Wendy Wax's Blog, page 15

TBVD: Throw Back Valentine’s Day–On Being Romantic

Five years ago, when our oldest son was getting ready to leave the nest, the arrival of Valentine’s Day had me thinking about all the things that contribute to a happy romantic relationship. I shared those thoughts with my sons and with readers. (And at least readers didn’t roll their eyes at me—anyway, not where I could see them.) The essence of it all was that it’s not just about the gifts and flowers. Now they’re men and I’ve started wondering if they got the message. Guess I’ll just have to stand by and see what the women in their future lives have to say. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this Throw Back Valentine’s Day post.

Training Men for Valentine’s Day…

I have two teenage sons, one of whom is about to graduate from high school. He’ll be leaving for college next fall and, frankly, I’ve started wondering how well I’ve prepared him to exist out in the world on his own. And how harshly the future women in his life may judge me.

The truth is that while my sons are fabulous human beings, there are a lot of things I’d hoped to teach them that they haven’t quite grasped; things I wish my mother-in-law had managed to teach her son.

Like how to put dirty clothes IN the hamper instead of on the floor in little piles right near it. How to put empty containers into the trash can instead of back in the refrigerator or on the pantry shelf; how to load and unload the dishwasher instead of leaving the dirty dishes in the sink; how to replace the paper towels or toilet paper when the roll runs out.

And then there are the all-important skills of finding their belongings without immediately asking for help from the nearest female. And remembering to put the toilet seat down.

I thought these things would be easy. They are, after all, so…basic. I figured that my mother-in-law lovely though she is, simply hadn’t tried hard enough.

But I’m running out of time and I may have to accept the fact that once the initial rosy glow has worn off there will be more than one young woman who will wonder what my sons’ mother was thinking!

So this year, I’ve decided to forego munching chocolates and swilling champagne on Valentine’s Day in order to teach my sons how to be romantic–something I’m fairly certain they won’t be learning from their father.

I’m planning to start with Frivolous Gestures 101 in which I will explain why men who buy their wives and girlfriends gifts at Tiffany’s have happier relationships and 85% more sex than those who shop at AutoZone.

This will be followed by a mini-course in Abject Apologizing, which I believe every male over the age of sixteen should be required to take—especially those who failed Frivolous Gestures 101.

If there’s time, we’ll run through a series of heartfelt-compliment flash cards for conveying things like, “I love a woman with a healthy appetite” and “Wow, you look fabulous! Have you lost weight?”

Then we’ll work on fast-thinking skills with real-life reenactments designed to prepare them for tricky questions like, ‘Do I look fat in this?” and “If you

couldn’t go  out with me, which one of my best friends would you most want to go out with?”

… and since this is also Throwback Thursday, I can’t resist sharing a blast from my past.

Compared to remembering to pick up their clothes or put down the toilet seat, this is really important stuff. A woman may forgive a messy bathroom, but a missed romantic moment can haunt a relationship forever.

It’s just a beginning, of course, and there’s a lot of ground to cover. But I can’t think of a better day than Valentine’s Day to start teaching a male how to deal with the opposite sex and make the world a more romantic place.

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Happy New Year to You! And News.

What a wonderful whirlwind the holidays have been, from November’s turkey kick-off to the fun of ringing in 2015. I went into the new year with a bang having just received the cover for my next novel, A Week at the Lake. I’ve included it below and I hope you like it as much as I do!

I hope your new year is off to an equally good start. I wish for you and yours a year filled with joy, good fortune, good health and new adventures.

And, of course, happy reading! May you discover many new books and authors to embrace and enjoy this year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On sale June 23, 2015

 

 

News So Far 2015 . . .

Grab a preview! The first excerpt from A Week At the Lake is now up on my site.

A Week at the Lake is available for pre-order on line and in bookstores.

Downton Abbey is back!  The wait has ended! I know where I’ll be on Sunday nights for the next two months–on my couch “While I Am Watching Downton Abbey.”

Enjoy an excerpt.

 

 

 And, last but not least, news of Christmas in July!

 

Christmas at the Beach will be included as a bonus in print copies of A Week at the Lake.

It will be the first time in print for this holiday e-novella!

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It’s Downton Time!

In honor of Downton Abbey Season 5 airing tonight! Some of my favorite shots from While We Were Watching Downton Abbey book events!

               

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JCC Greenwich

Wednesday, January 7, Greenwich/Cos Cob, CT, 10:00 – 11:30 am

WHILE WE WERE WATCHING DOWNTON ABBEY: A Conversation with Wendy Wax

The Drawing Room, 5 Suburban Ave, Cos Cob 06807

Tickets available here

(203) 552-1818 info@jccgreenwich.org

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St. Louis Jewish Book Festival Author Talk

St. Louis, MO, January 20, 7:30 – 9:00 pm

Tea and Talk with Wendy Wax

JCC Arts and Education Building, #2 Millstone Campus Drive, St. Louis 63146

Information Here

314-442-3152

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Times and Democrat 7th Annual Page Turner Author Luncheon

Orangeburg, SC, Tuesday, March 3

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Mandel JCC of the Palm Beaches

Palm Beach Gardens, FL, Wednesday, March 25, 1:30 pm

Speaking and Signing

BallenIsles Country Club, 100 BallenIsles Circle, Palm Beach Gardens 33418

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Har Zion Temple

Philadelphia/Penn Valley, PA, April 27, 11:30 – 1:30 pm

Open a Book… Open Your Mind Series: Welcome Author Wendy Wax

1500 Hagys Ford Road, Penn Valley 19072

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A Week at the Lake

Excerpt

PRE-ORDER NOW:

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From the USA Today bestselling author of The House on Mermaid Point comes a powerful novel about secrets, loyalty, and the bonds of true friendship…

Twenty years ago, Emma Michaels, Mackenzie Hayes, and Serena Stockton bonded over their New York City dreams. Then, each summer, they solidified their friendship by spending one week at the lake together, solving their problems over bottles of wine and gallons of ice cream. They kept the tradition for years, until jealousy, lies, and life’s disappointments made them drift apart.

It’s been five years since Emma has seen her friends, an absence designed to keep them from discovering a long-ago betrayal. Now she’s in desperate need of their support. The time has come to reveal her secrets—and hopefully rekindle their connection.

But when a terrible accident keeps Emma from saying her piece, Serena and Mackenzie begin to learn about the past on their own. Now, to heal their friendship and their broken lives, the three women will have to return to the lake that once united them, and discover which relationships are worth holding on to.

 

Excerpt

[top]

Today she was in New York with hours to kill before heading to the lake. At her daughter’s request they were having lunch at one of the fancier restaurants on the Upper East Side not far from the Carlyle, where her grandmother’s apartment had been and where she and Zoe had taken a hotel room. Emma sincerely hoped this would be the last time she’d be required to dress up to consume food for the next week.

As they entered, there was a muted stutter of surprise followed by a brief pause before conversation resumed. The other diners pretended not to notice them as they were shown to a white-cloth-covered table overlooking a walled garden. But if there was anything Emma knew how to recognize, it was an audience.

“Ms. Michaels.” The maître d’ smiled and pulled out her chair.

“Emma.” She smiled back, automatically mirroring his vaguely midwestern accent; she had been born and bred with a finely tuned ear and could do almost any American dialect, with the possible exception of the unnamed one on Swamp People, which even the locals required subtitles to understand. “Please. Call me Emma.”

He nodded and smiled again as he pulled out the other chair for Zoe. Her daughter was fifteen and had somehow ended up with far more than her fair share of the Michaels gene pool. Her thick red-gold hair was straight and chopped in angled layers that Emma’s curls refused to be ironed, blown, or wrestled into. She was even taller than her grandparents and aunts and uncles, and had the creamy skin, finely chiseled features, and gray-green eyes that attested to their English/Irish heritage. Emma’s complexion was only partly creamy and was sprinkled with nutmeg-colored freckles that not even the best studio makeup people could completely obliterate.

Emma had learned to make the most of what she had. But when you were the runt of the litter and looked more Cockerdoodle than Great Dane, you didn’t do Shakespeare. You didn’t star with Humphrey Bogart or James Stewart like her grandmother had. Or take direction from Mike Nichols or Stanley Kubrick like her mother. You didn’t even play the tragically damaged wife of an unfairly convicted murderer on death row, a part her sister Regan won an Oscar for. You played the girl who couldn’t quite get the guy. Or the spunky heroine who picked herself up after her husband left her and somehow finds a modicum of happiness as a greeter at Walmart. Emma had made a great living playing those kinds of parts. At forty-five she didn’t get quite as many romantic comedy leads as she used to, though it was possible she’d still be offered the occasional dimple-and-giggle part when she was white haired and stooped from arthritis. Not that her estranged parents and siblings would be any more impressed by her body of work then than they were now.

They looked over their menus, and Emma considered how best to say all the things she wanted to say to Zoe. Conciliatory things that would convince her once and for all that Emma loved her and only wanted what was best for her. Even though despite all efforts to the contrary, she’d somehow turned out to be almost as abysmal a parent as the mother and father she’d so publicly “divorced.” Uncertain, she reached for the bread. If she kept her mouth full she wouldn’t be able to say the things she needed to say. But she might not say the wrong thing, either.

In just a few hours the one week she used to look forward to most every year—her lake retreat with the two women she’d known longest and best—would begin. They were the only people on earth who really understood why she’d come to New York all those years ago. They were Zoe’s “fairy godmothers.” The only friends around whom she’d never needed to be “on” and who remembered Zoe as the little girl she’d carted from country to country and movie set to movie set. Her daughter’s memory of those happy years seemed to have disappeared along with her chubby cheeks and angelic smile.

If Mackenzie and Serena were here with them at the restaurant, Emma was pretty sure the bread she’d just swallowed wouldn’t be turning to lead in her stomach. She was counting on them to help her fix things with Zoe and then somehow, before they all went back to their real lives, Emma would have to find a way to finally share the secret she’d had no right to keep. Then she’d see her attorneys to finish off all the paperwork. Even a benign tumor made a person want to put things right.

They placed their orders. Their retreat, at which calorie counting had always been banned hadn’t officially begun so despite all the bread she’d already consumed, Emma ordered rabbit food. Zoe, who got the Michaels metabolism, which appeared to be unfairly tied to height, ordered a burger and fries.

“I spoke with Calvin,” Zoe said after the waiter left. Calvin Hardgrove, movie heartthrob, got top billing as Zoe’s father on her birth certificate but made only cameo appearances in Zoe’s life. “He said that he’d be away on location all summer but that if I want to stay in his guesthouse while I work on Teen Scream I can.”

“No.”

Zoe’s lips tightened, but not enough to prevent a response. “Why not?”

Another basket of bread arrived. Emma managed to ignore it.

“Because you’re fifteen years old. You can’t live alone in a Malibu guesthouse without supervision. And I read the script. It calls for nudity.”

“But my character doesn’t undress. And it’s not gratuitous nudity,” she countered. “There’s a reason why the characters take off their clothes.”

Emma tried to sound calm but firm, but it was a stretch. “Yes, I believe that reason is so that they can have sex.”

Zoe quickly changed tack. “You’ve left me alone plenty of times when you’ve been on location.”

“I’ve left you with a sitter and a staff when I’ve had to,” Emma replied. And only after Zoe got too old to miss so much school. “That’s not the same thing at all.” It wasn’t, was it? Her voice faltered as she realized she was asking Zoe to accept things she’d never forgiven her own parents for. If Emma hadn’t had Gran, she would have been completely lost.

“You’re always trying to hold me back.” Zoe’s voice rose. It was a favorite complaint and one she’d clearly come to believe. She delivered it with conviction.

Emma knew her daughter could act. She was fairly certain she’d been emoting in the womb and she’d done really well at the Los Angeles County High School for the Arts. She just didn’t think there was any reason to start a career so young. Nor did she think a teen exploitation film in which most of the characters would be screaming their heads off while naked was an acceptable first vehicle. And Emma should know. She’d walked away from childhood stardom, but that didn’t mean she didn’t remember every painful moment of it.

Their food arrived. She checked her watch and wondered if eleven thirty was too early for a drink.

“I’m trying to protect you, Zoe. If you decide you want to act, there’s plenty of time for that. After you finish school. Not before.”

“Sonya is tutored on set,” Zoe argued.

Sonya Craven was sixteen and had a regular role on Teen Bitch, er, Teen Witch. From what Emma had seen of Sonya—and her mother, with whom Emma had had the “pleasure” of performing—this was a clear case of typecasting and required almost no acting at all.

“You’re not Sonya. And I am not Sonya’s mother.” Their voices were rising.

“That’s such a cop-out.” Zoe quivered with righteous indignation. “At least Sonya’s mother nurtures her talent instead of trying to squash it.” Zoe’s eyes plumbed hers. She could feel her daughter’s awareness of the scene they were playing. When you were born into a theatrical family, there was no escaping theatrics.

Zoe put her glass down on the table and crammed a French fry into her mouth.

As emotional earthquakes went this wasn’t even a five on the Michaels Family Richter Scale. Compared to some of the rows that had taken place while Emma was growing up, it was barely a tremor. But there was something about the wrath of a fifteen-year-old girl to whom you’d given birth and loved more than you’d ever imagined you could love anyone, that could yank the ground right out from under your feet.

Emma glanced around the restaurant. At a Michaels family gathering this altercation would hardly be enough to make people stop chewing let alone end a meal. But the other diners had fallen silent and were no longer pretending they weren’t listening. It wasn’t every day you got to watch this kind of performance between two members of the Michaels family without buying a ticket.

“Oh, what’s the point?” Zoe, who knew intuitively how to end a scene and make an exit, removed the napkin from her lap, dropped it on the table, and scraped back her chair. “I’m out of here.”

“Zoe!” Emma put some bills on the table as she stood. Then she was speed walking out of the silent restaurant. The last time Zoe had stormed off she made it onto a cross-country flight from LAX to Serena’s in New York City.

Emma’s heart beat frantically as she shoved open the door. Out on the sidewalk she saw Zoe already across the street and two blocks down. This was the Upper East Side of New York not West LA, but Zoe was a fifteen-year-old girl and bad things happened in expensive neighborhoods every day.

“Zoe!” Her eyes on her daughter, who was studiously ignoring her, Emma began to sprint across the street. Which was when something hard slammed into her with the force of a freight train and sent her hurtling into the air. She flipped a couple of times, bounced off what might have been the roof or trunk of a car, and slammed into the concrete. Stray thoughts filtered through her head; she empathized with Humpty Dumpty. She congratulated herself for having on clean underwear.

There was no pain, which definitely seemed wrong. She heard feet running and voices and then a siren in the distance. It occurred to her that she could die, and regret flooded through her. She’d already cheated death once. Now she’d never get the chance to prove to her daughter how much she loved her. Never see Mackenzie or Serena again. Her last thoughts began to run together: She should have scheduled the attorney before they left for the lake. Should have confessed the secret she’d been carrying. Should have begged forgiveness. Should have . . .

Darkness descended. Panic came with it. There was something she was supposed to take care of. Something that would alter the lives of the people who meant the most to her.

Her world was going black. And she couldn’t for the life of her remember what it was.

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Just Received the Perfect Gift!

One of the best presents an author can receive just arrived! I opened my inbox and there it was—the cover for my June novel, A Week at the Lake! Excuse all the !!! points, but I can’t help myself. I really like it and I hope you do, too. I’m so excited to be sharing it with you and I can’t wait to hear what you think.

It’s the story of three friends, Emma Michaels, Mackenzie Hayes and Serena Stockton, who met and bonded twenty years ago in New York City and whose friendship grew and strengthened every summer at Emma’s family lake house in the Adirondacks.

Estranged for five years, the women reunite when Emma invites them to return to Lake George, the setting that nurtured them for so many years. Emma has more than a reunion planned. She intends to reveal a long held secret—one she should never have kept from those she once considered closer than sisters.

I hope your holiday is filled with health, happiness, and love. And that the gifts you give and receive leave you smiling with the same kind of excitement I couldn’t wait to share.

Wendy

Available for pre-order 

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Books-a-Million

iBooks

Kobo

and at your favorite bookstore.

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