polish nurse who used her access to the Warsaw ghetto to smuggle Jewish children and babies to safety.
Spanning the tumultuous years between 1942 and 1945 in Poland, The Warsaw Orphan follows Emilia over the course of the war, her involvement with the Resistance, and her love for Sergiusz, a young man imprisoned in the Jewish ghetto who’s passion leads him to fight in the Warsaw Uprising. From the Warsaw ghetto to the Ravensbruck concentration camp, through Nazi occupation to the threat of a communist regime, Kelly Rimmer has penned her most meticulously researched and emotionally compelling novel to date.
THE WARSAW ORPHAN by Kelly Rimmer is an emotional historical fiction story featuring a young Polish girl and her family and friend’s struggles to survive set in occupied Warsaw during WWII.
Elizbieta Rabinek is living with her mother and father just outside the ghetto walls in Warsaw, Poland. She has a secret. Her mother and father have adopted her and are keeping her safe after the murder of her father and brother by the German’s for helping Jews. She befriends a nurse named Sara who lives in the apartment across the hall and discovers that Sara is doing more than just public health rounds in the ghetto.
Sara and fellow public health workers are smuggling children out of the ghetto and Elizbieta is determined to help. Sara is trying to help the Gorka family and this is when Elizbieta meets their son, Roman. Roman is at the youth center when his family is rounded up and sent on the train to the camp. All Roman feels is hate and he is set on the path of revenge.
From the German occupation through the Russian invasion Elizbieta and Roman fight to survive and reclaim the life they once knew.
This is a well written story of family, survival, hope and love in a time of atrocities, starvation and war. Elizabieta has such courage throughout this story to face what she sees and experiences during the several years covered in this book. All of the characters in this book are diverse, fully developed and believable. The author’s research is evident in the plot and storyline.
I recommend this historical fiction novel and the author.
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Excerpt
1
Roman
28 March, 1942
The human spirit is a miraculous thing. It is the strongest part of us—crushed under pressure, but rarely broken. Trapped within our weak and fallible bodies, but never contained. I pondered this as my brother and I walked to a street vendor on Zamenhofa Street in the Warsaw Ghetto, late in the afternoon on a blessedly warm spring day.
“There was one right there,” he said, pointing to a rare gap in the crowd on the sidewalk. I nodded but did not reply. Dawidek sometimes needed to talk me through his workday but he did not need me to comment, which was fortunate, because even after months of this ritual, I still had no idea what to say.
“Down that alleyway, there was one on the steps of a building. Not even on the sidewalk, just right there on the steps.”
I fumbled in my pocket, making sure I still had the sliver of soap my stepfather had given me. Soap was in desperate demand
in the ghetto, a place where overcrowding and lack of running water had created a perfect storm for illness. My stepfather ran a tiny dentistry practice in the front room of our apartment and needed the soap as much as anyone—maybe even more so. But as desperate as Samuel’s need for soap was, my mother’s need for food eclipsed it, and so there Dawidek and I were. It was generally considered a woman’s job to go to the market, but Mother needed to conserve every bit of strength she could, and the street vendor Samuel wanted me to speak to was blocks away from our home.
“…and Roman, one was behind a big dumpster,” he hesitated, then grimaced. “Except I think we missed that one yesterday.”
I didn’t ask how he’d come to that conclusion. I knew that the answer was liable to make my heart race and my vision darken, the way it did sometimes. Sometimes, it felt as if my anger was simmering just below the surface: at my nine-year-old brother and the rest of my family. Although, none of this was their fault. At Sala, my boss at the factory on Nowolipki Street, even though he was a good man and he’d gone out of his way to help me and my family more than once. At every damned German I laid eyes on. Always them. Especially them. A sharp, uncompromising anger tinged every interaction those days, and although that anger started and ended with the Germans who had changed our world, it cycled through everyone else I knew before it made its way back where it belonged.
“There was one here yesterday. In the middle of the road at the entrance to the market.”
Dawidek had already told me all about that one, but I let him talk anyway. I hoped this running commentary would spare him from the noxious interior that I was currently grappling with. I envied the ease with which he could talk about his day, even if hearing the details filled me with guilt. Guilt I could handle, I probably deserved it. It was the anger that scared me. I felt like my grip on control was caught between my sweaty hands and, at any given moment, all it would take was for someone to startle me, and I’d lose control.
The street stall came into view through the crowd. There was always a crush of people on the street until the last second before seven o’clock curfew. This was especially the case in summer, when the oppressive heat inside the ghetto apartments could bring people to faint, besides which, the overcrowding inside was no better than the overcrowding outside. I had no idea how many people were inside those ghetto walls—Samuel guessed a million, Mrs. Kuklin´ski in the bedroom beside ours said it was much more, Mother was quite confident that it was maybe only a hundred thousand. All I knew was that ours was not the only apartment in the ghetto designed for one family that was currently housing four—in fact, there were many living in even worse conditions. While the population was a hot topic of conversation on a regular basis, it didn’t actually matter all that much to me. I could see with my own eyes and smell with my own nose that however many people were trapped within the ghetto walls, it was far, far too many.
When the vendor’s table came into view, my heart sank: she was already packing up for the day and there was no produce left. I was disappointed but not surprised: there had been no chance of us finding food so late in the day, let alone food that someone would barter for a simple slip of soap. Dawidek and I had passed a store that was selling eggs, but they’d want zloty for the eggs, not a tiny scrap of soap.
“Wait here a minute,” I murmured to my brother, who shrugged as he sank to sit on an apartment stoop. I might have let him follow me, but even after the depths our family had sunk to over the years of occupation, I still hated for him to see me beg. I glanced at him, recording his location to memory, and then pushed through the last few feet of people mingling on the sidewalk until I reached the street vendor. She shook her head before I’d spoken a word.
“I am sorry young man; I have nothing to offer you.”
“I am Samuel Gorka’s son,” I told her. It was an oversimplification of a complicated truth, but it was the best way I could help her place me. “He fixed your tooth for you, remember? A few months ago? His practice is on Miła Street.”
Recognition dawned in her gaze, but she still regarded me warily.
“I remember Samuel and I’m grateful to him, but that doesn’t change anything. I have no food left today.”
“My brother and I…we work during the day. And Samuel too. You know how busy he is, helping people like yourself. But the thing is, we have a sick family member who hasn’t—”
“Kid, I respect your father. He’s a good man, and a good dentist. I wish I could help, but I have nothing to give you.” She waved to the table, to the empty wooden box she had packed up behind her, and then opened her palms towards me as if to prove the truth of her words.
“There is nowhere else for me to go. I can’t take no for an answer. I’m going to bed hungry tonight, but I can’t let…” I trailed off, the hopelessness hitting me right in the chest. I knew I would be going home without food for my mother that night, and the implications made me want to curl up in a ball, right there in the gutter. But hopelessness was dangerous, at least in part because it was always followed by an evil cousin. Hopelessness was a passive emotion, but its natural successor drove action, and that action rarely resulted in anything positive. I clenched my fists, and my fingers curled around the soap. I pulled it from my pocket and extended it towards the vendor. She looked from my palm to my face, then sighed impatiently and leaned close to me to hiss,
“I told you. I have nothing left to trade today. If you want food, you need to come earlier in the day.”
“That’s impossible for us. Don’t you understand?”
To get to the market early in the day one of us would have to miss work. Samuel couldn’t miss work; he could barely keep up as it was—he performed extractions from sunup to curfew most days. Rarely was this work paid now that money was in such short supply among ordinary families like his patients, but the work was important—not just because it afforded some small measure of comfort for a people group who were, in every other way, suffering immensely. But every now and again Samuel did a favor for one of the Jewish police officers or even a passing German soldier. He had a theory that one day soon, those favors were going to come in handy. I was less optimistic, but I understood that he couldn’t just close his practice. The moment Samuel stopped working would be the moment he had to perform an honest reckoning with our situation, and if he did that, he would come closer to the despair I felt every waking moment of every day.
“Do you have anything else? Or is it just the soap?” the woman asked me suddenly.
“That’s all.”
“Tomorrow. Come back this time tomorrow. I’ll keep something for you, but for that much soap?” She shook her head then pursed her lips. “It’s not going to be much. See if you can find something else to barter.”
“There is nothing else,” I said, my throat tight. But the woman’s gaze was at least sympathetic, and so I nodded at her. “I’ll do my best. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
As I turned away, I wondered if it was worth calling into that store to ask about the eggs, even though I knew that the soap wasn’t nearly enough for a whole egg. It wasn’t enough for even half an egg here on the market, and the stores were always more expensive than the street vendors. Maybe they would give me a shell? We could grind it up and Mother could drink it in a little water. We’d done that once before for her. It wasn’t as good as real food, but it might help a little overnight. It surely couldn’t hurt.
As I spun back towards our apartment, a burst of adrenaline nearly knocked me sideways. Dawidek hadn’t moved, but two Jewish police officers were now standing in front of him. Like me, my brother was tall for his age—an inheritance from our maternal grandfather that made us look bizarre when we stood with Samuel and Mother, who were both more diminutive. Even so, he looked far too small to be crowded into the doorway of an apartment by two Jewish Police officers. That situation could turn to bloodshed in a heartbeat. The Kapo operated on a spectrum from well-meaning and kindly to murderously violent, and I had no way of knowing what kind of Kapo were currently accosting Dawidek. My heart thundered against the wall of my chest as I pushed my way back to them, knowing even as I approached that intervening could well get me shot.
For everything I had been through and for everything I had seen, the only thing that kept me going was my family, especially Dawidek. He was my favorite person in the world, a burst of purity in an environment of pure evil. Some days, the only time I felt still inside was when he and I were playing or talking in the evenings—and that stillness was the only rest I got. I could not live without him, in fact—I had already decided that if it came to that, I wouldn’t even try.
“Dawidek?” I called as I neared. Both Kapo turned toward me. The one on the left, the taller one, sized me up as if an emaciated, unarmed 16-year-old was any kind of threat. I knew from bitter experience that the smart thing to do would have been to let Dawidek try to talk his own way out of this. He was nine years old but used to defending himself in the bizarrely toxic environment of the Ghetto. All day long, he was at his job alone, and I was at mine. He needed his wits about him to survive even an hour of that, and I needed to trust that he could handle himself.
But I couldn’t convince myself to be smart, even when I knew that what I was about to do was likely to earn me, at best, a severe beating. I couldn’t even stop myself when the Kapo gave me a second chance to walk away. They ignored me and kept their attention on my brother. “Hey!” I shouted, loud enough that my voice echoed up and down the street, and dozens of people turned to stare. “He’s just a kid. He hasn’t done anything wrong!”
I was mentally planning my next move. I’d make a scene, maybe push one of the Kapo, and when they turned to beat me, Dawidek could run. Pain was never pleasant, but physical pain could also be an effective distraction from mental anguish, which was the worst kind. Maybe I could even land a punch, and that might feel good. But my brother stepped forward, held his hands up to me and said fiercely, “These are my supervisors, Roman. Just supervisors on the crew. We were just talking.”
My stomach dropped. My heartbeat pounded in my ears and my hands were hot.—I knew my face was flushed raspberry, both with embarrassment and from the adrenaline. After a terse pause that seemed to stretch forever, the Kapo exchanged an amused glance, one patted Dawidek on the back, and they continued down the street, both laughing at me. Dawidek shook his head in frustration.
“Why did you do that? What would you do, even if I was in trouble?”
“I’m sorry,” I admitted, scraping my hand through my hair. “I lost my head.”
“You’re always losing your head,” Dawidek muttered, falling into step beside me, as we began to follow the Kapo back towards our own apartment. “You need to listen to Father. Keep your head down, work hard and hope for the best. You are too smart to keep making such dumb decisions.”
Hearing my little brother echoing his father’s wisdom in the same tone and with the same impatience was always jarring, but in this case, I was dizzy with relief, and so I messed up his hair, and let out a weak laugh.
“For a nine-year-old, you are awfully wise.”
“Wise enough to know that you didn’t get any food for mother.”
“We were too late,” I said, and then I swallowed the lump in my throat. “But she said that we should come back tomorrow. She will set something aside for us.”
“Let’s walk the long way home. The trashcans on Smocza Street are sometimes good.”
We were far from the only family in the ghetto who had run out of resources. We were all starving and any morsel of food was quickly found, even if it was from a trashcan. Still, I was not at all keen to return to our crowded apartment, to face the disappointment in my stepfather’s gaze or to see the starvation in my mother’s. I let Dawidek lead the way, and we walked in silence, broken by his periodic bursts of commentary.
“We picked one up here… Another over there… Mordechai helped me with one there.”
As we turned down a quiet street, I realized that Dawidek’s Kapo supervisors were right in front of us, walking a few dozen feet ahead.
“We should turn around, I don’t want any trouble with those guys,” I muttered. Dawidek shook his head.
“They like me. I work hard and don’t give them any trouble. Now that you have stopped trying to get yourself killed, they won’t bother us, even if they do notice us.”
Just then, the shorter policeman glanced towards the sidewalk on his right, and then he paused. He waved his companion ahead, then withdrew something from his pocket as he crouched low to the ground. —I was far too far away to hear the words he spoke, but I saw the sadness in his gaze. The Kapo then rose and jogged ahead to catch up with his partner. Dawidek and I continued along the street, but only when we drew near where he had stopped did I realize why.
We had been in the ghetto for almost two years. Conditions were bad to begin with, and every new day seemed to bring new trials. I learned to wear blinders—to block out the public pain and suffering of my fellow prisoners. I had walked every block of the ghetto, both the Little Ghetto with its nicer apartments where the elite and artists appeared to live in relative comport, and through the Big Ghetto, where poor families like my own were crammed in, trying to survive at a much higher density. The footbridge on Chłodna Street connected the two and elevated the Ghetto residents above the “Aryan” Poles, and even the Germans, who passed beneath it. The irony of this never failed to amuse me when I crossed. Sometimes, I crossed it just to cheer myself up.
I knew the Ghetto inside and out, and I noticed every detail, even if I had taught myself to ignore what I saw as much as I could. I learned not to react when an elderly man or woman caught my hand as I passed, clawing in the hopes that I could spare them a morsel of food. I learned not to so much as startle if someone was shot in front of my eyes. And most of all, I learned to never look at the face of any unfortunate soul who was prone on the sidewalk. The only way to survive was to remain alert so I had to see it all, but I also had to learn to look right through it. The only way to manage my own broiling fury was to bury it.
But the policeman had drawn my attention to a scene of utter carnage outside of what used to be a clothing store. The store had long ago run out of stock and had been re-purposed as accommodation for several families. The wide front window was now taped over with Hessian sacks for privacy; outside of that window, on the paved sidewalk, a child was lying on her stomach. Alive, but barely.
The Ghetto was teeming with street children. The orphanages were full to bursting which meant that those who weren’t under the care of relatives or kindly strangers were left to their own devices. I saw abandoned children, but I didn’t see them.
I’d have passed right by this child on any other day. I couldn’t even manage to keep my own family safe and well, so it was better to keep walking and spare myself the pain of powerlessness. But I was curious about what the policeman had given the child, and so even as we approached her, I was scanning—looking to see what had caught his attention and to try to figure out what he’d put down on the ground.
Starvation confused the normal growth and development of children, but even so, I guessed she was two or three. She wore the same vacant expression I saw in most children by that stage. Patches of her hair had fallen out, and her naked stomach and legs were swollen. Someone had taken her clothing except for a tattered pair of underwear, and I understood why.
This child would not be alive by morning. Once they became too weak to beg for help, it didn’t take long, and this child was long past that point. Her dull brown eyes were liquid pools of defeat and agony.
My eyes drifted to her hands. One was lying open and empty on the sidewalk beside her, her palm facing upward, as if opening her hands to God. The other was also open, slumped against the sidewalk on the other side of her, but this palm was not empty. Bread. The policeman had pressed a chunk of bread beneath the child’s hand. I stared at the food and even though it was never going to find its way to my lips, my mouth began to water. I was torturing myself, but it was much easier to look at the bread than at the girl’s dull eyes.
Dawidek stood silently beside me. I thought of my mother, and then crouched beside the little girl.
“Hello,” I said, stiff and awkward. The child did not react. I cast my gaze all over her face, taking it in. The sharp cheekbones. The way her eyes seemed too big for her face. The matted hair. Someone had once brushed this little girl’s hair, and probably pulled it into pretty braids. Someone had once bathed this child, and tucked her into bed at night, bending down to whisper in her ear that she was loved and special and wanted.
Now, her lips were dry and cracked, and blood dried into a dirty black scab in the corner of her mouth. My eyes burned, and it took me a moment to realize that I was struggling to hold back tears.
“You should eat the bread,” I urged softly. Her eyes moved, and then she blinked, but then her eyelids fluttered and fell closed. She drew in a breath, but her whole chest rattled, the sound I knew people made just before they died—when they were far too ill to even cough. A tear rolled down my cheek. I closed my eyes, but now, instead of blackness, I saw the little girl’s face.
This was why I learned to wear blinders, because if you got too close to the suffering, it would burn itself into your soul. This little girl was now a part of me, and her pain was part of mine.
Even so, I knew that she could not eat the bread. The policeman’s gesture had been well-meaning, but it had come far too late. If I didn’t take the bread, the next person who passed would. If my time in the ghetto had taught me anything, it was that life might deliver blessings, but each one would have a sting in its tail. God might deliver us fortune, but never without a cost. I would take the bread, and the child would die overnight. But that wouldn’t be the end of the tragedy. In some ways, it was only the beginning.
I wiped my cheeks roughly with the back of my hand, and then before I could allow my conscience to stop me, I reached down and plucked the bread from under the child’s hand, to swiftly hide it my pocket. Then I stood, and forced myself to not look at her again. Dawidek and I began to walk.
“The little ones should be easier. I don’t have to ask the big kids for help lifting them, and they don’t weigh anything at all. They should be easier, shouldn’t they?” Dawidek said, almost philosophically. He sighed heavily, and then added in a voice thick with confusion and pain. “I’ll be able to lift her by myself tomorrow morning, but that won’t make it easier.”
Fortune gave me a job with one of the few factories in the ghetto that was owned by a kindly Jew, rather than some German businessman only wanting to take advantage of slave labor. But this meant that when the Kapo came looking for me at home, to help collect the bodies from the streets before sunrise each day, the only other viable person in our household was my brother.
When Dawidek was first recruited to this hideous role, I wanted to quit my job so that I could relieve him of it. But corpse-collection was unpaid work and my factory job paid me in food—every single day, I sat down to a hot lunch, which meant other members of my family could share my portion of rations. This girl would die overnight, and by dawn, my little brother would have lifted her into the back of a wagon. He and a team of children and teenagers, under the supervision of the Kapo, would drag the wagon to the cemetery, where they would tip the corpses into a pit with dozens of others.
Rage, black and red and violent in its intensity, clouded the edges of my vision and I felt the thunder of the injustice in my blood. But then Dawidek drew a deep breath, and he leaned forward to catch my gaze. He gave me a smile, a brave smile, one that tilted the axis of my world until I felt it chase the rage away.
I had to maintain control. I couldn’t allow my fury to destroy me, because my family was relying on me. Dawidek was relying on me.
“Mother is going to be so excited to have bread,” he said, his big brown eyes lighting up at the thought of pleasing her. “And that means Eleonora will get better milk tomorrow, won’t she?”
“Yes,” I said, my tone as empty as the words themselves. “This bread is a real blessing.”
Kelly Rimmer is the worldwide, New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of Before I Let You Go, The Things We Cannot Say, and Truths I Never Told You. She lives in rural Australia with her husband, two children and fantastically naughty dogs, Sully and Basil. Her novels have been translated into more than twenty languages. Please visit her at https://www.kellyrimmer.com/
I am very excited to be sharing my Feature Post and Book Review on the Harlequin Trade Publishing May Blog Tour for YOU WILL REMEMBER ME by Hannah Mary McKinnon.
Below you will find an author Q&A, a book summary, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Author Q&A
Describe YOU WILL REMEMBER ME in three words or fewer?
Twisted, dark, surprising.
· How would you describe your latest book in one (or maybe two) killer sentences?
A twisty tale where the fates of three people intertwine: a man who wakes up on a beach but doesn’t know who or where he is. Lily, who’s searching for her boyfriend, Jack, who went missing after going for a swim, and Maya, who’s also looking for someone–her stepbrother, Ash, who abandoned her and his entire life two years prior. But is the man from the beach Jack, Ash, neither…or both?
· What’s “the story behind the story.” The inspiration for YOU WILL REMEMBER ME. Where were you when the spark came to you?
A few years ago, a man from Toronto vanished from a ski hill in Lake Placid while there on vacation and showed up six days later in Sacramento. He had amnesia and couldn’t remember much, including the cross-country trip he’d made as he’d hitchhiked across the US. Everything worked out for the man in the end and he found his way home, but it made me wonder—what could have gone wrong? That was the genesis for YOU WILL REMEMBER ME.
A while later I had a vivid image in my head—a man waking up on a deserted beach without any recollection of who he was, or what he was doing there. I kept coming back to his story, how he’d arrived on that beach, what he’d do, and how much danger he was in. As I noodled the plot around, I wondered what might happen if he found his way home but had no idea he’d actually left the town years before, and unknowingly walked back into the dragon’s den. That was it. I needed to know what happened next, who was looking for him, and if he’d survive.
· What did you have the most fun with, character or plot?
Hmm…both were tricky. Having multiple point-of-view characters (there are three) is always more complex than having one protagonist as you have to develop the character more quickly. I’d also completely underestimated writing a point-of-view character with amnesia. You can’t give them any backstory or memories, nor can you have scene after scene of somebody telling them about their past. YOU WILL REMEMBER ME was a tricky book to write, but it stretched me as an author.
· Did the story end the way you’d initially thought?
I had three endings in mind, and when I pitched the book to my editor, I asked her, “How dark can I go?” She said, “As dark as you want.” And I did J
· Five facts readers don’t know about the book
1. I set the book in Maine because we visited family in New Brunswick and stayed in Portland on our drive there. It’s a beautiful city and I can’t wait to go back. Newdale and Brookmount (the towns in the book) are fictional – I need to be able to take creative liberties.
2. One of the characters finds a library book, Creep by Jennifer Hillier. Creep propelled me to the dark side of writing suspense, and Jenny and I have become great friends. It’s an homage to her work, and her friendship.
3. One of the characters is originally from Portsmouth—so was my lovely mum.
4. While writing this book, I had a conversation about “could you kill someone using a…” with my husband. He still sleeps with one eye open.
5. I mention Meg White from the White Stripes in the book, and I think she’s a phenomenal drummer!
· Do you have a favorite chapter or scene?
Probably the ending because it’s twisted and hopefully unexpected. My books generally don’t tie up with a cherry on top because that’s the kind of book I like to read (except if I’m reading romance, then it HAS to work out or I’m disappointed)!
· Do you have a favorite character?
They were all interesting to write for many different reasons, predominantly because they’re flawed. Maya was probably the most complex, certainly one of the darkest point-of-view characters I’ve ever written. Although Lily is a sunshine girl, she has her secrets, too, which were fun to explore. As for “the man from the beach,” unearthing him was a longer process, and I kept remining myself that because I knew his history, it didn’t mean he could because of the amnesia.
· What do you hope readers will take away from You Will Remember Me?
I hope I manage to surprise readers, and they keep thinking about the book long after they’ve finished the final page. My main goal is to entertain, to provide people a form of escape and to leave readers satisfied thinking, “I enjoyed that. It was time well spent!”
· How did publishing your first book change your process of writing, if at all?
My novels have definitely become darker–in that sense I’m taking more risks because I’m more confident in my ability to pull it off. With each book my process has also become more streamlined, and, six books in, I feel more in control.
Having said that, self-doubt always, always creeps in, particularly when I’m writing my first “skeleton draft,” which is a first, very loose version nobody will ever see. However, I’ve learned to trust my writing process. If I can get the bones of the story on paper, I’ll add layers and complexity as I go over the novel again and again in preparation for my editor’s eyes. I accept the finer details will come as I work through the story. I’ll figure out plot-holes if I allow myself time to work through them. Just like most people who draw, paint, or write music or books, the first draft will never be my best work. I’m glad I’ve accepted that because it stops me from being overly self-critical when I start a project. I also set myself deadlines and work hard to beat them.
· What’s your favorite part about writing/being an author? What do you find challenging?
I love the camaraderie of the writing community, it’s like nothing I’ve experienced elsewhere. Authors, readers, agents, publishers—we all love books and it’s truly wonderful. In terms of writing, I love the initial anticipation of starting a new book where everything is open, and the only limit is my imagination. I also adore when I get to the editing part and think, “Yeah, I believe I’ve got something here” — that’s always such a rush.
· All of your books are filled with many plot twists and turns. How much of the stories have you mapped out in advance, or does your writing style, take, well, twists and turns as you go along?
I love twists and turns, and the more books I write, the more I plot them. Detailed outlines make me more productive and efficient because I know where I’m headed. That doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll end up at the destination I mapped out though. In The Neighbors, for example, the ending changed quite dramatically as I got closer to finishing my first draft. In Her Secret Son, the final chapters were different because I wasn’t happy with whom I’d planned to kill off. Sister Dear’s and You Will Remember Me’s endings are close to how I’d imagined but more sinister. Having said that, as I write, more twists and turns come up, and that’s another fun part of writing, discovering what your characters will do when you let them loose.
I admire authors who don’t plot or outline at all in advance, but jump right in. If I did that, I think I’d spend an awful lot of time meandering about not getting anywhere, and then fret about my deadlines.
· What is your writing process like?
Very structured, and the more I write, the more I plan. My novels start with an idea—something that pops into my head such as the news story for You Will Remember Me, or a radio segment for Sister Dear—maybe a discussion I overheard. I noodle the thoughts around for a while as the main characters take shape. The next step is to write an outline. I start by jotting down the big picture plot points, which I then use as stepping-stones to build and write the rest of the outline. I fill out personality questionnaires for my main characters to understand them better, and search for photos on the internet to build a gallery I stick on my pin-board. By this point I’m raring to go.
At first, I write a basic manuscript that’s a little over two-thirds of the final word count, then layer and develop until I’m happy calling it a first draft, and send it to my wonderful editor, Emily. That’s when the real editing work begins, which is incredibly exciting because I know the story will become a thousand times better with her expert input.
· What kind of research do you do, and how long do you spend researching before beginning a book?
It depends on the novel. For Time After Time (my debut, a rom com) there were geographical considerations, and, as the novel took place from the 1980s to the 2010s, I had to ensure my references to pop culture were accurate. In The Neighbors, Her Secret Son and Sister Dear, and You Will Remember Me (suspense / psychological thrillers) there were similar geographical issues to consider, but I also had to research legal details. I sought the help from an advisor from child services, a lawyer, a medical examiner, and a police detective, to name but a few. For You Will Remember Me I also had phenomenal input from a paramedic and an ER doctor.
I’m continually amazed how people are so incredibly generous with their time, knowledge and expertise when I call and say, “I’m an author, honest, and I have a few weird questions.” For example, fellow author Bruce Robert Coffin is a retired police detective, and he’s helped me get away with fictional murder multiple times. His input is incredible!
I don’t do a lot of research before I start writing but tend to put placeholders for areas that need fleshing out and go back to them after I’ve finished my first draft. That way I’m not spending hours on facts that don’t make the cut, or getting sidetracked by facts which are interesting, but potentially irrelevant to the story.
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Book Summary
He wakes up on a deserted beach in Maryland, wearing only swim trunks and a gash on his head. He can’t remember who he is. Everything—his identity, his life, his loved ones—has been replaced by a dizzying fog of uncertainty. But returning to his Maine hometown in search of the truth raises more questions than answers.
Lily Reid thinks she knows her boyfriend, Jack. Until he goes missing one night, and her frantic search reveals that he’s been lying to her since they met, desperate to escape a dark past he’d purposely left behind.
Maya Scott has been trying to find her estranged stepbrother, Asher, since he disappeared without a trace. Having him back, missing memory and all, feels like a miracle. But with a mutual history full of devastating secrets, how far will Maya go to ensure she alone takes them to the grave?
YOU WILL REMEMBER ME by Hannah Mary McKinnon is a dark and twisted psychological suspense/thriller that kept me turning the pages well into the night. Having read Sister DearI knew I was in for an exciting read, but this book managed to exceed those expectations.
A man wakes up freezing on a beach in Maryland only wearing swim trunks with no memory. The only thing he does remember is a phone number in Maine which leads him to his hometown and more questions than answers.
Lily Reid is frantic when her boyfriend, Jack goes missing. His truck is found on the beach, but there is no body.
Maya Scott has been trying to find her stepbrother, Asher who has been missing for two years. He disappeared without a trace, but he is now back with no memories. Maya is determined to keep Ash and their mutual secrets at home.
WOW! Each time I would believe I have everything figured out, Ms. McKinnon would reveal another twist that would leave me shocked and wondering where else this plot could go and how much darker it would get. The three main characters kept me constantly on my toes as their secrets were revealed which left me on an emotional pendulum. This is a page turner that does not disappoint and I will definitely be thinking about these characters for quite some time.
I highly recommend this psychological suspense/thriller and this author!
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Excerpt
Chapter 1—The Man from the Beach
Cold. Cold was the first word that came to mind. The first thing I noticed when I woke up. Not a slight, uncomfortable chill to give me the shivers, but a cramp-inducing, iced-to-the-bone kind of frozen. I lay flat on my stomach, my left ear and cheek pressed into the rough, grainy wet ground beneath me, my entire body shaking. As my thoughts attempted to assemble themselves into some form of understandable order, a wave of icy water nipped at my bare toes and ankles, my instincts pulling my feet out of reach.
I had a sudden urge to get up, a primal need to take in my surroundings and assess the danger—was I in danger?—but the throbbing pain deep in my head made the slightest effort to shift anything seem impossible. Lifting a finger would be too much effort, and I acquiesced, allowing myself to lie still for another few freezing seconds as the frigid water crept over the balls of my feet again. When I blinked my eyes open, I was met by a thick, fuzzy darkness enveloping me like a cloak. Where the hell was I? And wherever it was, what was I doing here?
When I lifted my head a fraction of an inch, I could barely make out anything in front of me. There was hardly a noise either, nothing but a gentle, steady rumble in the background, and the cry of a bird somewhere in the distance. I made my brain work its way backward—bird, rumble, sand, water—and the quartet formed the vaguely cohesive image of a beach.
Searching for confirmation, I inhaled the salty, humid air deep into my lungs as another slosh of water took aim at my calves. This time the discomfort was enough to push me to my feet, and I wrapped my arms around my naked torso, my sopping board shorts clinging to my goose-bump-covered thighs. An explosion of pain in my head threatened to send me back to my knees, and I swayed gently, wishing I had something to steady myself with, willing my body to stay upright. As I pressed a hand to the side of my skull, I let out a quiet yelp, and felt along a two-inch gash in my scalp. My eyes had adjusted somewhat to the lack of light, and my fingertips were covered in something dark that smelled of rust. Blood. How had I…?
Another low rumble made me turn around, shuffling slowly in a semicircle. The behemoth effort was rewarded by the sight of a thousand glistening waves dancing under the moonlight like diamonds, the water stretching out and disappearing into the darkness beyond. As my ears tuned in to the rhythmic whoosh of the waves, my mind worked hard to process each scrap of information it took in.
I’m definitely on a beach. It’s nighttime. I’m alone. What am I doing here?
Before I could answer the single question, a thousand others crowded my brain, an incessant string of chatter I couldn’t stop or get away from.
Where is everyone? Never mind them, where am I? Have I been here long? How did I get here? Where was I before? Where are my clothes? What day is it?
My legs buckled. Not because of the unfamiliar surroundings, the cold burrowing its way deeper into my core, or the pain in my head, which had increased tenfold. No. My knees hit the sand with a dull crunch when I realized I couldn’t answer any of the questions because I couldn’t recall anything. Nothing. Not the tiniest of details.
Including my name.
Chapter 2—Lily
A frown settled over my face as I put my phone on the table, pushed the bowl of unfinished berry oatmeal away and stretched out my legs. It was Saturday morning, and I’d been up for ages, too eager—too hopeful—to spend a day at the beach with Jack, but those plans had been a literal wash-out. The start to the summer felt capricious, with this second storm in the last week of June poised to be much worse than the first. I’d convinced myself the weatherwoman had exaggerated or got her forecast completely wrong, but clouds had rolled in overnight anyway. As a result, I’d been unceremoniously woken up at two thirty by a trio of bright lightning, deafening thunderclaps and heavy raindrops pelting against my bedroom window.
At first, I’d pulled my pillow over my head to deafen the noise, and when that didn’t work, I rolled over and stretched out an arm. The spot next to me was empty and cold, and I groaned. Jack hadn’t come over to my place as I’d hoped he would, slipping into bed and pressing his naked body against mine. I’d buried my face back into my pillow and tried to ignore the tinge of disappointment. We hadn’t seen much of each other this past week, both of us too busy with our jobs to spend more than a night together, and I missed him. Jack had called the day before to tell me he’d be working late, finishing the stain on the cabinets he’d labored on for weeks before his boss had to let him go. Apparently expensive custom kitchens weren’t in as high demand in Brookmount, Maryland as originally thought.
“But you got laid off,” I’d said. “It’s your last day. Why do you care?”
“Because I made a commitment. Besides, it’ll help when I need a reference.”
Typical Jack, always keeping his word. He’d bought a lottery ticket once, and the clerk had jokingly asked if he’d give him half of any winnings. Jack had laughed and shaken the man’s hand, and when he won ten bucks on the ticket, had promptly returned to the store, and paid over the share as promised. His loyalty was one of the many things I loved about Jack, although part of me wished he weren’t quite as dedicated to his soon-to-be ex-boss.
“You could come over to my place when you’re done,” I said, smiling slowly. “I’ll leave the key under the umbrella stand. I don’t mind you waking me up gently in the middle of the night…or not so gently.”
Jack laughed softly. The sound was something I’d fallen in love with eighteen months ago after our eyes had met across a crowded bar, the mother of all uninspired first-encounter clichés, except in this case I’d been forced to admit clichés weren’t always a bad thing.
“It’ll be really late, Lily,” he said, his voice deep. His English accent was something of a rarity in our small coastal town, and still capable of making my legs wobble in anticipation of his next words. “I’ll go for a quick swim now, then finish up work. How about I come over in the morning? Around nine? I’ll bring you breakfast in bed.”
“Blueberry pancakes from Patti’s? With extra maple syrup?”
“This time I’ll order three stacks to make sure I get some.”
“Pancakes or sex?” I said, before telling him how much I loved him, and whispering exactly how I’d thank him for waking me with sweet weekend treats. I’d hoped it might change his mind and he’d come over earlier, except it was ten now, and he still hadn’t showed. It was odd. Jack detested being late as much as he loved being early. He often joked they set Greenwich Mean Time by his father’s old watch, which Jack had worn since his dad passed a little over a decade before we’d met, when Jack was only twenty.
I checked my phone again. Jack hadn’t answered either of my calls, another anomaly, but I tried to talk myself into believing he’d worked late into the night to make the final good impression he wanted, and overslept. Maybe there was a line at Patti’s—the restaurant was slammed every weekend—and perhaps his phone was set to silent.
I picked up my bowl and wandered to the kitchen. My place was the smallest of six apartments, a tiny but well-maintained one-bedroom in a building a few miles from the beach, farther than I’d planned, but the closest I could afford. I’d lived there for almost five years, had furnished it with an eclectic assortment of third-hand furniture, my favorite piece a royal blue microfiber sofa I’d bought for fifty bucks, and which Jack swore was the most comfortable thing he’d ever sat on. Whenever he sank down into it and pulled me on top of him with a contented sigh, I’d tease him about what made him happier; the squishy, well-worn cushions, or me.
Hannah Mary McKinnon was born in the UK, grew up in Switzerland and moved to Canada in 2010. After a successful career in recruitment, she quit the corporate world in favor of writing, and is now the author of The Neighbors, Her Secret Son, and Sister Dear. She lives in Oakville, Ontario, with her husband and three sons, and is delighted by her twenty-second commute.
Today I am once again posting on the Harlequin Trade Publishing Beach Reads Summer 2021 Blog Tour. I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for TALK BOOKISH TO ME by Kate Bromley.
Below you will find an author Q&A, a book description, my book review, an excerpt from the book and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Author Q&A
Q: Please give the elevator pitch for Talk Bookish to Me.
A: Talk Bookish to Me is a contemporary romantic comedy that follows a bestselling romance novelist with writer’s block who suddenly finds herself inspired when she’s thrown together with her infuriating first love during the week of her best friend’s wedding.
Q: Which came first: the characters or plot line?
A: The characters! I had no idea what I was writing when I first started my manuscript, but I did know that the story was going to be about a quirky romance novelist in NYC who has an unexpected reunion with her college ex-boyfriend that she never forgot.
Q: Why do you love Kara and Ryan and why should readers root for them?
A: I love Kara and Ryan and readers should root for them because they refuse to give up on each other. It would be way easier for both of them to go their separate ways and move on with their lives, but there’s so much chemistry and history and genuine connection between them that no matter what, they just can’t get past it and, deep down, they don’t want to get past it. They also make each other laugh and absolutely light up when they’re together. They challenge each other to grow as people and to become the best versions of themselves, and I think that’s always something worth rooting for.
Q: What was your last 5 star read?
A: Ah, there’s so many! The ones that stick out the most to me at the moment are The Hating Game by Sally Thorne, Simmer Down by Sarah Smith, and The Trouble with Hating You by Sajni Patel.
Q: What is one thing about publishing you wish someone would have told you?
A: That it’s a much longer road than you think. But the good news is, it’s also very much worth it! Once you go from writing your book, to then querying, to then being on submission — there’s a ton of hard work and then a lot of waiting and hoping. And even though the whole process is a very nerve-racking experience, it’s also extremely exciting and you will learn so much about yourself and the publishing industry.
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Book Description
Inspiration can come from the most unlikely—and inconvenient—sources.
Kara Sullivan’s life is full of love—albeit fictional. As a bestselling romance novelist and influential bookstagrammer, she’s fine with getting her happily-ever-after fix between the covers of a book.
But right now? Not only is Kara’s best friend getting married next week—which means big wedding stress—but the deadline for her next novel is looming, and she hasn’t written a single word. The last thing she needs is for her infuriating first love, Ryan Thompson, to suddenly appear in the wedding party. But Ryan’s unexpected arrival sparks a creative awakening in Kara that inspires the steamy historical romance she desperately needs to deliver.
With her wedding duties intensifying, her deadline getting closer by the second and her bills not paying themselves, Kara knows there’s only one way for her to finish her book and to give her characters the ever-after they deserve. But can she embrace the unlikely, ruggedly handsome muse—who pushes every one of her buttons—to save the wedding, her career and, just maybe, write her own happy ending?
TALK BOOKISH TO ME by Kate Bromley is an enjoyable new contemporary rom/com with plenty of romance industry love and a couple that is meant to be, maybe. I was surprised to learn this is the debut novel by this author.
Kara Sullivan is a thirty-year-old bestselling historical romance author who is having a difficult time writing her current romance. With a deadline looming and no inspiration, she is also dealing with being the bride’s maid in her best friend’s wedding. Then the groom shows up with her first true love from college as a groomsman in his party.
Ryan Thompson’s unexpected arrival sparks Kara’s writing. Should she let Ryan, who pushes every one of her buttons back into her life to inspire her romance and just maybe grab a happily ever after for herself this time around?
I loved following Kara’s emotional journey through this rom/com. Her interactions with her family and friends felt believable and the writing flowed through all the ups and downs seamlessly. I enjoyed her defense of the romance industry as she sparred with Ryan. All of their dialogue is witty and realistic. I also enjoyed the inserted portions of the historical romance she was attempting to write.
I write spoiler free reviews, so this next bit is difficult. I was cheering Ryan on until a major plot point. Now, I can say he redeems himself in my opinion in the end because real life is messy and forgiveness is often necessary. I would cry foul in a romance genre book because I hate what he does, but this is a rom/com and does not necessarily follow the same rules.
I enjoyed this debut rom/com, the great characters and will be looking for more from this author.
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Excerpt
One
“Wait, was I supposed to bring a gift?”
I turn my gaze from the floor to the well-dressed man standing beside me. There are only two of us in the elevator, so he must be talking to me.
“I think it’s a matter of personal preference,” I answer. “I’m the maid of honor so I had to be excessive.”
His eyebrows bob up as I adjust my grip on the Great-Dane-sized gift basket I’m carrying. The cellophane wrapping paper crinkles each time I move, echoing through the confined space just loudly enough to keep things weird. Because if everyone isn’t uncomfortable for the entire ride, are you even really in an elevator?
I’m low-key ecstatic when the doors glide open ten seconds later. With my basket now on the cusp of breaking both my arms and my spirit, I beeline it out of there and stride into the rooftop lounge where my best friend is hosting her pre-wedding party, drinking in the scent of heat and champagne as I maneuver through the sea of guests.
Like most maids-of-honor, I flung myself down the Etsy rabbit hole headfirst and ordered an obscene amount of decorations for tonight’s event. Burlap “Mr. & Mrs.” banners dangle from floating shelves behind the bar as twinkle lights weave around the balcony railings like ivy. Lace-trimmed mason jars filled with pink roses sit on every candlelit cocktail table. Cristina and I worked with the tenacity of two matrimonial Spartans to get everything ready this morning, and it’s clear that our blood, sweat and tears were very much worth it.
It’s then that I spot Cristina mingling near the end of the bar. Beautiful, petite and come-hither curvy, I’d hate her if she weren’t one of my favorite people ever. Her caramel hair spills down her back and her white high-low dress sets her apart from the crowd in just the right way—she’s a princess in the forest and we’re her adoring woodland animals. I’m her feisty chipmunk sidekick to my core.
I place my gift on a nearby receiving table and give a little wave when I catch her eye. She’s waiting for me with a huge grin when I arrive at her side.
“Hey, lady!” she says, pulling me in for a hug. “Look at you, rolling in here looking all gorgeous.”
We step apart and I stand up a bit taller. “Why, thank you. I feel pretty good.”
It’s also very possible that Cristina is just so used to me dazzling the world with yoga pants and sweaters every day that my transformation seems more dramatic than it is.
“Were you able to get any writing done this afternoon?” she asks, handing me a glass of champagne from off the mahogany bar top.
I get a twisting knot in my gut at the mention of my writing, or lack thereof. Having been dying a slow literary death for almost a year, I’m never without some stomach-turning sensation for long. The final deadline for my next romance
novel is officially a month away and if I don’t deliver a bestseller by then—
“Okay, you’re making your freak-out face,” Cristina interjects. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
I inhale a shallow breath and force a smile. “It’s fine. I’m good.”
“Let’s switch gears—are you sure it’s not weird that I’m having a pre-wedding party? Was booking the salsa band too much since I’m having one at the wedding, too?”
Beyond grateful for the booming trumpet and bongos that are drowning out my own thoughts, I turn to the corner and find the ten-piece group playing with addictive abandon. Cristina’s relatives, who are essentially non-trained professional salsa dancers, dominate the dance floor, and rightfully so. Cristina’s brother, Edgar, once tried to teach me the basics but I’m fairly confident I looked like a plank of wood that was given the gift of limbs. Cristina recommended dance lessons. Edgar suggested a bottle of aguardiente and prayer.
“The band is amazing,” I say as I swing back around, “and of course people have pre-wedding parties.” I’ve actually never heard of a pre-wedding party. An engagement party, yes. A bachelorette party, absolutely. But what’s going down tonight is basically a casual reception days before the mega-reception.
“Jason and I just have so many people coming in from out of town, plus we wanted the bridal party to get acquainted. We figured a little get-together would be fun.”
“I’m all for it. Who doesn’t want to pre-game for a wedding a week in advance?”
“I know I do,” Cristina says, lifting her own champagne and taking a sip. “Everyone is here except Jason and some groomsmen. Can you believe that creep is late to his own party?”
“Should you really be calling your fiancé a creep?”
“He’s my creep so it’s okay.”
“Valid point.”
“Picture please! Will you girls get together?”
I look to my right and find a teenage boy with wildly curly hair pointing a camera at us. He’s dressed in all black and looks so eager to take our photo that I can’t help but to find him endearing.
“Absolutely! Big smile, Kara.” Cristina throws her arm around my waist and after we withstand an intense flash, the young man is gone before my eyes can readjust. “That was Jason’s cousin, Rob. He wants to be a photographer, so I hired him for the night.”
“That was thoughtful of you,” I say, still recovering from my momentary blindness. “By the way, where is Jason?”
“He’s still at home. Two of his groomsmen are driving up and he wanted to wait for them since, apparently, grown men can’t find their way to a party by themselves.”
“Driving in Manhattan is intimidating. He probably didn’t want them to get lost.”
“Right, because neither of them has GPS? Jason should be here.”
I’m honestly shocked that Jason isn’t here. I love Cristina and Jason both to death but they’re one of those couples that rarely go out socially without each other. Even when I invite Cristina over to my apartment for a wine night, she asks to bring Jason. I’ve always thought it was a bit much, but I guess it works for them.
“Okay, forget everyone else, let’s toast.” I clear my throat and hold up my champagne. “When we were both waitressing at McMahon’s Pub in grad school, I had no idea it would lead to nine amazing years of friendship. Now I’d be lost without you. Here’s to you having a magical night. I’m so glad I’m here to celebrate with you.”
We smile and tap our glasses together, the ding of the crystal echoing my words.
I take a sip and the bubbly drink slips easily down my throat. Still savoring the sweetness, I ask, “So, who are these mystery groomsmen Jason’s waiting for?”
“One is named Beau and I can’t remember the other one. They’re two guys he grew up with when his family lived in North Carolina.”
“North Carolina? I thought Jason was from Texas?”
“He spent most of his life in Texas, but he lived in North Carolina until he was ten. He somehow kept in contact with these two through the years.”
“That’s nice, him staying friends with them for so long.”
“Yeah, it’s adorable, but they still should have gotten their asses here on their own.” Cristina is poised to elaborate when her gaze locks on something across the room. She tries and fails to look annoyed instead of excited.
“I’m guessing the groom has arrived,” I say, glancing over my shoulder. My suspicions are confirmed as I see Jason making his way toward us, smiling at Cristina like a fifth grader saying “cheese” on picture day. He’s tilting his head and everything.
“There she is! There’s my incredibly forgiving future wife.” Jason leans down and kisses Cristina before she can verbally obliterate him. He gives me a quick kiss on the cheek next and then shifts back to his fiancée’s side, sneaking an arm around her waist and pulling her to his hip.
“So, I’m going to go ahead and disregard all the semi-violent text messages you’ve sent me over the past hour. Bearing that in mind, how’s everything going?”
Cristina looks up at him, feigning disinterest. “It’s going great. Since you weren’t here, I talked to several nice men. Turns out, pre-wedding parties are a great place to meet guys.”
“I’m so happy for you.”
“I appreciate that. Four contenders, specifically, really piqued my interest.”
“Are they taller than me?” Jason asks. “Do they make a lot of money?”
“Obviously. They’re way taller and all of them are independently wealthy.”
“Nice. Kara, did you meet these freakishly tall and rich men?”
“I did and spoiler alert, I’m engaged now, too! Double wedding here we come!”
Jason smiles and pulls Cristina in even closer, his gaze holding hers. “I guess this is where being late gets you. I’m sorry I wasn’t here. Do you forgive me?”
“Don’t I always?”
He leans down and gives her another picture-perfect kiss.
It’s official. I’m dying alone. Just putting that out there.
“Now, where are these friends of yours? Oh! Let’s set one of them up with Kara!” Cristina looks at me with a dangerous matchmaker gleam in her eyes.
“Actually, I already mentioned Kara, and one of my buddies said he went to college with her.”
Went to college with me?
Jason looks towards the entrance and waves. “Hey, Ryan! Come over here!”
And then I go catatonic. I can’t move. I stand stock still, looking at Cristina like she sprouted a third arm out of her forehead and it’s giving me the middle finger.
Someone walks past me and a soft breeze ghosts across my overheating skin. I stare in a state of utter disbelief as Ryan Thompson steps into view beside Jason.
“It’s been a while, Sullivan,” he says, his voice as steady and tempting as ever.
My champagne glass falls from my fingers and shatters against the floor.
“Kara?” Cristina’s voice rings with concern as she nudges us away from the broken glass that’s now littered around our feet. She grasps my elbow, but I don’t feel it. She could backhand me across the face with a polo mallet and I wouldn’t feel it. My mind is spiraling, plummeting inwards as I come to grips with the realization that Ryan is standing two feet away from me.
Dressed in a navy suit, a crisp white button-down and brown dress shoes, he’s come a long way from the sweatshirts and jeans that were his unofficial uniform in college. His dirty-blond hair is on the shorter side, but a few wayward strands still fall across his forehead. Ten years ago, I would have reached up and brushed them aside without a thought. Now, my hand curls into a tight, unforgiving fist at my side.
If we were another former couple, seeing each other for the first time in a decade might be a dreamy, serendipitous meet-cute—a Nancy Meyers movie in pre-production. We’d have a few drinks and spend hours reminiscing about old times before picking up right where we left off. It would be comfortable and familiar as anything, like a sip of hot chocolate at Christmas with Nat King Cole crooning on vinyl in the background.
But we are not that kind of former couple, and I’m convinced that if Nat King Cole were here and knew my side of the story, he would grab Ryan by the scruff of his shirt and hold him steady as I roundhouse-kicked him in the throat.
It’s a tough pill to swallow but Ryan looks good. Like, really good. His face is harder than it was when he was twenty-one and the stubble on his chin tells me he hasn’t shaved in a few days, making him seem like he just rolled out of bed. And not rolled out of bed in a dirty way, but in a “I just rolled out of bed and yet I still look ruggedly handsome and you fully want to make out with me” kind of way.
The bastard.
“Ryan,” Cristina says, always the first to jump in, “Jason mentioned that you and Kara went to college together.”
“We did.” His eyes don’t move from mine for even a second. “It’s got to be what, ten years now?”
“Yeah, it’s been a long, long time,” I say quickly, turning to face Cristina. “I think I may have mentioned him before. Remember my friend from North Carolina?”
If someone were to look up “my friend from North Carolina” in the Dictionary of Kara, they would find the following:
My friend from North Carolina (noun): 1. Ryan Thompson. 2. My college boyfriend. 3. My first real boyfriend ever. 4. My first love. 5. Taker of my virginity. 6. Guy who massacred my heart with a rusty sledgehammer and fed the remains to rabid, ravenous dogs.
Cristina is well versed in the dictionary of Kara and recognition washes over her. “No way,” she says, her voice dropping.
“Yes way,” I answer happily, overcompensating.
Now’s it’s Cristina’s turn to panic. “Wow. Okay, wow, what a small world, huh?” She grabs Jason’s hand in an iron grip, making him wince as she blasts an over-the-top smile. “Well, we should give you guys a chance to catch up. My abuelita just got here so Jason and I are going to say hello.”
“Your abuelita died two years ago,” I hiss.
“I know, it’s a miracle. See you two later!” She drags her soon-to-be husband away before he can get a word out.
I watch them go, sailing away like the last lifeboat as I stand on deck with the string quartet, the cheerful Bach melody only further confirming that this ship is going down.
KATE BROMLEY lives in New York City with her husband, son, and her somewhat excessive collection of romance novels (It’s not hoarding if it’s books, right?). She was a preschool teacher for seven years and is now focusing full-time on combining her two great passions – writing swoon-worthy love stories and making people laugh. Talk Bookish to Me is her first novel.
Today I am sharing my last blog post on the Harlequin Trade Publishing Winter 2021 Mystery & Thriller Blog Tour. My Feature Post and Book Review is for a new thriller – JUST GET HOME by Bridget Foley. This is a unique suspense/thriller by a new-to-me author that I could not put down!
Below you will find an author Q&A, a book summary, my book review, an excerpt from the book and the author’s bio and social media links. Enjoy!
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Author Q&A
Q: How much research do you do before beginning to write a book? Do you go to locations, ride with police, go to see an autopsy, etc.
A:It depends on the story – research is one of my favorite parts of writing! For JUST GET HOME, I’d lived in Los Angeles for over a decade so I was pretty familiar with the locations… but I needed to do a lot of research into the foster care system as well as first hand accounts of earthquakes.
Q: What hobbies do you enjoy?
A: Weightlifting, Walking and Water coloring — probably because they’re all things I can do while listening to audio books!
Q: Do you write under one name for all books across genres or do you have other AKA’s?
A: Just the one name.
Q: Do you have pets?
A: My dear sweet dog passed away at the age of 14 at the end of 2019. I was advised to wait a month for every year we had her before getting a new companion. It’s odd, because while I missed her I didn’t long for another pet at all for that time… and then suddenly after 14 months I went dog crazy. It got to the point where I was slowing the car down to tell people walking their dogs how cute and fluffy their pups were. My children were mortified. So, no, we don’t have a new pup yet, but I feel sure it will happen soon.
Q: What’s your favorite part of writing suspense?
A: I’m an outliner, which I prefer because it means I get to use an entirely different part of my brain once I get to the drafting process. Since by then the heavy lifting of plot is done, I can fully immerse myself in the experience of the characters – which means I spend a lot of time holding my breath and sweating in my writing chair.
Q: Do you prefer reading and/or writing suspense with elements of romance? Why or why not?
A: I adore a good love story… but I haven’t cracked my version of one yet. My first novel HUGO & ROSE was a subversion of the ‘man of your dreams’ trope, so I suppose there were elements of romance in the book but not in the expected ways. JUST GET HOME is filled with desperate, aching love, but none of it is the romantic kind.
Q: From the books you’ve written or read, who has been your favorite villain and why?
A: I’ve found in life that most people are their own villains. There is usually no shadowy figure pulling the strings or arch enemy subverting plans – for many of us, when our lives go awry, we ourselves are personally responsible for whatever choices that led us there. Obviously that’s not always the case in life or in fiction, but as a writer I’m most creatively interested in characters who are grappling with their internal villains rather than an externalized source. So I suppose the answer is that my favorite villains are also my favorite heroes.
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Book Summary
When the Big One earthquake hits LA, a single mother and a teen in the foster system are brought together by their circumstances and an act of violence in order to survive the wrecked streets of the city, working together to just get home.
Dessa, a single mom, is enjoying a rare night out when a devastating earthquake strikes. Roads and overpasses crumble, cell towers are out everywhere, and now she must cross the ruined city to get back to her three-year-old daughter, not even knowing whether she’s dead or alive. Danger in the streets escalates, as looting and lawlessness erupts. When she witnesses a moment of violence but isn’t able to intervene, it nearly puts Dessa over the edge.
Fate throws Dessa a curveball when the victim of the crime—a smart-talking 15-year-old foster kid named Beegie—shows up again in the role of savior, linking the pair together. Beegie is a troubled teen with a relentless sense of humor and resilient spirit that enables them both to survive. Both women learn to rely on each other in ways they never imagined possible, to permit vulnerability and embrace the truth of their own lives.
A propulsive page-turner grounded by unforgettable characters and a deep emotional core, JUST GET HOME will strike a chord with mainstream thriller readers for its legitimately heart-pounding action scenes, and with book club audiences looking for weighty, challenging content.
JUST GET HOME by Bridget Foley is a completely engrossing and unique suspense/thriller by a new-to-me author that I could not put down! Starting with “The Big One”, this story brings together two disparate characters who are trying to survive the lawlessness, chaos and devastation to just get home.
Dessa is enjoying a rare night out with her best friend and fellow bridesmaids. When her babysitter calls to let her know her three-year-old daughter is sick, she immediately leaves for home. Before she can get to her car, the earthquake hits. With all communication down, Dessa races to get home not knowing if her daughter is dead or alive.
Fifteen-year-old Beegie is riding a city bus to escape an unhappy foster home until morning when the earthquake hits. She has had terrible experiences in foster care and awakens to being pulled from the bus by two men. All she wants is to get to her foster home and hide.
Dessa and Beegie are thrown together on the desperate city streets and form a fragile partnership to help each other to just get home.
You will need to put time aside to read this book because once you start, you are not going to be able to stop. Ms. Foley has written two protagonists that come to life on the page. Completely realistic, and at times disturbing characters, situations and an emotional rollercoaster takes you from page one to the end. Ms. Foley does not shy away from the dark issue of rape during this lawlessness, an uncaring foster system and racial issues. None of this is handled salaciously, but with a realistic outrage against the perpetrators and empathy for the victims.
I highly recommend these unforgettable protagonists and this emotionally well written story!
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Excerpt
Prologue
Assist the client in gathering possessions.
Beegie saw it written on a sheet Karen had in her folder. An unticked box next to it.
She knew what it meant. Stuff.
But it was the other meaning that soothed her.
The darker meaning. Possessions.
That was the one she worked over and over in her head.
Beegie imagined her case worker holding up a grey little girl, face obscured by black hair and asking, “This one yours?” Beegie would nod. Yes, that’s my monster. Together they would shove one snarling, demon-filled person after another into the garbage bags they had been given to pack her things. Soon the bags would fill, growing translucent with strain. When they were done, she and Karen would have to push down on the snapping, bloody faces of Beegie’s possessions so they could close the back of the Prius.
But Karen’s box remained unticked. She didn’t get to help collect Beegie’s possessions, real or unreal, because Beegie’s stuff was already on the street when she got home.
Two garbarge bags filled with nothing special. Her advocate standing next to them with her folder and its helpful advice for what to do when a foster gets kicked out of her home.
Nothing special.
Just almost everything Beegie owned in the world.
Almost but not all.
Whatever.
After Karen dropped her off and Barb had shown her “Her New Home” and given her the rundown on “The Way It Works Here,” Beegie unpacked her possessions into a bureau that the girl who’d lived there before her had made empty, but not clean.
The bottoms of the drawers were covered in spilled glitter. Pink and gold. Beegie had pressed the tips of her fingers into the wood to pull it up, making disco balls of her hands.
But she failed to get it all.
Months later, she would find stray squares of this other girl’s glitter on her clothes. They would catch the light, drawing her back to the moment when she’d finally given up on getting the bureau any cleaner and started to unpack the garbage bags.
There had been things missing.
That Beegie had expected.
But what she had not expected was to find two other neatly folded garbage bags. These were the ones she had used to move her stuff from Janelle’s to the Greely’s. She had kept them, even though back then Mrs. Greely was all smiles and Eric seemed nice, and even Rooster would let her pet him.
Beegie had kept the bags because she’d been around long enough to know that sometimes it doesn’t work out.
In fact, most times it doesn’t work out.
And you need a bag to put your stuff in and you don’t want to have to ask the person who doesn’t want you to live with them anymore to give you one.
But when Mrs. Greely had gathered Beegie’s possessions, shehad seen those bags and thought that they were important to Beegie. It made sense to her former foster mother that a “garbage girl” would treasure a garbage bag.
This got Beegie thinking about stuff. The problem of it. The need for things to hold your other things. Things to fix your things. Things to make your things play.
And a place to keep it all.
In Beegie’s brain the problem of possessions multiplied, until she imagined it like a landfill. Things to hold things to hold things, all of it covered with flies, seagulls swooping.
Everything she ever owned was trash or one day would be.
Seeing things this way helped. It made her mind less about the things that hadn’t been in the bag… and other things.
Beegie picked at ownership like a scab, working her way around the edges, flaking it off a bit at a time. Ridding herself of the brown crust of caring.
Because if you care about something it has power over you.
Caring can give someone else the ability to control you and the only real way to own yourself was let go.
So she did.
Or she tried.
Some things Beegie couldn’t quite shed. The wantof them stuck to her like the glitter. The pain of their loss catching the light on her sleeves, flashing from the hem of her jeans. The want would wait on her body until it attracted her attention and then eluded the grasping edges of her fingers.
Originally from Colorado, Bridget Foley attended NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts and UCLA’s School of Theater, Film & Television. She worked as an actor and screenwriter before becoming a novelist. She now lives a fiercely creative life with her family in Boise, Idaho.
Today I am once again on the Harlequin Trade Publishing Winter 2021 Women’s Fiction Blog Tour. I am sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for THE BOOKSTORE ON THE BEACH by Brenda Novak.
Below you will find an author Q&A, an about the book section, my book review, an about the author section and the author’s social media links. Enjoy!
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Author Q&A
Q: Did you go to the library when you were in elementary school? If so, do you remember any of your favorite books or series from childhood?
A: The library in elementary school was where I developed my love of reading. I remember hating to read in the beginning, but once my teacher took us to the library and let us choose any book we wanted, I happened upon a shelf of classics. I picked up JANE EYRE and absolutely devoured it. Then I went back and got THE SECRET GARDEN and moved through that entire shelf within weeks. I remember thinking, “So this is reading!” And I’ve loved it ever since.
Q: What hobbies do you enjoy?
A: I love to play pickleball. My oldest son introduced me to the game and gave me a racquet for Mother’s Day, and I’ve been playing ever since. It’s such a fun/addictive thing to do. I also spend a lot of time with my two grandchildren. They’re not quite a hobby, of course, but if I’m not working that’s where I spend most of my time.
Q: What is your favorite food/dessert/cuisine?
A: I love Mexican food, and I’m fortunate to live in California, where it’s easy to find really great tacos. There are some smoked tri-tip tacos at a little delicatessen my husband discovered that are to die for. They only serve them three days a week, though, so we have to plan out our trips.
Q: Where would you choose to go on holiday if time and money were not of consideration?
A: Two years ago, I would’ve said Egypt, but I was able to go there the year before the pandemic started, and I absolutely loved it. I’ve always been fascinated by their antiquities. They have an absolute embarrassment of riches when it comes to relics from two thousand or more years ago. Now I would have to say India. I don’t yet know a lot about that, but it seems so exotic and wonderful to me–and I love the food. India is definitely on my bucket list!
Q: Is there a book you would like to write that would require in person research that would take you to a foreign country and if so, where would you be heading to do research?
A: Because I write women’s fiction, I would have to say France, Italy, Ireland or Scotland. I started my career writing English historicals, so I actually have traveled to a foreign country for research. (OF NOBLE BIRTH, HONOR BOUND, THROUGH THE SMOKE & A MATTER OF GRAVE CONCERN)
Q: Is there a genre that you have not written in that you might like to try some day?
A: I would love to write a long historical saga. I actually have one brewing in my mind, so…who knows? Maybe one day I’ll get around to writing it.
Q: Do you write under other pen names?
A: No. It’s hard enough to promote one name! LOL
Q: Do you have pets or animals you would like to have as pets?
A: I raised five kids, so I’m taking a break from being responsible for other people–even animals. But I have a grand-dog–a Chow Chow named Simba, and he’s so fluffy and mild tempered. It’s the same as having grandbabies. I get all the fun without the hard work! Ha!
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About the Book
For fans of Elin Hilderbrand and Mary Kay Andrews, comes New York Times bestselling author Brenda Novak’s newest standalone work of women’s fiction, a big, sweeping novel about family and the ties that bind and challenge us. In this novel, three generations of women from the same family share a house and work together at a bookstore in Colonial Beach over the course of a summer.
How do you start a new chapter when you haven’t closed the book on the last one?
Eighteen months ago, Autumn Divac’s husband went missing. Her desperate search has yielded no answers—she still has no idea where he went or why. After being happily married for twenty years, she can’t imagine moving forward without him, but for the sake of their two teenage children, she has to try.
Autumn takes her kids home for the summer to the charming beachside town where she was raised. She seeks comfort by working alongside her mother and aunt at their quaint bookshop, only to learn that her daughter is facing a life change neither of them saw coming and her mother has been hiding a terrible secret for years. And when she runs into Quinn Vanderbilt—the boy who stole her heart in high school—old feelings start to bubble up again. Is she free to love him, or should she hold out hope for her husband’s return? She can only trust her heart…and hope it won’t lead her astray.
THE BOOKSTORE ON THE BEACH by Brenda Novak is a women’s fiction story featuring three generations of women in one family. Each woman is facing emotional secrets and decisions which can break apart a family as well as heal it with understanding and forgiveness. This is a standalone read.
I am very torn about how I feel about this book. I love the setting and I love any book centered around a bookstore. The three women all have stories that would individually be emotionally devastating to themselves and their family and all the stories pull you in, but that is also what I did not like. It was too much drama for one family. The individual plotlines of the three women would have been enough to carry the story on their own. Also, it takes a while to get forward momentum on the problems and I was getting frustrated waiting for some sort of action.
The ending is bittersweet and I am not sure how I feel about it. I usually do not need an epilogue, but in this book, I do wish that there was one added.
This book is a lot of drama and for me a little too much in one story. It will appeal to those that like a lot of drama in their women’s fiction. I enjoy this author’s work, but this one is not my favorite.
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About the Author
Brenda Novak, a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, has penned over sixty novels. She is a five-time nominee for the RITA Award and has won the National Reader’s Choice, the Bookseller’s Best, the Bookbuyer’s Best, and many other awards. She also runs Brenda Novak for the Cure, a charity to raise money for diabetes research (her youngest son has this disease). To date, she’s raised $2.5 million. For more about Brenda, please visit www.brendanovak.com.
