Today is my turn to share my Feature Post and Book Review on the Partners In Crime Virtual Book Tour for Carrie Stuart Parks new release – RELATIVE SILENCE. This book pulled me in right from the start and is very difficult to put down.
Below you will find a note from the author, a book synopsis, my book review, an excerpt from the book, the author’s bio and social media links and a Rafflecopter giveway. As always, good luck on the giveaway and enjoy!
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A Note From the Author
Drawing on the Art of Forensics
-Carrie Stuart Parks
When I first started writing fiction, in 2004, it never occurred to me to pen anything other than the career I was already in—forensic art. Although other authors had explored different aspects of this unique field, most notably Iris Johansen’s Eve Duncan series, I knew about it first hand. By definition, forensic art is any art used in law enforcement or legal proceedings. My entrance into this career came in 1981 at the North Idaho Regional Crime Lab in Coeur d’Alene. The crime lab handled physical evidence from the ten northern counties of Idaho, the Department of Fish and Game, ATF, and the FBI. My initial duties were to prepare the court exhibits for trial, measure and diagram crime scenes, and create storyboards for juries. In 1985, I was invited to attend the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia, to study composite drawing and image enhancements. In those days, image enhancements meant painting or airbrushing inks or dyes onto photographs. Photoshop wouldn’t be released for another seven years!
I was bitten with the forensic art bug and searched all over for more training. I finally located a class on facial reconstruction taught by Betty Pat Gatliff at the University of South Alabama’s school of Forensic Science. After that I was on my own, finding other artists in the field and studying directly with them.
It was the lack of training in the field and requests from officers to learn about forensic art that made me decide to become a trainer of the subject in 1988. It’s now been over thirty-three years and, with my artist/forensic artist husband, we travel across the US and Canada as the premier courses in the world. What a ride!
Along the way, the cases we’ve worked have provided a rich source of inspiration for my plots. Relative Silence, the latest novel, introduces the reader to age progression when a young mother asks a forensic artist to show her what her long-deceased daughter would look like today. The location, a fictional island off South Carolina’s shore, was chosen because we teach classes in Mount Pleasant, SC, and love the area.
I love hearing from folks about my work and books and invite you to contact me through any of the below methods.
A powerful family with lots of secrets. A forensic artist with his own tragedies. And a hurricane drawing bearing down on their private island.
Fifteen years ago Piper Boone’s only child died in a boating accident, and Piper’s almost perfect life came to an end too. After living through a divorce and losing her job, she retreats to Curlew Island and her childhood home—a secluded mansion for the politically powerful Boone family, who are practically American royalty.
But Piper’s desire to become a recluse is shattered when a mass shooter opens fire and kills three women at a café where Piper is having lunch. The crisis puts her family in the spotlight by dredging up rumors of the so-called Curlew Island Curse, which whispers say has taken the lives of several members of the Boone family, including Piper’s father and sister.
Forensic artist Tucker Landry also survives the shooting and is tasked with the job of sketching a portrait of the shooter with Piper. They forge a bond over their shared love of movies and tragic pasts. But when police discover a connection between the shooting and two more murders on Curlew Island, they face a more terrible lineup of suspects than they could have imagined: Piper’s family.
Unraveling the family’s true history will be the key to Piper’s survival—or her certain death.
Book Details
Genre: Suspense Published by: Thomas Nelson Publication Date: July 14th 2020 Number of Pages: 336 ISBN: 0785226184 (ISBN13: 9780785226185) Purchase Links:Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Goodreads
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My Book Review
RATING: 5 out of 5 Stars
RELATIVE SILENCE by Carrie Stuart Parks is a mystery/Christian romantic suspense mash-up that pulls you in from the first page and is extremely difficult to put down. A powerful family that has known several tragic events over the years with the heroine from that family who finally decides to investigate those tragedies after she becomes a target.
Sandpiper “Piper” Boone has been told all her life she comes from the perfect family and tries to live up to that standard. When her young daughter is found dead, her marriage falls apart and she becomes a recluse on the family island compound.
Fifteen years later, forensic artist Tucker Landry is having lunch while waiting to begin his new assignment. A shooter opens fire and Tucker grabs the woman behind him and hits the patio floor. While Piper only receives a small injury, Tucker is shot protecting her as three other women are also killed. When the detective learns of Tucker’s skills, he asks Tucker and Piper to get together to produce a sketch of the shooter.
The authorities believe there is a connection between the shooting and two other murders that occur soon after. Piper and Tucker are in a race to find out who wants to kill Piper to hide long buried family secrets and a hurricane that threatens everyone.
This is a story that ticks off everything I am looking for in these genres; a mystery that keeps me guessing, action, unexpected twists, edge-of-your-seat suspense and a hero and heroine that are realistic and make me cheer for their relationship to have a HEA. Piper and Tucker are wonderful characters that have had terrible pasts that must be overcome as they struggle with the current race to reveal a murderer. I like that the injuries they received throughout the story were believable and they could overcome them or work around them without becoming fantastical super humans. Even with the small number of suspects, I was kept guessing and I always like when that happens. The religious beliefs and faith of the characters was not gratuitous or in your face.
This book is a compelling generational family mystery with a believable romantic suspense. I can highly recommend this story!
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Excerpt
Prologue
Curlew Island, South Carolina
Fifteen years ago
The piercing scream ripped up my spine. I dropped the spatula and spun.
My almost-three-year-old daughter, Dove, stood at the door to the kitchen and held out her favorite toy, a tattered stuffed bunny she’d named Piggy. Piggy’s ear was hanging by a thread with stuffing protruding from the opening.
“Mommy,” she sobbed. “P-P-Piggy’s hurt.”
I turned off the blender. I’d told Mildred, the housekeeper, I was going to make dessert and was elbow-deep in half-whipped meringue for the banana pudding now cooling next to me.
“Come here, Dove, and let Mommy see.”
Still crying, Dove launched herself at me.
I lifted her and checked my watch. No one was at the family’s Curlew Island home at the moment except my husband, Ashlee. He’d said he would look after Dove while I did some cooking. Yet here she was with a damaged toy and in need of comfort, while he, as usual, was absent.
“Sweetheart, Mommy will have to fix Piggy in a little bit. Where’s Daddy?”
She shook her head. Her sobbing settled into hiccups and loud sniffles.
Shifting her to my hip, I caught sight of movement in the foyer. “Ashlee?”
The front door clicked shut.
Still holding Dove, I charged through the house and opened the front door. Ashlee was just climbing into a golf cart, the only transportation on the island. “Just where did you think you were going? You’re supposed to be watching Dove.”
“Don’t give me a hard time, Piper.” His face was pale with beads of sweat on his forehead. “I have an errand to run on the mainland. Mildred can watch Dove.”
“Mildred’s getting groceries and I’m cooking. Take Dove with you. You don’t spend nearly enough time with your only child.”
“Look, Piper, this is important and I don’t—”
“So’s your daughter. Or maybe we should all go to the mainland together if something is that important. Better yet, you finish dessert and I’ll get to play with Dove.” I was heartily tired of Ashlee’s constant racing off to “something important.” His work as head of marketing at the family business, Boone Industries, was stressful and kept him busy, but this was getting ridiculous.
He took out a handkerchief and swabbed his sweaty brow. “N-no. I’ll take her.”
Dove had relaxed against my shoulder. “She’s overdue for her nap, and the boat always puts her fast asleep. Just be sure to put her life jacket on. There are snacks on the boat if she gets hungry.”
Ashlee opened his mouth, then shut it. A vein pounded in his forehead.
“Dove, sweetie,” I said. “Go for a boat ride with your daddy. I’ll take care of Piggy, okay?”
She nodded under my chin and allowed me to hand her over to Ashlee.
“Will you be long?”
“As long as I need to be.” Without another word he got into the cart and drove toward the dock.
The late October day was pleasantly warm, and although Dove wore a white T-shirt and short skirt, she could always crawl under a blanket in the saloon if the boat ride was too cool.
I took poor Piggy back into the kitchen and placed her on the end of the counter, hoping the meringue was salvageable. I topped the banana pudding, stuck the dessert into the oven, set the timer, and moved to Dove’s room to change the sheets. Finishing just as the pudding was ready, I placed it on the counter to cool.
After washing the dishes and cleaning the kitchen, I still had laundry to do. How could I be washing more clothes than we’d packed?
Once a year the entire family would gather on the private island for a stockholders’ meeting and retreat, joining the year-round staff. I’d like to say that seeing my family together in this beautiful paradise was a special treat. Unfortunately, I was closer to the housekeeper than to my own mother. At least the beach was sandy, the ocean refreshing, and the house spectacular and spacious. Dove, of course, was perfect. And Ashlee? Back to the laundry.
After shifting a load from the washer to the dryer, I made my way past the workout and sewing room toward the kitchen. Could a rabbit ear be repaired on a sewing machine? Ha! I didn’t even know how to thread a bobbin. I found Mildred in the kitchen, checking a store receipt. “I didn’t know you’d returned. Do you need help with the groceries?”
“Already done.”
“Then I timed my offer perfectly. Do you know how to thread a bobbin?”
“Have you been out in the sun too long?”
“It’s a rabbit-ear question.”
“Next time wear a hat.”
I grinned at the older woman. “To thread a bobbin?”
“You are the oddest child,” she muttered, then nodded at my banana pudding. “But you do make the most beautiful desserts.” We busied ourselves preparing dinner. The stockholders’ meeting was tomorrow, and the remaining members of the family would arrive tonight.
“Strange,” Mildred said after the pot roast had been placed in the oven.
“What?”
“I’d have thought everyone would be here by now.”
I glanced at my watch. Ashlee and Dove had been gone for five hours. Dove would be starving. “I’m sure—”
The phone rang.
“That’s probably them now.” I picked up the receiver. “Boone residence.”
“Piper!” It was my older brother, Tern. “Oh, Piper, I’m . . . I’m at the hospital. It’s Ashlee.”
I squeezed the receiver tighter. “What’s going on? Is Dove okay?”
Tern groaned.
I reached for Mildred. She took my hand, then put her arm around me to keep my knees from buckling. “Tern? Tern!”
Tern didn’t answer. A male voice took over. “Mrs. Piper Yates? This is Officer Stan Gragg of the Marion Inlet Police. There’s been an incident involving your husband. He was attacked on the dock and your family’s yacht was stolen. He’ll be fine, but we’re having the doctor check him out—”
“What about my daughter, Dove?” I tried to keep my voice under control, but the words came out shrill.
“We believe she was still on the boat. I’m afraid she’s missing.”
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Author Bio
Carrie Stuart Parks is Christy, Carol, and Inspy award-winning author, an award-winning fine artist, and internationally known forensic artist. Along with her husband, Rick, she travels across the US and Canada teaching courses in forensic art to law enforcement as well as civilian participants. She has won numerous awards for career excellence. Carrie is a popular platform speaker, presenting a variety of topics from crime to creativity.
I am very excited to be sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for Ciara Geraghty’s new book – RULES OF THE ROAD. I absolutely loved this thought provoking book of friendship, family and love! (Please Be Advised: The story does contain an assisted suicide.)
Below you will find a book description, my book review, an about the author section and the author’s social media links.
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Book Description
The simple fact of the matter is that Iris loves life. Maybe she’s forgotten that. Sometimes that happens, doesn’t it? To the best of us? All I have to do is remind her of that one simple fact.
When Iris Armstrong goes missing, her best friend Terry, wife, mother and all-round worrier, is convinced something bad has happened.
And when she finds her glamorous, feisty friend, she’s right: Iris is setting out on a journey that she plans to make her last.
The only way for Terry to stop Iris is to join her, on a road trip that will take her, Iris and Terry’s confused father Eugene onto a ferry, across the Irish sea and into an adventure that will change all of their lives.
Somehow what should be the worst six days of Terry’s life turn into the best.
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My Book Review
RATING: 5 out of 5 Stars
RULES OF THE ROAD by Ciara Geraghty is a beautifully written and poignant women’s fiction story of friendship, family, and love. It is an emotional journey from start to finish and I was in a complete book hangover/coma when I hit the end. (Have some tissues handy for not only the sad tears, but the happy.)
Terry is a wife, a mother of two grown daughters, the rock of her family and an all-around worrier. Everything must be in its place and every precaution must be taken. The girls are gone now, but she has found out she needs to pick up her father, who has Alzheimer’s from his care home for the week.
When they return home, Terry realizes she has not seen her best and basically only friend and neighbor, Iris recently. Iris loves life. She is bold, says anything and is willing to try anything. But since Iris was diagnosed with primary progressive MS, Terry worries. Iris has been dealing with her disease, but it is and will get progressively worse. When she checks out Iris’ home, she finds her friend has made plans for a journey that will be her last.
Terry knows the only way to stop Iris is to join her. Terry, her father, Eugene and Iris take off on a six-day road trip from Ireland to Switzerland that will change all of their lives.
For me, this book is written with some of the most realistic and memorable characters of any women’s fiction book I have read so far this year. A friendship that at first glance seems strange, but then you realize their friendship is based on a deep love and caring that may not always be spoken, but it is heartfelt and strong. Iris had decided on her path and she enjoys the trip to its fullest, but in the end, she discovers she needs her friend to be with her and she does not want to be alone. Terry is the character that grows and blooms the most along every hour of their trip. Her interactions with her father, her wanting to change her best friend’s mind, the discovery of her own freedom and strengths, all converge in an emotional awakening that this author was able to capture beautifully with the written word. All the secondary characters were also fully fleshed and add an additional depth and realism to the story.
I cannot say enough about this beautiful story!
I highly recommend Rules of the Road!
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About the Author
I was born and reared in Dublin. My mother took one look at me and decided to call me Ciara (pronounced Keira as in Keira Knightly but with lower cheek bones…). When pressed, she said it was because she ‘liked’ the name. From that moment, until I turned thirty-four, I wrote not one word, discounting the diary I kept as a teenager, full of angst and regret and heartache and bitterness; the usual.
Then, when I was 34, I signed up for a creative writing nightclass in Plunkett’s College in Whitehall where I started writing stories. I haven’t stopped since.
I love writing and I hate writing. I love having written. I hate looking at the blank page or the blank screen and knowing that I have to fill it up with words that mightn’t be any good. It’s a bit like going to the gym. You hate going. But you feel great on your way home. Sweaty, with a face like a beef tomato. But great all the same.
I have three children and one husband and have recently adopted a dog who is the same age as my youngest daughter. Together, they are in charge of pretty much everything.
When I was growing up, you could tell the days of the week by the dinners we had. The worst day was Thursday when my mother made us eat liver. She made it worse by serving the liver with lovely homemade chips and sausages and rashers and egg; she called it a ‘mixed grill’. The blood from the liver ran across the plate and tainted everything. One of the best things about being an adult is that I don’t have to eat liver. Or peas. Or semolina.
My favourite time of the day is the night. Or very early in the morning. I wrote my first book, Saving Grace, mostly at night and in the early morning. Now, I write at nine o’clock in the morning and knock off when the children come home from school. I miss the night. And the early morning. But I’ve learned that writing is work and you have to be able to do it during the allocated hours and I suppose I’ve gotten used to it. The best bit about writing a book is the two words ‘The’ and ‘End’. It’s a bit like finding a pub in Ireland where you can smoke after hours – it’s that good.
Writing is addictive, probably because you feel a bit better about things when it’s done. It’s like drink that way, except it won’t give you a hangover or cirrhosis of the liver or anything nasty like that. You might get a stiff arse (that’s bottom in Irish) from sitting in the one place for too long but that’s about it. And even though stiff arses can be uncomfortable, they’re completely worth it when a reader tells me that they’ve read my book and that they liked it. That makes me feel like one of the Whos in Dr. Seuss’s Horton Hears a Who when they shout I am here. I am here. I am here. I am here.
Today I am posting for Blackthorn Book Tours Presents blog tour. My Feature Post and Book Review is for COME JOIN THE MURDER by Holly Rae Garcia.
Below you will find a book blurb, my book review and the author’s bio and social media links. This is a poignant and dark murder thriller that kept me turning the pages.
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BookBlurb
“This is a novel I would read and reread and recommend to others. Fans of vigilante and desperado revenge will delight in this horror story.” — Horror Tree.
Rebecca Crow’s four-year-old son is dead, and her husband is missing.
Divers find her husband’s car at the bottom of a canal with their son’s small, lifeless body, inside. The police have no suspects and nothing to go on but a passing mention of a man driving a van. Guilt and grief cloud Rebecca’s thoughts as she stumbles towards her only mission: Revenge.
James Porter knows exactly what happened to them, but he’ll do anything to keep it a secret.
James didn’t plan to kill Rebecca’s son, but he’s not too broken up about it, either. There are more important things for him to worry about. He needs money, and his increasing appetite for murder is catching the attention of a nosy detective.
COME JOIN THE MURDER by Holly Rae Garcia is a short, poignant and dark crime thriller by a new author that kept me turning the pages. Graphic and at times difficult to read, I still could not put it down until I knew the final resolution for the dual narrators.
Rebecca Crow and her husband, Jon tried for a long time to have a child. Now Oliver is four years old and a miniature copy of her husband. Rebecca stays home to catch up on work as her husband and Oliver head to the beach for the day. On the way home, their car has a flat. After calling AAA and Rebecca, she agrees to wait for them at the car repair shop, but they never show up.
Her husband’s car is found at the bottom of the canal with her son’s body inside. Her husband’s body is missing. Guilt and grief take over Rebecca’s every thought and all she can focus on is revenge against the person in the old van who destroyed her family.
James Porter did not plan to kill Rebecca’s son, but he is not feeling any guilt over it either. James needs money and he is finding it increasingly easier to kill to get it. As James’ trail of bodies begins to draw attention from a nosy detective, he also realizes someone else may be looking for him and his van.
Rebecca and James are dual narrators throughout this short novel. Rebecca is twisted by the pain, regret and loss she now endures into a woman seeking revenge and believing she can find some closure. James is a taker who finds he increasingly enjoys the kill. The plot spirals into a psychological thriller that leaves you comparing the two and finding that both may have started differently, but are they now truly different? This story has graphic violence, but I never felt it was gratuitous because it was demonstrated by both main characters.
I feel this is a gripping story of grief and murder that I find I cannot quit thinking about and analyzing.
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Author Bio
Holly Rae Garcia’s debut novel, Come Join the Murder, was released on March 27th, 2020 by Close to the Bone Publishing (UK). Her short fiction has been published by Siren’s Call, The Bookends Review, Rue Scribe, Pen to Print, The Australian Writers’ Centre, and Trembling With Fear along with a few anthologies. Holly lives on the Texas Coast with her family and five dogs.
Today is my turn to share on the Harlequin Historical Fiction 2020 Summer Reads Blog Tour once again. I am excited to share my Feature Post and Book Review for THE WOMAN BEFORE WALLIS: A Novel of Windsors, Vanderbilts and Royal Scandal by Bryn Turnbull.
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&A with Bryn Turnbull
Everyone knows the story of Edward and Wallis. What drew you to Thelma’s story instead?
Thelma’s affair with Edward is only aspect of her story: she was on the periphery not only of the abdication crisis, but also the biggest custody battle in US history to date. She was something of a Kardashian in her day – famous for being famous – but she was also strong-willed, and willing to stand up for those she loved. Other people have written beautifully about Wallis and Edward, but Thelma’s story deserved to be told on its own merits.
This novel contains the real-life stories of real life people – some of whom have living descendants. How did you balance the drive to tell a good story against the historical record in terms of character development?
It’s a tricky balance to strike, but at the end of the day my job is to tell a good story, taking as much historical fact into consideration as I can without sacrificing the plot. I spent a lot of time researching the people who make up my book: luckily, Thelma and Gloria wrote a memoir, and we have plenty of letters, biographies, and recordings of Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson, so by the time I started actually writing, I had a very good sense of who they were. Wallis in particular leapt out of the pen, and I think that’s because she’s left such a legacy behind. I certainly hope that they would see themselves in the characters I’ve created, but at the end of the day these are fictional representations.
How did you find Thelma’s story?
I’d long been interested in the abdication crisis, and had read biographies of Wallis Simpson before, but I’d never really picked up on Thelma’s story until I watched W.E., a movie directed by Madonna about Wallis and Edward’s relationship. In the film, we see Wallis and Thelma have that conversation where Thelma asks Wallis to “take care” of Edward for her while she’s travelling, and I remember thinking it was such a strange request to make of a friend – even one as close as Wallis was to Thelma. After the movie ended I found myself down a bit of a Wikipedia rabbit hole, where I discovered her connection to the Gloria Vanderbilt trial, and recognized that this was a story that ought to be told.
One of the major relationships in this novel is between Gloria and Nada. Why was it important to you to show a relationship between two women in the 1930s?
Their relationship is historical fact: it would have been disingenuous to omit it from the book. I truly believe that Gloria loved Nada, and had they lived in a different time period their story would have ended quite differently. What’s more interesting to me is the fact that their relationship was permitted because of social privilege – and when Gloria lost that privilege, their relationship fell apart.
How does Gloria’s experience as a queer woman shape Thelma’s actions?
To me, THE WOMAN BEFORE WALLIS is a love story – but it’s not a royal romance. While the abdication crisis looms large over Thelma’s life, this is a book about the love between sisters: Thelma supported her sister in a day and age when being gay was seen as unacceptable – except, as Gloria points out, in the highest echelons of society. In the history books, Thelma has often been dismissed as a lesser socialite, but when it comes down to it, she was a deeply principled woman, and her experience as an ally spoke to me.
After spending so long with his character, how do you feel about Edward VIII and his decision to abdicate?
I think Edward VIII would have found an excuse to abdicate, regardless of whether Wallis Simpson had come into his life or not. He was a fundamentally weak man, and would have made a fundamentally weak king – and while in my novel I have him talk to Thelma about the sort of king he wants to be, I don’t think he ever intended on taking up his crown. If it hadn’t been Wallis, he would have found another excuse to abdicate.
That said, Thelma was genuinely in love with him. It was important for me to find a way into that love, and to be able to portray him with some compassion.
Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson are known to have been Nazi sympathizers. Why don’t you address this in your book?
I don’t address it for three reasons. First, Thelma and Edward’s relationship ended in 1934. Hitler only became chancellor in 1933, so while he would have been a topic of conversation around the dinner table, he wouldn’t have been the main topic of conversation. Second, Thelma was not a political person. One of the biggest complaints the government levied against Wallis Simpson was her political activism – in fact, when it became clear Edward wouldn’t give Wallis up, there was a movement within government to invite Thelma back to England because she wasn’t seen as someone who would interfere in politics the way Wallis did. Finally, the sad fact is that many members of Britain’s upper crust had extreme right-wing leanings in the 1930s, and many were generally supportive of Hitler’s policies. At the time, socialism was seen as a far greater threat than fascism, particularly because the General Strike of 1926 had been so successful in disrupting industrial production. Oswald Mosley’s British Union of Fascists had 50,000 members at the height of its popularity in the 1930s.
In the end, I find it incredibly interesting that history shook out in such a way that Britain had the king it needed during the war. Could you imagine what would have happened if George VI hadn’t been on the throne during the Blitz?
Do you think Wallis intended to replace Thelma?
I don’t think she did. Whatever else has been written about her – and there has been a lot written about her – Wallis was an extremely ambitious social climber. I believe that Wallis was genuinely trying to keep Edward’s eye from straying, for Thelma’s sake, but when it became clear that his affection had transferred to her, she didn’t feel too much guilt in taking advantage of the situation.
She certainly didn’t intend to marry Edward – that much is clear. In 2011, Anne Sebba published a biography of Wallis Simpson which contains previously unpublished letters between Wallis and Ernest Simpson – she wrote to him until the end of her life, and expressed regret at having ended their marriage. I believe that Wallis had hoped to take advantage of Edward’s attraction to make new friends and move in the highest social circle in Britain. She genuinely believed that Edward would tire of her before too long – when he didn’t, I think she was as surprised as anyone else.
What did you enjoy most about researching this book?
I wasn’t on any fixed timeline to complete this book, so I was able to spend two full years researching – just researching! – the time period. I particularly enjoyed researching the fashion of the 1930s– the attention to detail is incredible, especially for someone who had Thelma’s budget. I was able to access a lot of newspaper articles about the Vanderbilt trial at the New York Public Library, which really helped me understand the frenzy that the trial had created. A photographer actually did try to rappel down the side of the courthouse to get a picture of the proceedings! The trial reached newspapers in Pakistan! I went to London and walked Thelma’s neighbourhood – while Duke’s Arlington townhouse is no longer there, I visited her home in Mayfair and had drinks in the Ritz.
My favourite research moment, though, was finding Edward’s plane, and while I wish I’d had the right place to put it in the manuscript, it did help me come to an understanding of who he was as a person. One of his planes is at the Vintage Wings museum in Gatineau, Quebec, and I was able to visit it: it’s a beautiful little biplane with an open cockpit and a closed cabin for passengers. The plane itself looks like a Rolls Royce, with beautiful a chrome and indigo body and burgundy leather interior: but the best part of it is that Edward had a small generator installed on one of the wings so that he could power a wireless radio. While that sounds like a good idea, Vintage Wings was kind enough to take me up in a plane of a similar vintage, and I was struck by how unbelievably loud it was up in the air. Even with headphones on, it would have been extremely difficult to hear anything on a wireless.
I think this really sums up who Edward was. He was so concerned with his image – with looking and feeling like a modern royal – that he forgot to take into account the practicalities of the situation.
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Book Summary
An irresistible historical debut, THE WOMAN BEFORE WALLIS (MIRA Trade Paperback; July 21, 2020) is set in the glamorous world of British and American royalty in the 1920s, based on the true story of the woman who owned Prince Edward’s heart before introducing him to her dear friend Wallis. Perfect for fans of Netflix’s The Crown and Jennifer Robson’s The Gown.
Before Edward, Prince of Wales famously abdicated his throne for American divorcee Wallis Simpson, he loved another American woman: Thelma Morgan Furness, sister to the first Gloria Vanderbilt. This is her story.
The daughters of an American diplomat, Thelma and Gloria Morgan were stars of New York social scene in the early 1920s, dubbed “the magnificent Morgans.” Both would marry into wealth and privilege beyond their imaginations, Gloria to Reggie Vanderbilt, and Thelma to a viscount. Thelma begins an affair with Edward, the dashing Prince of Wales, that will last nearly five years.
Then, in 1934, Thelma’s life is upended by her sister Gloria’s custody trial — a headline-grabbing drama known as The Matter of Vanderbilt, which dominates global news for months and raises the bar for tabloid sensationalism. Back in New York, sued by members of her late husband’s family on charges of negligence, unfit parenting and homosexuality, Gloria needs her twin’s support more than ever. But as her sister gains international notoriety, Thelma fears that her own fall from grace might not be far behind.
THE WOMAN BEFORE WALLIS: A Novel of Windsors, Vanderbilts and Royal Scandal by Bryn Turnbull is a historical fiction book that I have been waiting anxiously to read and it did not disappoint. This is the story of the American divorcee who captured Prince Edward’s heart before Wallis Simpson.
Thelma Morgan is divorced and has no prospects until her identical twin sister Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt and her husband, Reggie introduce her to Viscount Duke Furness. After a whirlwind romance, she is married, becomes the Viscountess Furness and is immersed into the decadent and wealthy life of the British aristocracy.
When Thelma learns Duke is having an affair, she is devastated, but her friends counsel her to live her own life and ignore it. At a party she is introduced to Edward, Prince of Wales. She finds him charming and soon the two are embroiled in a love affair.
Gloria Vanderbilt is fighting a terrible custody battle against her own mother and Gertrude Vanderbuilt in New York. The scandal sheets are posting terrible stories, so Thelma decides she must sail to American to stand by her sister and niece. As Thelma leaves England, she asks her trusted friend to watch over Edward. Wallis Simpson.
I love all the characters in this story. I believe that the author did a wonderful job of bringing them all to life; foibles and all. It is always interesting to read about the rich and famous and realize the social, political and/or personal pressures they live with and their money does not really make them happy. Even though I knew what would happen with both Gloria and Thelma, and this is not a history book, but historical fiction, I could not put the book down. It pulled me into the intrigue and scandal of their lives.
This is perfect for all the Anglophiles out there that can never get enough!
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Excerpt
ONE
October 9, 1934
RMS Empress of Britain
THELMA CONSIDERED MANHATTAN HER HOME, though she hadn’t lived there for over ten years. To her, it was a city of firsts: she had smoked her first cigarette there, a Lucky Strike stolen from a nun’s desk drawer at the convent and passed around the dormitory after bedtime. She and her twin sister, Gloria, had rented their first apartment on Fifth Avenue: an attic brownstone, which, at sixteen years old, they were far too young to live in unchaperoned but did so anyways, stuffing the living room with flowers and leaving the icebox empty. Her first encounter with the society pages had been at New York Harbor: she was eight at the time, mobbed by reporters at the behest of their diplomat father in an attempt to turn the tone of a negative press scrum. The next day’s papers would run pictures not of Harry Morgan on his recall to Washington but of his twin daughters, Thelma and Gloria, walking down the gangplank in matching pinafores.
First marriage, thought Thelma, gripping the sable collar of her coat more tightly around her neck. First divorce. She stayed on deck long enough to watch the ship slip past the redbrick buildings of Southampton before seeking refuge from the chill air.
Though Thelma felt uneasy at the prospect of being away from David for nearly six weeks, she knew that she had little choice: Gloria’s trial had become a media sensation, chewing up columns on front pages across America and Europe. The custody battle, dubbed the “Trial of the Century” by reporters who squeezed onto the courthouse steps each day, was a nightmare for her sister, forced to defend not only her right to raise her own daughter but also to preserve her own good name. Thelma still rankled at the letter Gloria had sent her: For Reggie’s sister to believe what’s being said about me is bad enough, but to know that the rumors came from our own mother is too much to bear…
Thelma knew that the stories would continue long after the trial concluded—it was inevitable, given that it revolved around a Vanderbilt daughter with a Vanderbilt fortune. She had received the letter five days ago and booked passage on the earliest steamer bound for New York. If it had been either of her other siblings—Consuelo or Harry Junior—in this situation, Thelma would have offered what help she could, but as her twin, Gloria held Thelma’s allegiance the strongest. It was how it had always been: one supporting the other.
There was only one consideration weighing on Thelma’s mind which made it difficult for her to focus on what she would find in America.
“Shall I come, too?” David had asked days ago at Fort Belvedere. Dismal weather had driven Thelma, David and their guests indoors, an afternoon of weeding David’s gardens mercifully replaced by card games and needlepoint round the drawing room fire. David laid his embroidery hoop to one side, the half-finished rose pointing sightlessly at the ceiling.
Across the room, Wallis Simpson, perusing the contents of the bar cart, turned.
“Don’t be silly,” she said. From a club chair in the corner, Wallis’s husband, Ernest, folded down the corner of a newspaper. There was a momentary silence as Wallis’s long fingers trailed delicately along the crystal tops of several heavy decanters before she selected one.
“You can’t possibly think it’s a good idea for him to get caught up in this mess,” she said, glancing at Thelma as she poured a neat scotch. “You’ve seen the papers. Can you imagine the sort of froth they’d work themselves into if the Prince of Wales stuck his oar in? I don’t mean to offend you, Thelma,” she said, “but it’s just not seemly for him to get involved, don’t you agree?”
David’s brows knitted together as Wallis handed him the whiskey. “I feel so terrible about it all,” he said. “Gloria’s a decent sort. She doesn’t deserve all this…surely there’s something I can do?” He looked up at Thelma, his spaniel eyes imploring.
Wallis sat down. “You can let Thelma go to support her sister,” she said. “Gloria needs her family, sir, not the distraction of a royal sideshow.”
“Wally’s quite right, sir,” said Ernest, resting his newspaper on his lap. “You’d be hindering more than you’d help. Couldn’t fix me up one of those as well, could you, darling?”
David exhaled, but didn’t look convinced. “Perhaps,” he said, as Wallis returned to the cart. “I wouldn’t want to add any more controversy to this ghastly business, but I hate the thought of you going on your own.”
Thelma sat beside him, smiling at the thought of what David’s advisors would say if he so much as commented on the Vanderbilt trial, let alone sailed to America.
“They have a point,” she said, taking his hand in hers. “I don’t think there’s much for you to do. But thank you for wanting to help.”
He smiled, worry carved into the lines of his face. “Of course,” he said, and kissed Thelma on the cheek. He picked up his needlepoint, lifting the embroidery hoop to inspect the stitching more closely. “Just don’t stay away from me too long. I don’t think I could stand it.”
Perching herself on the armrest of Ernest’s chair, Wallis caught Thelma’s eye. She smiled, red lips curling in a wide, reassuring grin.
Bryn Turnbull is a writer of historical fiction with a penchant for fountain pens and antique furniture. Equipped with a Master of Letters in Creative Writing from the University of St. Andrews, a Master of Professional Communication from Ryerson University, and a Bachelor’s degree in English Literature from McGill University, Bryn focuses on finding the stories of women found within the cracks of the historical record. When she’s not writing, Bryn can be found exploring new coffee shops, spending time with her family in cottage country, or traveling. She lives in Toronto, and can generally be found with a book in hand.
Today I am once again posting on the Harlequin Trade Publishing 2020 Summer Reads Historical Fiction Blog Tour. I am very excited to be sharing my Feature Post and Book Review for THE BLACK SWAN OF PARIS by Karen Robards.
Below you will find a book summary, 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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Book Summary
For fans of The Alice Network and The Lost Girls of Paris comes a thrilling standalone by New York Times bestselling author Karen Robards about a celebrated singer in WWII occupied France who joins the Resistance to save her estranged family from being killed in a German prison.
In Occupied France, the Resistance trembles on the brink of destruction. Its operatives, its secrets, its plans, all will be revealed. One of its leaders, wealthy aristocrat Baron Paul de Rocheford, has been killed in a raid and the surviving members of his cell, including his wife the elegant Baronness Lillian de Rocheford, have been arrested and transported to Germany for interrogation and, inevitably, execution.
Captain Max Ryan, British SOE, is given the job of penetrating the impregnable German prison where the Baroness and the remnants of the cell are being held and tortured. If they can’t be rescued he must kill them before they can give up their secrets.
Max is in Paris, currently living under a cover identity as a show business impresario whose star attraction is Genevieve Dumont. Young, beautiful Genevieve is the toast of Europe, an icon of the glittering entertainment world that the Nazis celebrate so that the arts can be seen to be thriving in the occupied territories under their rule.
What no one knows about Genevieve is that she is Lillian and Paul de Rocheford’s younger daughter. Her feelings toward her family are bitter since they were estranged twelve years ago. But when she finds out from Max just what his new assignment entails, old, long-buried feelings are rekindled and she knows that no matter what she can’t allow her mother to be killed, not by the Nazis and not by Max. She secretly establishes contact with those in the Resistance who can help her. Through them she is able to contact her sister Emmy, and the sisters put aside their estrangement to work together to rescue their mother.
It all hinges on a command performance that Genevieve is to give for a Gestapo General in the Bavarian town where her mother and the others are imprisoned. While Genevieve sings and the show goes on, a daring rescue is underway that involves terrible danger, heartbreaking choices, and the realization that some ties, like the love between a mother and her daughters and between sisters, are forever.
THE BLACK SWAN OF PARIS by Karen Robards is this bestselling author’s first historical fiction book and it pulls you in with a story of estranged family dynamics, loyalty, partisans, spies, intrigue and action. It is a story that features a young internationally acclaimed singer and her perilous life during WWII in Nazi occupied Europe.
Genevieve Dumont is a celebrated cabaret star with a voice and beauty that captivates. In 1944 Paris, Nazis, partisans and spies are everywhere as the Germans prepare for the invasion they know is coming. Genevieve has been both a star and a smokescreen for her manager, Max Bonet. She knows and at times resents how she is being used and she wants to know as little as possible about Max’s secret life, until she overhears about the capture and arrest of Lillian, Baroness de Rocheford.
Genevieve has kept secrets from Max, but now she needs his help to save the baroness, who is her mother. Reunited with her sister, who is working with the SOE, a daring plan is set into motion. Will the little group be able to rescue the baroness directly from the home of the sadistic SS General Claus von Wagner?
I loved this story, but it was a little confusing in the very beginning as all the characters are introduced because the connections and histories are reveled throughout the entire book in flashbacks. Once it started to flow, I was transported back to 1944 occupied Paris. The description of the Nazi opulence contrasted with the deprivation of the Parisians, the sparkle of the cabaret, the partisan spy networks helping to prepare for the invasion, the mistrust and secrets all engage the reader and I was completely engrossed. Genevieve’s story was as tragic as it was triumphant and her entire family’s history kept me turning the pages. Ms. Robards has written historical characters that could walk off the page with a plot that builds to an action filled climax.
I highly recommend this dynamic historical fiction book with a touch of romance!
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Excerpt
CHAPTER ONE
May 15, 1944
When the worst thing that could ever happen to you had already happened, nothing that came after really mattered. The resultant state of apathy was almost pleasant, as long as she didn’t allow herself to think about it—any of it—too much.
She was Genevieve Dumont, a singer, a star. Her latest sold-out performance at one of Paris’s great theaters had ended in a five-minute standing ovation less than an hour before. She was acclaimed, admired, celebrated wherever she went. The Nazis loved her.
She was not quite twenty-five years old. Beautiful when, like now, she was dolled up in all her after-show finery. Not in want, not unhappy.
In this time of fear and mass starvation, of worldwide deaths on a scale never seen before in the whole course of human history, that made her lucky. She knew it.
Whom she had been before, what had almost destroyed her—that life belonged to someone else. Most of the time, she didn’t even remember it herself.
She refused to remember it.
A siren screamed to life just meters behind the car she was traveling in. Startled, she sat upright in the back seat, heart lurching as she looked around.
Do they know? Are they after us?
A small knot of fans had been waiting outside the stage door as she’d left. One of them had thrust a program at her, requesting an autograph for Francoise. She’d signed—May your heart always sing, Genevieve Dumont—as previously instructed. What it meant she didn’t know. What she did know was that it meant something: it was a prearranged encounter, and the coded message she’d scribbled down was intended for the Resistance.
And now, mere minutes later, here were the Milice, the despised French police who had long since thrown in their lot with the Nazis, on their tail.
Even as icy jets of fear spurted through her, a pair of police cars followed by a military truck flew by. Running without lights, they appeared as no more than hulking black shapes whose passage rattled the big Citroën that up until then had been alone on the road. A split second later, her driver—his name was Otto Cordier; he worked for Max, her manager—slammed on the brakes. The car jerked to a stop.
“Sacre bleu!” Flying forward, she barely stopped herself from smacking into the back of the front seat by throwing her arms out in front of her. “What’s happening?”
“A raid, I think.” Peering out through the windshield, Otto clutched the steering wheel with both hands. He was an old man, short and wiry with white hair. She could read tension in every line of his body. In front of the car, washed by the pale moonlight that painted the scene in ghostly shades of gray, the cavalcade that had passed them was now blocking the road. A screech of brakes and the throwing of a shadow across the nearest building had her casting a quick look over her shoulder. Another military truck shuddered to a halt, filling the road behind them, stopping it up like a cork in a bottle. Men—German soldiers along with officers of the Milice—spilled out of the stopped vehicles. The ones behind swarmed past the Citroën, and all rushed toward what Genevieve tentatively identified as an apartment building. Six stories tall, it squatted, dark and silent, in its own walled garden.
“Oh, no,” she said. Her fear for herself and Otto subsided, but sympathy for the targets of the raid made her chest feel tight. People who were taken away by the Nazis in the middle of the night seldom came back.
The officers banged on the front door. “Open up! Police!”
It was just after 10:00 p.m. Until the siren had ripped it apart, the silence blanketing the city had been close to absolute. Thanks to the strictly enforced blackout, the streets were as dark and mysterious as the nearby Seine. It had rained earlier in the day, and before the siren the big Citroën had been the noisiest thing around, splashing through puddles as they headed back to the Ritz, where she was staying for the duration of her Paris run.
“If they keep arresting people, soon there will be no one left.” Genevieve’s gaze locked on a contingent of soldiers spreading out around the building, apparently looking for another way in—or for exits they could block. One rattled a gate of tall iron spikes that led into the brick-walled garden. It didn’t open, and he moved on, disappearing around the side of the building. She was able to follow the soldiers’ movements by the torches they carried. Fitted with slotted covers intended to direct their light downward so as to make them invisible to the Allied air-raid pilots whose increasingly frequent forays over Paris aroused both joy and dread in the city’s war-weary citizens, the torches’ bobbing looked like the erratic flitting of fireflies in the dark.
“They’re afraid, and that makes them all the more dangerous.” Otto rolled down his window a crack, the better to hear what was happening as they followed the soldiers’ movements. The earthy scent of the rain mixed with the faint smell of cigarette smoke, which, thanks to Max’s never-ending Gauloises, was a permanent feature of the car. The yellow card that was the pass they needed to be on the streets after curfew, prominently displayed on the windshield, blocked her view of the far side of the building, but she thought soldiers were running that way, too. “They know the Allies are coming. The bombings of the Luftwaffe installations right here in France, the Allied victories on the eastern front—they’re being backed into a corner. They’ll do whatever they must to survive.”
“Open the door, or we will break it down!”
The policeman hammered on the door with his nightstick. The staccato beat echoed through the night. Genevieve shivered, imagining the terror of the people inside.
Thin lines of light appeared in the cracks around some of the thick curtains covering the windows up and down the building as, at a guess, tenants dared to peek out. A woman, old and stooped—there was enough light in the hall behind her to allow Genevieve to see that much—opened the front door.
“Out of the way!”
She was shoved roughly back inside the building as the police and the soldiers stormed in. Her frightened cry changed to a shrill scream that was quickly cut off.
Genevieve’s mouth went dry. She clasped her suddenly cold hands in her lap.
There’s nothing to be done. It was the mantra of her life.
“Can we drive on?” She had learned in a hard school that there was no point in agonizing over what couldn’t be cured. To stay and watch what she knew was coming—the arrest of partisans, who would face immediate execution upon arrival at wherever they would be taken, or, perhaps and arguably worse, civilians, in some combination of women, children, old people, clutching what few belongings they’d managed to grab, marched at gunpoint out of the building and loaded into the trucks for deportation—would tear at her heart for days without helping them at all.
“We’re blocked in.” Otto looked around at her. She didn’t know what he saw in her face, but whatever it was made him grimace and reach for the door handle. “I’ll go see if I can get one of them to move.”
When he exited the car, she let her head drop back to rest against the rolled top of the Citroën’s leather seat, stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about what might be happening to the people in the building. Taking deep breaths, she did her best to block out the muffled shouts and thuds that reached her ears and focused on the physical, which, as a performer, she had experience doing. She was so tired she was limp with it. Her temples throbbed. Her legs ached. Her feet hurt. Her throat—that golden throat that had allowed her to survive—felt tight. Deliberately she relaxed her muscles and tugged the scarf tucked into the neckline of her coat higher to warm herself.
A flash of light in the darkness caught her eye. Her head turned as she sought the source. Looking through the iron bars of the garden gate, she discovered a side door in the building that was slowly, stealthily opening.
“Is anyone else in there? Come out or I’ll shoot.” The volume of the soldiers’ shouts increased exponentially with this new gap in the walls. That guttural threat rang out above others less distinct, and she gathered from what she heard that they were searching the building.
The side door opened wider. Light from inside spilled past a figure slipping out: a girl, tall and thin with dark curly hair, wearing what appeared to be an unbuttoned coat thrown on over nightclothes. In her arms she carried a small child with the same dark, curly hair.
The light went out. The door had closed. Genevieve discovered that she was sitting with her nose all but pressed against the window as she tried to find the girl in the darkness. It took her a second, but then she spotted the now shadowy figure as it fled through the garden toward the gate, trying to escape.
They’ll shoot her if they catch her. The child, too.
The Germans had no mercy for those for whom they came.
The girl reached the gate, paused. A pale hand grabbed a bar. From the metallic rattle that reached her ears, Genevieve thought she must be shoving at the gate, shaking it. She assumed it was locked. In any event, it didn’t open. Then that same hand reached through the bars, along with a too-thin arm, stretching and straining.
Toward what? It was too dark to tell.
With the Citroën stopped in the middle of the narrow street and the garden set back only a meter or so from the front facade of the building, the girl was close enough so that Genevieve could read the desperation in her body language, see the way she kept looking back at the now closed door. The child, who appeared to be around ten months old, seemed to be asleep. The small curly head rested trustingly on the girl’s shoulder.
It wasn’t a conscious decision to leave the car. Genevieve just did it, then realized the risk she was taking when her pumps clickety-clacked on the cobblestones. The sound seemed to tear through the night and sent a lightning bolt of panic through her.
Get back in the car. Her sense of self-preservation screamed it at her, but she didn’t. Shivering at the latent menace of the big military trucks looming so close on either side of the Citroën, the police car parked askew in the street, the light spilling from the still open front door and the sounds of the raid going on inside the building, she kept going, taking care to be quiet now as she darted toward the trapped girl.
You’re putting yourself in danger. You’re putting Otto, Max, everyone in danger. The whole network—
Heart thudding, she reached the gate. Even as she and the girl locked eyes through it, the girl jerked her arm back inside and drew herself up.
The sweet scent of flowers from the garden felt obscene in contrast with the fear and despair she sensed in the girl.
“It’s all right. I’m here to help,” Genevieve whispered. She grasped the gate, pulling, pushing as she spoke. The iron bars were solid and cold and slippery with the moisture that still hung in the air. The gate didn’t budge for her, either. The clanking sound it made as she joggled it against its moorings made her break out in a cold sweat. Darkness enfolded her, but it was leavened by moonlight and she didn’t trust it to keep her safe. After all, she’d seen the girl from the car. All it would take was one sharp-eyed soldier, one policeman to come around a corner, or step out of the building and look her way—and she could be seen, too. Caught. Helping a fugitive escape.
The consequences would be dire. Imprisonment, deportation, even death.
Her pulse raced.
She thought of Max, what he would say.
On the other side of the gate, moonlight touched on wide dark eyes set in a face so thin the bones seemed about to push through the skin. The girl appeared to be about her own age, and she thought she must be the child’s mother. The sleeping child—Genevieve couldn’t tell if it was a girl or a boy—was wearing footed pajamas.
Her heart turned over.
“Oh, thank God. Thank you.” Whispering, too, the girl reached through the bars to touch Genevieve’s arm in gratitude. “There’s a key. In the fountainhead. In the mouth. It unlocks the gate.” She cast another of those lightning glances over her shoulder. Shifting from foot to foot, she could hardly stand still in her agitation. Fear rolled off her in waves. “Hurry. Please.”
Genevieve looked in the direction the girl had been reaching, saw the oval stone of the fountainhead set into the brick near the gate, saw the carved lion’s head in its center with its open mouth from which, presumably, water was meant to pour out. Reaching inside, she probed the cavity, ran her fingers over the worn-smooth stone, then did it again.
“There’s no key,” she said. “It’s not here.”
“It has to be. It has to be!” The girl’s voice rose, trembled. The child’s head moved. The girl made a soothing sound, rocked back and forth, patted the small back, and the child settled down again with a sigh. Watching, a pit yawned in Genevieve’s stomach. Glancing hastily down, she crouched to check the ground beneath the fountainhead, in case the key might have fallen out. It was too dark; she couldn’t see. She ran her hand over the cobblestones. Nothing.
“It’s not—” she began, standing up, only to break off with a swiftly indrawn breath as the door through which the girl had exited flew open. This time, in the rectangle of light, a soldier stood.
“My God.” The girl’s whisper as she turned her head to look was scarcely louder than a breath, but it was so loaded with terror that it made the hair stand up on the back of Genevieve’s neck. “What do I do?”
“Who is out there?” the soldier roared. Pistol ready in his hand, he pointed his torch toward the garden. The light played over a tattered cluster of pink peonies, over overgrown green shrubs, over red tulips thrusting their heads through weeds, as it came their way. “Don’t think to hide from me.”
“Take the baby. Please.” Voice hoarse with dread, the girl thrust the child toward her. Genevieve felt a flutter of panic: if this girl only knew, she would be the last person she would ever trust with her child. But there was no one else, and thus no choice to be made. As a little leg and arm came through the gate, Genevieve reached out to help, taking part and then all of the baby’s weight as between them she and the girl maneuvered the little one through the bars. As their hands touched, she could feel the cold clamminess of the girl’s skin, feel her trembling. With the child no longer clutched in her arms, the dark shape of a six-pointed yellow star on her coat became visible. The true horror of what was happening struck Genevieve like a blow.
The girl whispered, “Her name’s Anna. Anna Katz. Leave word of where I’m to come for her in the fountainhead—”
The light flashed toward them.
“You there, by the gate,” the soldier shouted.
With a gasp, the girl whirled away.
“Halt! Stay where you are!”
Heart in her throat, blood turning to ice, Genevieve whirled away, too, in the opposite direction. Cloaked by night, she ran as lightly as she could for the car, careful to keep her heels from striking the cobblestones, holding the child close to her chest, one hand splayed against short, silky curls. The soft baby smell, the feel of the firm little body against her, triggered such an explosion of emotion that she went briefly light-headed. The panicky flutter in her stomach solidified into a knot—and then the child’s wriggling and soft sounds of discontent brought the present sharply back into focus.
If she cried…
Terror tasted sharp and bitter in Genevieve’s mouth.
“Shh. Shh, Anna,” she crooned desperately. “Shh.”
“I said halt!” The soldier’s roar came as Genevieve reached the car, grabbed the door handle, wrenched the door open—
Bang. The bark of a pistol.
A woman’s piercing cry. The girl’s piercing cry.
No. Genevieve screamed it, but only in her mind. The guilt of running away, of leaving the girl behind, crashed into her like a speeding car.
Blowing his whistle furiously, the soldier ran down the steps. More soldiers burst through the door, following the first one down the steps and out of sight.
Had the girl been shot? Was she dead?
My God, my God. Genevieve’s heart slammed in her chest.
She threw herself and the child into the back seat and—softly, carefully—closed the door. Because she didn’t dare do anything else.
Coward.
The baby started to cry.
Staring out the window in petrified expectation of seeing the soldiers come charging after her at any second, she found herself panting with fear even as she did her best to quiet the now wailing child.
Could anyone hear? Did the soldiers know the girl had been carrying a baby?
If she was caught with the child…
What else could I have done?
Max would say she should have stayed out of it, stayed in the car. That the common good was more important than the plight of any single individual.
Even a terrified girl. Even a baby.
“It’s all right, Anna. I’ve got you safe. Shh.” Settling back in the seat to position the child more comfortably in her arms, she murmured and patted and rocked. Instinctive actions, long forgotten, reemerged in this moment of crisis.
Through the gate she could see the soldiers clustering around something on the ground. The girl, she had little doubt, although the darkness and the garden’s riotous blooms blocked her view. With Anna, quiet now, sprawled against her chest, a delayed reaction set in and she started to shake.
Otto got back into the car.
“They’re going to be moving the truck in front as soon as it’s loaded up.” His voice was gritty with emotion. Anger? Bitterness? “Someone tipped them off that Jews were hiding in the building, and they’re arresting everybody. Once they’re—”
Otto broke off as the child made a sound.
“Shh.” Genevieve patted, rocked. “Shh, shh.”
His face a study in incredulity, Otto leaned around in the seat to look. “Holy hell, is that a baby?”
“Her mother was trapped in the garden. She couldn’t get out.”
Otto shot an alarmed look at the building, where soldiers now marched a line of people, young and old, including a couple of small children clutching adults’ hands, out the front door.
“My God,” he said, sounding appalled. “We’ve got to get—”
Appearing out of seemingly nowhere, a soldier rapped on the driver’s window. With his knuckles, hard.
Oh, no. Please no.
Genevieve’s heart pounded. Her stomach dropped like a rock as she stared at the shadowy figure on the other side of the glass.
We’re going to be arrested. Or shot.
Whipping the scarf out of her neckline, she draped the brightly printed square across her shoulder and over the child.
Otto cranked the window down.
“Papers,” the soldier barked.
Fear formed a hard knot under Genevieve’s breastbone. Despite the night’s chilly temperature, she could feel sweat popping out on her forehead and upper lip. On penalty of arrest, everyone in Occupied France, from the oldest to the youngest, was required to have identity documents readily available at all times. Hers were in her handbag, beside her on the seat.
But Anna had none.
Otto passed his cards to the soldier, who turned his torch on them.
As she picked up her handbag, Genevieve felt Anna stir.
Please, God, don’t let her cry.
“Here.” Quickly she thrust her handbag over the top of the seat to Otto. Anna was squirming now. Genevieve had to grab and secure the scarf from underneath to make sure the baby’s movements didn’t knock it askew.
If the soldier saw her…
Anna whimpered. Muffled by the scarf, the sound wasn’t loud, but its effect on Genevieve was electric. She caught her breath as her heart shot into her throat—and reacted instinctively, as, once upon a time, it had been second nature to do.
She slid the tip of her little finger between Anna’s lips.
The baby responded as babies typically did: she latched on and sucked.
Genevieve felt the world start to slide out of focus. The familiarity of it, the bittersweet memories it evoked, made her dizzy. She had to force herself to stay in the present, to concentrate on this child and this moment to the exclusion of all else.
Otto had handed her identity cards over. The soldier examined them with his torch, then bent closer to the window and looked into the back seat.
She almost expired on the spot.
“Mademoiselle Dumont. It is a pleasure. I have enjoyed your singing very much.”
Anna’s hungry little mouth tugged vigorously at her finger.
“Thank you,” Genevieve said, and smiled.
The soldier smiled back. Then he straightened, handed the papers back and, with a thump on the roof, stepped away from the car. Otto cranked the window up.
The tension inside the car was so thick she could almost physically feel the weight of it.
“Let them through,” the soldier called to someone near the first truck. Now loaded with the unfortunate new prisoners, it was just starting to pull out.
With a wave for the soldier, Otto followed, although far too slowly for Genevieve’s peace of mind. As the car crawled after the truck, she cast a last, quick glance at the garden: she could see nothing, not even soldiers.
Was the girl—Anna’s mother—still there on the ground? Or had she already been taken away?
Was she dead?
Genevieve felt sick to her stomach. But once again, there was nothing to be done.
Acutely aware of the truck’s large side and rear mirrors and what might be able to be seen through them, Genevieve managed to stay upright and keep the baby hidden until the Citroën turned a corner and went its own way.
Then, feeling as though her bones had turned to jelly, she slumped against the door.
Anna gave up on the finger and started to cry, shrill, distressed wails that filled the car. With what felt like the last bit of her strength, Genevieve pushed the scarf away and gathered her up and rocked and patted and crooned to her. Just like she had long ago done with—
Do not think about it.
“Shh, Anna. Shh.”
“That was almost a disaster.” Otto’s voice, tight with reaction, was nonetheless soft for fear of disturbing the quieting child. “What do we do now? You can’t take a baby back to the hotel. Think questions won’t be asked? What do you bet that soldier won’t talk about having met Genevieve Dumont? All it takes is one person to make the connection between the raid and you showing up with a baby and it will ruin us all. It will ruin everything.”
“I know.” Genevieve was limp. “Find Max. He’ll know what to do.”
Karen Robards is the New York Times, USA TODAY and Publishers Weekly bestselling author of more than fifty novels and one novella. She is the winner of six Silver Pen awards and numerous other awards.
YOU CAN GO HOME NOW by Michael Elias is an exciting new thriller with a female detective on the case of a killer of abusive spouses while simultaneously on her lifelong quest for her personal revenge against the killer of her father.
Homicide Detective Nina Karim is called out to the scene of a murder and finds the body of a man she was searching for who was reported missing by his parents. The parents accuse the wife of the murder. When Nina catches up with the wife, she claims innocence, but refuses to say where she was during the time of the murder.
While investigating the case, Nina discovers other cold cases of murdered spouses all tied to Artemis Shelter for Women. Nina goes undercover in Artemis and finds herself empathizing with the occupants and their stories, because she has a story of her own which fuels her need for revenge, not conventional justice.
This book starts with two chapters that while you do not know it at the time, set up the dual plotlines intertwined through this thriller. For me, Nina was an antihero. She became a cop and lived for revenge knowing she would cross the line when she finds her target. The resolution to her personal revenge plotline was not realistic or believable. Her romance is with a loan shark, Bobby B who dropped out of the police academy which they both attended at the same time. He was useful for pivotal plot points and sex scenes, but I never felt he was fully fleshed out.
Nina’s time in Artemis was the plotline that captured my complete attention. The stories of the women and children pull you in as they did Nina herself. Nina’s empathy for the women leaves her with an ethical dilemma; reveal Artemis’ true mission or not.
I found this to be a gritty, fast paced, revenge thriller story that is more escapism that realism, but it did entertain me.
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About the Author
Michael Elias is an award-winning writer, actor and director who has written film, television, theatre and fiction.
His upcoming novel, You Can Go Home Now, is a timely and addictive psychological thriller featuring a female cop on the hunt for a killer while battling violent secrets of her own. The book will be published by HarperCollins in the U.S. and by Editions du Masque in France in June 2020. He is also the author of The Last Conquistador, published by Open Road Media.
Michael Elias was born and raised in upstate New York, moving to New York City after graduating from St. John’s College in Annapolis to pursue a career in acting. He was a member of the Living Theatre (The Brig) and acted at The Judson Poets Theatre, La MaMa, and Caffé Chino. Elias transitioned to Hollywood and with Frank Shaw wrote the screenplay for The Frisco Kid starring Gene Wilder and Harrison Ford, then Envoyez les Violons with Eve Babitz and began a long partnership with Rich Eustis. Together, they wrote the screenplays for Serial, Young Doctors in Love and created Head of the Class a television series for ABC, partially based on Elias’ experience as a high school teacher in New York City. Elias also worked with Steve Martin, a collaboration that included material for Martin’s comedy albums, network TV specials, and the screenplay for The Jerk.
Elias wrote and directed Showtime’s Lush Life with Forrest Whitaker and Jeff Goldblum. He was nominated for best Director at The Cable Ace Awards that year, and the TV movie has become a jazz film classic. His semi-autobiographical play about a small hotel in upstate New York was directed by Paul Mazursky, ran for four months in Los Angeles, with the LA Weekly naming The Catskill Sonata one of the best ten plays of the year.
