Urenna's comments (member since Jun 21, 2009)

Urenna's comments from the Book Excerpts group.

During April and May, without a word from Ptolemy, the world was rocked with mass student protests in France and riots and turmoil in the States. Olivia was anxious and temperamental with Connie and Eleni. Eleni watched Olivia with interest and thought how odd, Ptolemy is no longer in the picture, and now Olivia is moody and disagreeable.
Ptolemy called his sister, Eleni, once a week. He continued to send her money for groceries. Every Saturday, Olivia would make Ptolemy’s favorites, spanakopita and halva, just in case he dropped by.
The month of June burst forth with warmer days and nights. The season was a protrusion of colorful flowers filling meadows, gardens, and window sills. Summer seemed incredibly sensual to Olivia. Sunsets were vividly breathtaking. Lovers embraced. Lips left their imprint on lips with fathomless, passionate kisses. People were happy and in love.
Olivia watched gregarious Parisians on her weekend strolls to market. Often, she thought of Ptolemy. She missed him. A shiver of recollection of their first night crossed her mind. But work kept her busy.
Now feeling comfortable on the job, Olivia easily attended meetings and traveled throughout France and Belgium. On occasion, she visited her cousin, Djoser, and his new family in the south of France, sometimes she stayed the weekend.
The south was scenic and beautiful, and Olivia sent Ptolemy postcards. She wrote how much she loved Provence but missed their friendship; it meant a lot to her. She wrote how much she missed him.
Later on, Olivia wondered what Ptolemy would read into the card, but didn’t care. Truthfully, she did miss him and didn’t want to lose him.
Ptolemy respected her, encouraged, and cared about her. Olivia felt free with him. She could say anything, well almost anything.
When Olivia returned to her office in Paris, two dozen red and yellow roses sat on her desk. The card said, “Agapi mou, I don’t want to lose you either. Love, Ptolemy.”
Ambivalent, Olivia hoped Ptolemy wouldn’t show up after work. She wanted to see him, yet she was afraid of her emotions. She might bawl and fall into his arms. She might accept an invitation to his home.
After work, when Ptolemy wasn’t waiting, her emotions appeared conflicted; she had not wanted him to show up, and yet, she wanted him to be there, waiting to drive her home. She walked a block and caught the bus back to her apartment. He would probably be at Eleni’s weekend party, she thought.
It was the first weekend in June, and Friday couldn’t come quick enough. There was no communication from Ptolemy, but she knew their paths would cross. With anticipation, she looked forward to seeing him again.
The evening of Eleni’s party, at the last minute, CEO, Michel Levy, and Bernard-Requin weren’t happy with the journal’s presentation.
Olivia’s job was to make sure everything fell into place. This meant the editing and now the illustrations. She reviewed the editorial content.
Bernard-Requin glanced at his watch. “Sorry, but you’ll have to stay late. We’ll be lucky if we can get out of here by nine.”
Olivia gritted her teeth with the thought of staying overtime.
Eleni’s job was to generate advertisement independent of special interests. Lately, pharmaceuticals’ advertisements were placed beside the journal’s subject matter. Olivia and Hulot assumed Eleni received kickbacks but couldn’t prove it.
Since Eleni was truant from work for over a week, this couldn’t be substantiated, and her assistant was on his honeymoon. This left the bulk of the advertisement on Olivia’s shoulders. Hulot said she had to pitch in and take the reins in Eleni’s absence.
“Our ethics are at risk,” said Olivia, as she threw down her pen.
Hulot agreed. “We shouldn’t advertise products under investigation or accept personal favors. Eleni will have to explain this.”
Once they completed the edits on the illustrations, they left an hour later. Hulot drove Olivia home. Although invited to Eleni’s party, he declined. He was furious that she stayed home to prepare for a silly party.
“Stupid woman,” muttered Hulot. “Someday, Eleni will wish she had kept this job. Her assistant will be happy to know when he returns from his honeymoon, he’ll be the new procurer for advertisement.”
Olivia glanced at Hulot with alarm. This would surely anger Eleni, but what could Olivia say? Hulot was right. Even Ptolemy commented that Eleni appeared irresponsible for a woman of thirty-five.
“Look at you; you’re ten years younger than my sister, yet more responsible,” said Ptolemy when hearing Eleni had skipped work to plan her party.
Olivia shook her head. “It has nothing to do with Eleni’s age. I think it’s environmental. Eleni was raised to be taken care of. I was brought up knowing I had to work and take care of myself.”
When Olivia arrived home, Eleni’s party was in full swing. She decided to meet Eleni’s new beau and retire. She felt a headache coming on, and wouldn’t stick around once she said her pleasantries.
Eleni met her new beau, Evan Drysdale, at Church Hill Downs’s Kentucky Derby racetrack. Connie was in New York for her employer, Somme, had conferred with clients, and met old friends. They invited Connie to the Kentucky Derby for the weekend. Since Connie and Eleni had become bosom buddies, she invited Eleni to the States.
“Girl! Its party time! Catch the next flight out of Paris, and meet me in Kentucky.”
Eleni met Evan, a handsome Englishman, at the Derby. He became enthralled with Eleni. According to Evan, he had never known anyone from Greece, and thought her, in his own words: “lovelier than the goddess, Venus.”
Streetwise, Connie warned Eleni. “He’s deceitful, a fake.”
Ignoring Connie, Eleni invited and paid for her new lover to visit France. Then,conveniently, Evan lost his wallet, so Eleni bought him Zegna and Brioni suits and expensive shoes.
She had fallen in love quicker than you could say, “Peter, pick a peck of peppers,” giggled Connie, when she called Olivia in France. “Wait until you see him; he’s too pretty to be a real man, but Eleni swears he’s hot.”
At Eleni's party, a woman shreiked victoriously. A couple had won the orange contest. The man had to be a contortionist. The orange was maneuvered to his partner’s mouth. They jumped and screamed like children. People clapped, yelled, and whistled. The partygoers became loud and chaotic as they laughed and made ribald jokes about the winners.
Connie offered a bag of oranges to the couple, and everyone laughed. Her game eased the tension. Now, couples were comfortably paired off.
Olivia saw Ptolemy enter the room with a glass of wine. Their eyes locked. Olivia felt her heart thumping inside her chest. She wanted to hug him; she was so glad to see him, yet all she could do was wave and offer a nervous smile. Damn, I missed you so much, she thought.
Ptolemy greeted Olivia with a kiss and squeezed her hand.
“Okay everybody, it’s time to play spin the bottle!” yelled Connie, as she ordered couples to sit on the floor.
“Come on Ptolemy, you’re playing this time,” said Connie, as she released his hand from Olivia’s. “There’s lots of ladies that want to suck on those succulent, full, and sexy lips of yours, including me. Come on, Livy,” said Connie, grabbing Olivia’s hand. She placed her on the opposite side of the circle. “Men want to lock onto your luscious lips tonight, Livy.”
Connie rubbed her hands together and said: “Everybody should be in a mellow, orange mood; pardon the pun. Now, let’s keep this party alive with some lip-smacking, tongue-sucking fun!”
Like an engine, Connie was revved up after a few drinks. She knew how to keep the party lively without Eleni.
Ptolemy sat across from Olivia. He knew the game from parties in college. He looked around at the men who might kiss Olivia. Suddenly, ill at ease, Ptolemy squirmed in his seat.
The bottle spun and hit Connie and a young Algerian, named Badis, whom Connie called “Badass.” He reached over to peck Connie on her cheek. But Connie gripped him by his jacket lapels. She kissed him with such force that the crowd went wild; their rowdy laughter echoed throughout the complex.
“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time!” screamed Connie. “Damn! His lips tasted good.”
The bottle spun again. It was Olivia and Ptolemy’s turn. The circle became quiet, Connie watched in fascination.
Ptolemy stood up and walked around to where Olivia sat. He lifted her off the floor and kissed her between her eyes, on the tip of her nose, and then her mouth.
It was a smoldering and passionate kiss. Olivia felt out of breath and trembled. It felt as if they were the only two people in the room.

This is an excerpt from my forthcoming book, “But For Those Who Love.”

This spans 10 years of Consuela (Connie) Moreno’s life; from 17 when she enters the New York School of Design, until 27, as one of Paris’s top designers.
“Time is Too slow for those who Wait.
Too swift for those who Fear.
Too long for those who Grieve.
Too short for those who Rejoice.
But for those who love Time is Eternity”—Anonymous

Chapter 4
So how did love come into the picture? It came when I became the best and brightest designer in New York’s School of Design. It came in December, in the form of Brazilian, Victor d’Arezzo.
We met by chance. I hadn’t wanted to attend a dinner party given by Waldemar but he insisted I be present to meet his family from Brazil.
The over six foot two, hazel-eyed, dark curly haired, golden-brown, Victor d’Arezzo was mestiço—a mélange of Italian and Amerindian, and African, part of Brazil’s melting pot. He personified everything beautiful about Brazilian men.
Handsome with a muscular physique, he strode with an air of assurance. In time, I would find him to be hard-hitting, hot-tempered, righteous and dishonorable.
I sat next to Victor, unable to speak. Known for being the mouth, my voice was gone. Instead, I observed the man’s behavior and clothing. He wore a Brioni suit. Very expensive taste.
After dinner, Lisa said I’d gawked at him. I hoped not.
“Damn! It’s a wonder your eyes didn’t pop out of their sockets,” she said when we waited downstairs for her father to take us home.
I laughed to hide my embarrassment. “Lise, I couldn’t help myself.
Victor’s table etiquette appeared faultless; he knew the correct silverware to select for dining. But I was the one having trouble, so I carefully watched him and Lisa, who sat across from me.
I nervously fingered with my napkin, and listened as he discussed a book by V.S. Naipaul, “A House for Mr. Biswas,” the erection of the Berlin Wall, and the Bay of Pigs with the man on his right. In their conversation, he said he spoke five languages: Brazilian-Portuguese, Spanish, Italian, French and English.
When he turned toward me, picked up my place card and read my name, my heart quickened inside my chest. I licked my lips nervously.
“Ola! Consuela Moreno” he said softly, extending his hand. “Victor d’Arezzo. Where are you from?” His eyes were a dazzling brown with flecks of gold. They crinkled when he smiled.
“Philadelphia,” I whispered, swallowing.
“And your family, are they from the Caribbean?”
“Yes, Hispaniola—Dominican Republic.”
“Ah, yes,” he said nodding, “Republica Dominica, the Spanish side. “Habla Espanol?” (Do you speak Spanish?)
“Habla Espanol un poquita,” (I speak very little Spanish), I said. “My grandparents, father and relatives speak fluent Spanish.”
“That happens a lot when people come to the States. Their children are not interested in learning a second language. Too bad.”
“I know enough Spanish to get by,” I said, clearing my throat
He grinned, displaying beautiful, white, evened teeth, on the canvas of his golden skin, and I began to melt inside.
I oozed. It was the feeling of chocolate in summer’s heat. With intense emotions, my heart thumped wildly inside my chest like bongo drums. I became tongue-tied and spoke just above a whisper. I have the chance to talk to this gorgeous man and I can’t speak above a whisper.
He asked me about books by Richard Wright, Langston Hughes, and Claude McKay, and poetess Gwendolyn Brooks, some of his favorite reads. I had never heard of them. And yes, I was embarrassed. They were well known Black writers.
In school, I had read Willa Cather, Victor Hugo, and James Joyce. And of course, I read Flaubert, at home in my room, which was considered too racy by nun’s standards. But my ignorance of black writers appeared to amuse him.
“It’s all right,” he said in a reassuring voice. “I take it you know nothing about the Harlem Renaissance either?”
I shook my head and repeated the name, Harlem Renaissance. Damn, I lived in Harlem and knew nothing about that era and their great writers. I felt inadequate sitting next to him.
“Brazilians are interested in Americans. Those of us, who have the education, glean all we can about our North American brothers and sisters.”
He stared at me with his piercing brown eyes, and I squirmed in my seat. The look was fathomless, sensual. His accented voice was low and husky. My spine tingled. “What do you do in your spare time?” His stare was intense now. I felt breathless.
Laughter filtered throughout the room. I glanced at Lisa. She appeared in animated discussion with another guest, a man named Tacito and the woman who sat next to him. He stared at me. I smiled and nodded. But my interest lay elsewhere.
But Lisa seemed to have the situation well in hand. She fit in with this group. She was poised and knowledgeable. Maybe not as pretty but still, she had it all together; her look, voice, personality and clothes.
Funny how she envied my talent and I envied her wherewithal and sophistication. She was where I wanted to be, hoped to be, and would be, someday. But right now, I was feeling anxious. This suave man’s attention titillated and frightened me.
“Excuse me,” he said, and repeated his question. Light smoldered in his hazel eyes. I laughed, feeling nervous inside. I was hooked.
He hooked me when he smiled. He had me when I looked into his expressive brown eyes. He captivated me when he picked up my place card, and said my name in his husky voice, laced with Brazilian-Portuguese. He had me when beneath the table, my right leg quivered. His presence grabbed my attention and confused me. The feeling of losing control at the sound of a man’s voice and presence was new to me.
I looked over at Lisa. She too gave him the once over. Ah, yes, he had enthralled her too.
“I sew, embroider, and design. Every free minute, I have is spent on my craft. I’ve designed three prom gowns,” I said proudly. My voice was now a treble high and again, feeling, ungraceful, I laughed nervously. “My life is pretty dull.”
“Is that so,” he said in his throaty voice with amusement in his eyes. ‘
After dinner, he and Waldemar disappeared.
I thought of the man that had robbed me of my senses. Would I ever see Victor d’Arezzo again? Who is Victor d’Arezzo? I want to know everything about him…everything there is to know.

Your excerpt fascinated me.

Best of luck with your book.

Regards,

Urenna

This is fiction, yet, the book draws on reality for a lot of young women thirty and beyond that are still looking for a good man or "Mr. Goodbar." The excerpt was thoroughly enjoyable.

Very good. I felt like I was there. I could almost imagine her fear at being caught.

Regards,

Urenna

The excerpt is too brief. but it makes you want to read more. This appears to be an interesting read.

Urenna

I'm working on marketing my book and not reading as much, but I did read your excerpt. I was drawn to it. The story held my attention. My review might sound unusual, but I now look at work for their verbs, and show and tell. It helps me be a better writer. The excerpt has great verbs and great show and tell, Edwin!

Good luck!

Urenna

Very thought provoking, Dr. Peters.

Urenna

Thank you for the compliment, Michael. This is a romance novel; however, murder is suspected of one of the character's loved ones.

André Lélouche, a wealthy gentleman that owned homes in London and Paris, invited the sisters, Consuela and Olivia Moreno, to his famed annual masquerade and charity ball.
Lélouche, known more for debauchery than charity, did pretty much what he damn well pleased at his charities. Every year, aside from the wild, notorious parties he threw, he presented his charity ball for the elite of Europe.
The masquerade party was in full swing. Music by Wilson Pickett, Jimi Hendrix, and the Beatles blasted from several rooms. People danced crudely with and without partners. A man in a devil suit chased a woman with his spear. He prodded her in the buttocks, and she slapped him.
Men stared and showed their lustful admiration for a woman who showed up in a yellow polka dot bikini. “Cottage cheese thighs,” said a woman, laughing. Others snickered, but the bikini-clad woman strutted with an air of confidence.
The house, an enormous brownstone, displayed high ceilings with low-hanging crystal chandeliers, marble fireplaces, and exquisite porcelain figurines. A life-size sculpture of Venus stood in a corner of the room. Littered with expensive artwork and antiques, the home’s original decorative cornices appeared intact. The floors, covered in heavy Chinese carpets, now revealed oak parquet for dancing.
After dancing and now feeling the effects of the joint and alcohol, Olivia peered into a room with classical music. It appeared empty except for a couple that sat in a corner necking. They looked up when she entered. The man stared for a moment, and the woman playfully slapped his face and kissed him.
Olivia knew the flared micro-mini number showed too much skin. Her breasts jiggled when she walked. The top made her breasts look too bulbous, and she knew Connie intentionally ordered a smaller-sized costume for her.
Later, Connie found Olivia relaxed on a sofa, reviewing the auction program in what Connie considered the flat room. Connie began to feel regret that she invited Olivia. “Olivia should be dancing and meeting wealthy men. Instead, she sits on a tuffet reading her cares away,” thought Connie. Disgusted, Connie walked away. “This was supposed to be fun. Can’t she forget that knucklehead that dumped her? Thank God I hid his letters from her,” she mumbled.
The hunchback walked into the room, stood over Olivia, and grinned. He as well as other men admired the cinnamon-skinned woman. They were smitten by her beauty, even behind the mask. Curvy and regal, she had unknowingly walked seductively across the room, transmitting desire to admirers.
The masked stranger in the hunchback costume looked down at Olivia’s tight bodice that revealed her ample breasts. He liked that she was tall, with shapely legs; she was at least five-feet eleven in stiletto heels.
Olivia thought him warm and friendly. They both smiled. Nevertheless, like the other men, he had salivated the moment she walked in.
She looked up at him, nodded, and continued to review the auction program highlights.
Lélouche would auction off not only couples for the evening for charity but paintings and antique furnishings as well.
Olivia read the program and the charities Lélouche and friends honored over the years. Pictures of famous people and the elitist of society were displayed. Olivia continued to flip through the program. She ignored the hunchback’s stares.
Hunchback sat down next to her. Olivia moved over and gave him leeway to sit with the hump on his back. He showed her a sign that read: “Mute, Hunchback of Notre Dame.” He wrote on a hand-held chalkboard, and asked her name.
“Mademoiselle,” Olivia said.
“Mademoiselle who?” he wrote.
Someone announced that the auction had begun. Olivia ignored his question and stood up. She walked toward the door and looked above the crowd for Connie. People stood around an area cordoned off. The music stopped, and someone spoke from a microphone and requested silence. Heedless of the announcement, a woman laughed out loud as a man whispered in her ear, couples kissed and groped, and a man goosed a woman in a tutu.
The hunchback came and stood beside Olivia as she searched the crowd for Connie. He seized Olivia’s hands, held them for a brief moment, and felt their softness. Speechless, Olivia felt funny inside. In silence, he stared at her, as she slowly removed her hands from his, and walked away.
Olivia felt uncomfortable. His touch, although expressive and friendly, had thrilled her. She felt warm and tingly inside.
The French were amiable and vivacious; kisses and touching were their way of greeting you.
Olivia spied Connie wildly waving her hand.
“What did hunchback want?” Connie asked, as she nudged Olivia and grinned.
“He asked my name.”
“I hope you didn’t tell him.”
“No!” Olivia rushed to keep up with Connie.
The auction began in a large ballroom. Golden silk-damask drapes hung from floor to ceiling on large-paned windows. The auction area where they stood was chained off with golden, velvet rope. Olivia glanced at the throng that hid behind their masks. All eyes watched them when the auction began. A large bald man, dressed like Superman, suggestively licked his tongue at Olivia.
“Why are we first?”
“It’s better than being last.”
Lélouche gave a brief introduction, explained the charities, and thanked his guests for their generosity. He nodded at the sisters and said they were being auctioned as a pair. The party or parties paid for two charities and dined with lovely damsels. “And whatever else floats your boat,” said Lélouche as he gyrated his hips. The crowd roared with laughter, and Olivia, horrified, clutched Connie’s hand.

Fascinating story and an interesting topic for a novel. What made you choose to write this story?

Urenna

I liked it. It has plenty of action and that's what you should have in your novel. It kept me interested.