Eliza Lentzski's Blog, page 5

Happy Fourth of July!

Bittersweet Homecoming

CHAPTER THREE

I smile when I push the door open and hear the tiny bell jingle above my head. Simply by walking into my dad’s store, my senses are assaulted with memories. Part hardware store, part service center, the shelves of the small shop are stacked with basic tools and home improvement accessories. Emily and I had once played Supermarket Sweep with my dad’s inventory; we’d spent the good part of a week putting everything we’d dumped into our shopping carts back on the shelves.

Grand Marais is too small and too remote to ever attract a big chain store that could put my dad out of business, but even if people do the bulk of their shopping in distant Duluth, they still require my dad’s expertise whenever something breaks. He does it all—plumbing, electrical, construction, even fixing the small motors on things like lawnmowers, weed whackers, and the occasional snow blower.

 My dad’s just coming out of the back room that serves as his office when I enter.

“Hey, Dad.”

He wipes greasy hands, heavily calloused but with no signs of arthritis, on an already dirty rag. “Hey, kid. You come down for the parade?”

“They still do that?”

“Like clockwork.”

“So why are you open? It’s the Fourth of July.”

“Just working on a project for Emma Bernstein. You remember her, right?”

“Works at the bank?”

I pause and reflect on what I’ve just said. It’s strange being from such a small town. Nothing gets a proper noun name except for a few restaurants and hotels—the only businesses we have more than one of.

“Why don’t you grab a Popsicle from the freezer, and I’ll meet you out there?” my dad suggests.

In addition to hammers and nails, he also stocks a few candy bars and summer treats. In the winter months he uses the giant icebox to store hunks of venison, purchased from local hunters. My California friends would probably be horrified to know he stores deer meat next to the popsicles and ice cream drumsticks. I grab a green Popsicle—sure to turn my tongue an interesting color—from the freezer and go outside.

I sit down on the curb in front of my dad’s store and wait for the parade to start. The sidewalks are crowded with similarly minded people sitting on coolers and lawn chairs. The tornado whistle goes off, indicating the parade is about to begin. With so much water surrounding the town, tornadoes are rare. The warning siren is only ever used to announce the beginning of town-wide events like the Fourth of July parade or to proclaim that it’s noon on a Sunday.

Kids cover their ears when the slow rolling police, ambulance, and fire trucks blast their sirens. The volunteer firefighters are dressed like clowns. Local politicians up for re-election in the coming months toss candy from floats, and gangs of children run into the street to claim the Tootsie Rolls and Blow Pops.

My dad makes a noise as he eases himself down to sit beside me on the curb. “Where’s your sister?” he grunts.

“At the house.” I pull my legs up and rest my chin on my bare knees. I had knocked a few times on her bedroom door before heading out, but she’d only yelled at me to leave her alone.

He stares straight ahead. “This used to be her favorite holiday.”

I pat his knee. “It still could be.”

+ + +

“Time to get up,” I crow.

Emily pulls the quilt over her head in response.

I tug at the bottom of the handmade cover, but she holds fast to her end. “Come on, Em!” I practically whine. “You have to come with me to the Firemen’s Picnic.”

“Why?” Her voice is muffled by the comforter over her head.

“Because it’s tradition!” I exclaim. “You already missed the parade, but there’s still time to catch the potato sack and the three-legged races.”

“You should go without me.”

“But, Em,” I pout, “I want to go with my sister. I haven’t been to the picnic in like twenty years.” It hasn’t been that long, but it might as well have.

This time when I pull on the blanket, she doesn’t immediately tug it back over her head and hide. Her face is red and sweaty, and her hair is slightly out of control. “Everyone’s going to look at me.”

“Let them. You’ve gotta get outside. You’ve gotta spend some time with the living.” As soon as I say the L-word I know I’ve made a mistake. Emily’s eyes water up, and I’m sure I’ve just set her back a few weeks.

“Does the volunteer fire department still host the picnic?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

She nods, and I can hear the affirming words get caught in the back of her throat.

“Hot dogs and ice cream sandwiches?”

She nods again. “And orange drink,” she manages to choke out.

“The most watered-down orange drink in the state,” I say. I can practically taste the powdered drink mix on my tongue. “See? Now you have to come with. You need your annual dosage of orange drink. It’s good for the soul. Keeps you young.”

She manages a watery smile. Victory is within my reach.

I grab her hand. Her skin is cold to the touch, and I intertwine my warmer fingers with her icy digits. “C’mon, Em,” I coax. “Come just for a little bit.”

She exhales noisily through her nose. It rattles, and I’m on the lookout for tissues. “Okay.”

+ + +

Like much of my hometown, the city park looks untouched by time. There’s a new jungle-gym in the center of the playground, brightly painted in red and blue and surrounded by shredded tires so if kids fall while playing, they’ll bounce. The old classics are still there though—the wooden see-saw, the deathtrap merry-go-round, the hanging tire swing on a rusted chain. I feel the need to get a tetanus booster shot just looking at them.

In an empty green space no bigger than a football field, the kids’ foot races are being held. From where we stand I can hear the supportive cheers coming from the surrounding crowd. I competed in those foot races every summer growing up, but always came in fourth place, trailing behind the more popular girls, never placing high enough to have my name printed in the newspaper.

A sizeable line has formed near the cluster of grills as people queue up to get their complimentary Fourth of July hot dog. I can sense Emily’s discomfort; if we stand in that line she’ll be surrounded by sympathetic glances without any place to hide.

“Want to go sit over there until the line gets shorter?” I ask, pointing to a vacant wooden bench. Emily nods, looking visibly relieved.

There are far fewer people in this section of the park. Most people are either at the kids’ races or waiting for a hot dog.

“Not so bad, right?”

Emily makes a noncommittal noise beside me. She’s always had a hard time admitting when I’m right. I’m sure it’s a sister thing.

I close my eyes behind the tinted lenses of my sunglasses. It’s a beautiful day, but with my sister sitting beside me, still perceptively sniffling, I feel guilty for enjoying the sun on my skin. It never really gets above the mid-70’s around here, which is something I do miss about my hometown. LA is too hot for me. LA is too much of just about everything for me.

“Amelia, not so high.”

I open my eyes at the sound of a vaguely familiar voice.

A little blonde cherub, pale skin despite the summer season, and a pile of curls on top of her head, scrambles down a giant wooden playground structure. I remember playing on it myself in my youth. It looks like a giant ladder made out of telephone poles.

“Is this okay?” the little girl asks. She looks around five or six years old, but I can’t be sure. I know very little about kids. Her hair is an ephemeral swirl of light blonde hair. It’s wild and unruly, like a delicate puff of cotton candy, or like a mound of soap bubbles that might scatter with one stiff breeze.

The woman from the bar, Charlotte, shields her eyes from the sun with her hands. “Much better,” she approves.

I can’t help but stare at her in profile. She’s even more beautiful beneath the high afternoon sun. She splits her attention between the paperback on her lap and the jungle gym. Long, thick eyelashes curl up when she checks on the young girl. She’s wearing a sleeveless sundress and strappy sandals. It’s a little dressed up for a day at the city park, but she looks great. The skirt hits just above her knee, revealing tan, toned calves. The top of the dress dips low enough to show off that defined collarbone I’d been privately admiring when she first waited on me, but it’s modest enough to not show off cleavage. The shoulder straps of her sundress sink seamlessly into round shoulders. Her arms are what really draw my attention—long and lean with definition in her triceps.

“Hey, Em?”

My sister makes a humming noise beside me. “Yeah?”

“Do you remember Charlotte Johansson?” Her last name suddenly comes to me.

“Uh huh. We graduated together. She’s still around town, I think.”

“Yeah, I saw her working at Roundtree’s the other day.”

“What about her?”

“Who’s that kid with her?” I nod my head in their direction as unobtrusively as possible.

“I think it’s hers.”

“Really? Is she married?”

“I don’t think she and the kid’s father ever got married. I hear he was a real asshole to her.”

“You hear a lot of things, don’t you?”

She shrugs, nonplussed. “It’s a small town. People like to talk. You know how it is.”

I nod. People certainly do like to talk. It’s one of the major reasons I had to get out of this place. Being gay in a small town is front-page news. I’m just lucky that I didn’t figure it out until I was away at college so I didn’t have to face these people every day.

“Why do you ask?” Emily questions.

“Asking for a friend.” I’m well aware of how distracted my voice sounds. You can’t blame me though—the woman’s got killer legs that I hadn’t seen before because they’d been hidden behind the bar.

“How’s Kambria?”

The mention of my girlfriend’s name is what’s able to pull my attention away from Charlotte Johansson’s legs. My sister looks at me with what I can only describe as a smug smile on her face. I know she’s judging me and my wandering eyes, but I’ll take the smugness from her any day; it’s the first time I’ve seen anything remotely resembling a smile on her face since I got to town.

“You’re horrible,” Emily scolds me. “As a feminist, shouldn’t you be above ogling?”

I return my gaze to the leggy blonde. “What can I tell you? I’m a bad feminist.”

“How’s your writing going?” Emily asks.

“Slow. But that’s the glamorous lifestyle I chose for myself.”

Emily’s always been supportive of my creative goals and my passion for writing for the stage, but I know she’s never quite approved of it being my sole income. It’s too risky, too unconventional of a profession for her. But even I had worried about that; could I continue to be prolific and productive for the rest of my working life?

“Ever think you’ll write for TV or maybe write a movie screenplay?”

“I’d never say never, but so far writing for the stage has been good to me.”

“Why do you live in LA?” she asks me.

“What do you mean?”

“LA and television; LA and movies, sure. But I don’t see the connection between Los Angeles and plays. Shouldn’t you be in New York?”

“I have no aspirations to write a Broadway play if that’s what you’re suggesting.”

“Why not?” she presses. “Don’t you want more?”

“More what? Money?” I shake my head. “I like my life. More money or fame or whatever isn’t going to make me happier.”

“But I still don’t get it. Why LA?”

“I like the weather,” I quickly dismiss. “Are you hungry?”

She sighs quietly. “Not really.”

“I’m sure there’s a hot dog-shaped space in your stomach.” I pat her leg before I stand up. “I’ll be right back.”

The scent of charcoal is heavy in the air. I juggle two hot dogs and their condiments in one hand and two small Dixie cups filled with orange drink in the other.

“You need some help with that?” I hear someone ask.

“No, thanks. I’ve got it.”

I’m admittedly not watching where I’m going; I’m too focused on not dropping the orange drink, which is exactly what I do. One of the wax Dixie cups slips from my grip and hits the grass. The liquid splashes on the ground and some clings to my bare ankles.

“I guess I don’t have it.” I look up from the spilled cup to see Charlotte Johansson smiling at me.

“Hi.”

“Oh, uh, hi.”

“Charlotte,” she says. “From the bar the other day?”

I nod vigorously. “I remember.” As if I could have forgotten.

“Just making sure,” she smiles affably. She bends to retrieve the disposable cup and tosses it into a nearby garbage can. “People tell me I look different when I’m not covered in fryer grease and Jack Daniels.”

“I recognize you,” I say. “I mean, you look cleaner and less sweaty, but still the same.”

Her mouth twitches and her nose crinkles. “Didn’t you tell me you’re a writer?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Shouldn’t you—I don’t know—be better with words?”

“Oh,” I exclaim in understanding, “I’ve always been good with a pen and paper, but not so much with my mouth.” I grimace as soon as the words hit my ears. “That came out all wrong.”

“When’s the last time you came to one of these?” Her question is meant to save me from my awkward response, and for that I like her just a little bit more.

“The firemen’s picnic?” I breathe out. “God, it’s been years. At least a decade, probably longer.”

“I bet it’s exactly as you remember it,” she muses.

I nod in agreement. “Everyone’s hair looks more grey, wrinkles more pronounced, but other than that everything looks the same.”

She flips her long hair over one bronzed shoulder. “God, I hope you haven’t lumped me into that category,” she laughs.

“Oh! No, you look great,” I insist.

“Yeah,” she slyly grins, “maybe you should stick to pen and paper.”

She eats the rest of her hot dog in small, precise bites, and throws away the paper coffee filter that had been wrapped around the bun. I don’t want her to catch me staring, so I stare into the bottom of my orange drink instead. There’s a black speck floating in the watered-down mixture, and I can’t tell if it’s dirt or a bug. Either way, I’m done drinking it.

“Tut, tut.” Charlotte looks towards the sky. “Looks like rain.”

I hold my arm out, palm up, as the first few sprinkles hit my skin. The gentle patter exponentially worsens, forcing the picnickers to run for shelter. Charlotte grabs my hand and tugs me towards the closest covered patio. It’s a cement slab that serves as a platform for wooden picnic tables. Everyone else has the same idea until we’re all squished together beneath the open-air canopy. I can still feel a few stray raindrops through the cracks in the shelter’s roof, but it’s better than standing in the pouring rain.

The rain doesn’t seem to bother the children, however. If anything, it’s re-energized them. While we adults are crammed beneath the roofed shelter, the party continues for them beyond the shelter’s reach.

Charlotte still holds my hand even after we’ve reached the shelter. She feels solid and warm despite how the unforeseen rain has lowered the air temperature. I had expected her hands to be rough—calloused from opening so many beer bottles—but they’re soft and smooth like I imagine the rest of her being.

She drops my hand and laughs. “Sorry. Mom instincts,” she explains.

I’m too stunned to do anything but smile in return.

Fingers that had grasped my hand so tightly now rake through slightly damp hair. When I’d seen her at the bar, her hair had been up in a loose bun, messy but attractive in an effortless kind of way. Now that her hair is damp, it’s begun to curl at her temples from the humidity.

“So much for that blow out,” she complains.

“You still look great,” I vocalize. She’s more than great; she’s breathtaking. The rain has caused her clothes to cling to her figure a little more.

Her fingers stop their futile task and her hands fall to her sides. “Thanks.”

A shrill, high-pitched shriek snaps my attention away from the lovely bartender. Children run in zigzagging patterns around the city park with their arms stretched out as if they might sprout wings and take flight. I watch Charlotte’s daughter stomp barefoot in pools of standing water.

“Do you remember ever being like that?” Charlotte speaks beside me.

“It feels like a million years ago,” I admit. “Was it supposed to rain today?”

“I’m a bartender; not the local weather girl.”

I tentatively stretch my foot beyond the protective covering. The light rain is cool on my sun-baked toes. I wiggle painted toenails and watch the water bead up on my skin.

Before I can step out fully into the rain, Charlotte is speaking again: “I’d better grab my kid and bring her home to dry out. Amelia,” she calls out sharply. “Time to go.”

I expect her daughter to put up a fight, but after one more good stomp that produces an impressive splash, she’s chasing after her mom, darting between raindrops to reach their parked car. They join hands, and I hear the joyful, high-pitched shrieks and yelps.

“Are you done being a bad feminist?” Emily, looking slightly damper than the last time I saw her, is suddenly at my side.

“Where have you been?” I ask, ignoring her question.

“Taking shelter like everyone else. You and Charlotte Johansson looked cozy,” she coyly observes.

“We were talking about the weather,” I insist.

“You owe me a hot dog.”

+ + +

I had been hopeful that maybe Emily was starting to come out of her deep depression, but as soon as we return to my dad’s house after the picnic, she retreats back to her bedroom. Lying on my bed in my room across the hallway, I can hear the floor creak and groan with my sister’s periodic footsteps, but beyond her haunted gait, the house is silent. There’s nothing on TV and there’s no wireless Internet. There’s a computer downstairs in the den with dial-up Internet, but I no longer possess the patience for the slow-crawl of buffering Internet connections.

My cell phone rotates between no service and limited bars of reception. Kambria and I haven’t spoken since I left Los Angeles. I sent her a text when my plane landed in Minneapolis and when I’d arrived in Grand Marais. She’s sent a few texts of her own, but neither of us has attempted to actually call each other. It’s the first time we’ve been in different area codes since we met.

With the time difference, it’s still early in California. Even though it’s a holiday, Kambria should just be getting off of work and probably getting ready to go out. She’s an administrative assistant by day, but at night the skirt gets shorter and the makeup more dramatic. Everyone has more than one career in Hollywood. Most people I meet are some combination of waitress/model/aspiring celebrity.

During a longer stretch of connectivity, I call her number, and on the third ring, she picks up.

“Hello?”

“Kami?” There’s unexpected loud music playing in the background, and I can’t tell if it’s even her voice because of all the noise.

“Hey, babe,” she greets affably. “How is everything?”

I sigh heavily into the phone. “A mess. My sister is a wreck, not that I blame her. I managed to get her to leave the house today for the first time since the funeral though, so I guess that’s a good sign.”

“Abs, I can’t really hear you.”

I stick a finger to the ear not pressed against my phone. “Can’t you go someplace where it’s not so loud?” I’m having a hard time hearing her, too, even though it’s silent in my bedroom.

“I’m out with some people from work. I don’t want to be rude.”

Well, you’re being rude to me. I swallow down my annoyance.

“I’m sorry, Abs. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

We hang up, and I toss my phone on my bed. Instead of her voice calming me or reassuring me that everything is going to be okay, it’s only succeeded in aggravating me.

My relationship with Kambria isn’t much different than those I’ve been in before, and I can almost predict what’s going to happen next. Everything burns fast and hot in the beginning, but once the gestalt has worn off and someone inevitably gets bored, the relationship comes to a crash-and-burn finale. This is probably the beginning of the end.

I snap my eyes towards my bedroom door when I hear the knock. “What?” I say with probably too much heat.

My dad pokes his salt-and-peppered head inside. “I’m going down to the fireworks,” he says almost apologetically. “You want to come?”

I don’t feel like being social, but any excuse to get out of this house is welcomed.

I take a long, calming breath. “Yeah.”

+ + + 

With the town boundaries hugging Lake Superior, there are few spots where you can’t see the Fourth of July fireworks. The most popular place for viewing the fireworks has always been a grass-covered bluff a few hundred yards from the shoreline. It’s probably the highest point in town and therefore the best spot from which to watch the fireworks. Normally the hill is overrun with wild flowers and weeds, but the city mows the lot in the last days of June in preparation of the holiday.

By the time my dad and I show up that evening in the moments before dusk, the hilltop is crawling with families. People have already staked their claim across the grassy hill with folding chairs and blankets. Children run around with sparklers that shower bright gold flecks. A few of the older kids have roman candles that they point and shoot into the sky.

I stay close to my dad as we make our way through the concentrated crowds. He stops every few feet to talk to someone he knows, and I linger in the background, smiling and silent. Small talk with people who’ve known me all my life makes me even more anxious than Hollywood parties. Regardless of my other accomplishments, without a diamond ring on my finger or a wallet full of pictures of my kids, I’ll never feel like a real adult in this city.

“I’ve got to talk to Fred Patterson about a job,” my dad says. “Why don’t you scope out a place for us to sit?”

I nod, thankful for the task, but also dread being on my own. I do my best to survey the grassy hill for decent seats, but it’s made more difficult when I’m trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone.

“Abigail Henry,” a voice calls out.

It takes me a moment to scan the crowd for the owner of the lower-registered feminine voice, but then I see her sitting on a blanket in the grass. She’s changed out of her sundress from earlier that day and has opted for skinny jeans and a plaid button-up shirt that’s rolled up to her elbows.

I take a few steps in her direction. “Charlotte Johansson,” I respond with an easy smile. “We meet again.”

“I’m glad to see you didn’t drown in the rain,” Charlotte remarks.

“I’m resilient like that.”

“No Emily tonight?” she asks.

“Nope,” I say, shaking my head. “I was happy enough to get her out of the house for the picnic though. Baby steps.”

Charlotte pats the space beside her. “Want to sit?”

I look around at the immediate area. Nearly all of the ground space has already been claimed, and anything left is quickly being gobbled up by families with oversized blankets. “Thanks. My dad and I didn’t really come prepared.”

“I’ve got plenty of blanket,” she assures me. “And there’s no way Amelia will sit still until the fireworks start, so you’re both in luck.”

I take up an empty spot on the blanket. “How old is she?”

“Six.”

I whistle under my breath. “You have a six year old? Did you have her when you were twelve?”

“Funny,” she rolls her eyes.

I do the mental math. Charlotte’s the same age as my sister, which means she was around twenty-one or twenty-two when Amelia was born. To an outsider that might seem like a young age to be having children, but in my hometown, teenage births are the norm. Approaching my thirtieth birthday, I’m practically a spinster.

“Do you have any kids?”

“Me?” I’m not expecting the question. “No. I’m gay.”

She doesn’t blink. “That doesn’t mean you can’t have kids.”

“Right. Sorry.”

“The fireworks are supposed to be really good tonight,” she notes. “Last Fourth of July the company the city hired screwed up, so they promised a show to bring down the house this year.”

“How do you screw up fireworks?” I question.

“You light off the grand finale first.”

A loud laugh bubbles up my throat and Charlotte looks particularly pleased at my reaction.

I’m not sure how to continue the conversation, so in the absence of having something to do, I take out my phone. I’ve got full reception up on the bluff, but no messages or missed calls from Kambria. There’s a texted image from Anthony, however. He’s set up stuffed animals among my houseplants. There’s a lion and a zebra and a giraffe. I quietly laugh, but not quiet enough.

“What’s that?” Charlotte asks.

“Oh, my friend Anthony is house sitting for me, and he sent a picture. We’ve got a running joke that my houseplants are a jungle.”

She leans closer to see the screen of my phone, and the ends of her hair tickle against my bare kneecap. It’s hard to smell anything over the scent of freshly cut grass, but I can make out the sweet scent of her soap.

“Cute,” she remarks before sitting up again.

The sun has sunk deeper into the horizon, and the evening sky is darker. My dad has disappeared on me, but because of my current company, I’m strangely okay with that. I take a deep breath and exhale, feeling my stress escape with the long breath.

Tiny fireflies hover in the air, making their own fireworks display. The ones we have in Minnesota look like helicopters or Inspector Gadget buzzing through the air with that propeller coming out of his hat. I open my hand, palm facing the sky, and a firefly lands to take a break. It periodically glows and slowly opens and closes its wings as it perches on my hand.

“Isn’t it hot?”

I look up from my cupped hand to see Charlotte’s daughter, Amelia, standing in front of me. “Hot?” I repeat, not quite understanding the question.

“The bug,” the young girl clarifies, “isn’t it burning your hands?”

“Oh. No. The fire’s inside its belly,” I say.

She crouches down for a closer look. My hands remain gently curled around the insect, and its yellow-green light flashes against my skin. “Why do they light up like that?” she asks.

“It’s how they talk to each other.” I’m no entomologist, but fireflies had been a part of my childhood. I also know that male fireflies light up to attract females for mating and that some species are actually cannibals. I’m not about to try to explain that to a six year old though.

Amelia peers hard at my still cupped hands. When I carefully open them, the tiny bug doesn’t fly away.

“What is it saying?” She speaks quietly as though afraid any loud noise might cause the insect to flee.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “What do you think it’s saying?”

She tilts her ear towards my hands. ”I think it’s trying to find someone. Like a friend, maybe.”

“I should probably let it go so it can keep looking, huh?”

She nods solemnly. She looks too serious for her young age.

I open my hands the rest of the way, and the insect hovers above my palms briefly before jetting off into the night sky.

“I hope you find your friend, firefly,” Amelia calls out. We both stare up into the inky black sky, which is dotted with tiny sparks of light.

“Amelia, baby, why don’t you have a seat?” Charlotte suggests. “The fireworks are going to start soon.”

“Can I do another sparkler?” she asks.

“One more and then you have to sit.”

Charlotte lights the end of a metal sparkler rod and hands it to her daughter. Amelia holds it out in front of her and stares unblinking at the golden shower of sparks.

“Do you want one?” Charlotte holds the open box of sparklers in my direction.

“No thanks, I’m good.”

“You’re kind of a natural,” she observes. “Are you sure you don’t have kids?”

I’m usually even more awkward around children than I am with their parents, but like dogs that seem to sense who is allergic to them, children tend to flock to me despite my ineptitude. Sometimes I feel like I have more in common with children than I do adults.

“I’m pretty sure I would have remembered something like that.”

Once the fireworks begin, Amelia obediently sits in her mom’s lap, oohing and aahing at the fireworks as they explode overhead. It brings a smile to my face; I remember being that young and thinking Grand Marais’s fireworks were the brightest and biggest and loudest in the world. Around me people start to cheer and clap their hands when the grand finale begins. Amelia covers her hands over her ears, but her smile isn’t shaken. I periodically sneak glances at Charlotte’s profile, lit up by the glow of multicolored fireworks. They have the same smile.

The cheering and applause heightens when the sky is choked with smoke and the last of the fireworks has sputtered out, and I can’t help but join along. At the end, people around us begin to stand and gather their belongings. I stand up on legs made stiff from inactivity. I haven’t seen my dad in a while, but I’m sure he’s somewhere in the crowd, probably talking to someone about plumbing or electrical outlets.

Charlotte picks up the blanket we’ve been sitting on, and I help her fold it.

“It’s not Los Angeles,” she remarks, “but I like it.”

I shake my head. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I know. But you were thinking it.” She gives me a wistful smile that almost makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong. “Have a nice night, Abby. And Happy Fourth of July.”

Hunter

Happy almost-summer, everyone!

I'm writing with a quick update on my next project. I typically like to give an indication of what I'm working on next and when you might expect it. I've been relatively silent, however, on my next novel.

Those of you who follow me on Instagram (@elizalentzski) recently got a preview of a page from my next novel, Hunter. And the questions have been pouring in. Is this about the Hunter, or did I run out of names? Is this another story for Winter Jacket? Is Hunter Dyson in high school? 

Because I primarily write from first-person point of view, I often get requests for a complimentary book from the opposite perspective. A story from Julia's point of view, for example, when Cassidy rides into town. I've previously resisted the idea because I wasn't sure I could do it without the book feeling redundant with no original storylines to contribute. 

 Hunter will be the prequel to the original Winter Jacket from Hunter's point of view starting winter break of her junior year of college--in the weeks before she meets her English professor. Where it ends? Well, I can't give that away. 

Hopefully this answers some questions. Stay tuned for more updates! 

Prost!

Eliza

Worth the Wait (?)

"I'll write tomorrow."

I can't count the number of nights I made that empty promise to myself, only to repeat the statement again the following night. 

The second half of 2016 was filled with big changes. I got married. Got a new job. Moved from the Midwest to New England. There were so many changes, it took me a good while to feel like myself again. I'm still not entirely there, but I found inspiration in your continued encouragement and interest in these characters. 

It feels really good to have Cold Blooded Lover completed and to be reconnecting with readers like you.  It feels really good to publish again and to be looking at what novel to work on next. It feels really good to be feeling more like myself again.

For those of you wondering about a Book 4, I've got plenty of story left to tell about Cassidy and Julia, and plenty of stories left to tell, period.  

 

My OTP - Pizza & Books

I proudly wore my Book It! pin. You earned a gold star for each book you read. When you filled up your pin, you got a free personal pan pizza.

A friend recently posted about how excited her kids are to be participating in March into Reading at their school, and I was instantly transported back to my own adolescence and being so excited to get my very own personal pan pizza once I read enough books. I was also thrilled to discover that Pizza Hut's BOOK IT! program is still going strong, 30 years later.

At my school during the month of March, we cut out a giant foot from construction paper for each book we read. The construction paper feet trailed along the walls of the classroom and into the hallways. Whichever class had the longest strand of feet won a pizza party. Apparently pizza and books are my OTP. 

I grew up in a tiny Midwest town--so small we didn’t have stoplights. In the summer months I rode my bike along the abandoned railroad tracks with my younger sister to the public library, each of us with an empty backpack strapped to our backs. We’d go to the library at least once a week, fill our book bags up with novels, and ride our bikes back home to do nothing but read all summer long. In fact, whenever I acted out as a child, my parents’ punishment was not allowing me to read. 

From a very young age I fell in love with words.  Judy Blume taught me everything I needed to know about being a girl, The Babysitter’s-Club series provided me models of true friendship, and Nancy Drew told me it was okay to be curious and to ask questions and to be exceptional and different.

I benefited from remarkable elementary teachers who nurtured my enthusiasm for books.  My 5th grade teacher was particularly formative.  I vividly remember acting out scenes in class from A Wrinkle In Time and transforming our classroom with butcher-block paper into the subway in Slake’s Limbo and eating saltines with ketchup like the central character. It was my 5th grade teacher who also encouraged me to write my first novel. Reading was the foundation of my zeal for writing fiction. Essentially, I wrote the books I wanted to read, which is a practice that continues today. 

I wonder about other people's relationships to reading and books. Have you always been a reader? Or did you come late to it? I'd love to hear your "root" stories about a book or a teacher or a program that made you fall for reading. 

In my own book news, my (ambitious) goal is to finish Cold Blooded Lover before the end of this month. Admittedly it's been hard to find the head-space and time to be creative and write, but I've been absent for far too long. 

 

Cold Blooded Lover

My feet sank into the loose, arid sand with each begrudging step I took. I held my shoes in one hand and the sun-warmed sand scorched the bottoms of my feet. My gait was unsteady and cautious as the ground slipped beneath me. Sand surrounded my ankles like a mouth devouring my flesh, reluctantly relinquishing its bite when I elevated my knees. With each new step I imagined having displaced millions of sand granules from their original location.
I halted my march when I spied a plane up above. It was only a commercial jet, yet I shielded my eyes with one hand and watched the airplane slice through the bright blue sky, leaving a trail of white exhaust in its wake.

"Cassidy? Are you coming?"

My gaze returned to the shimmery horizon, and I tightened my grip on the red and white plastic cooler. "Yeah."

I trained my eyes on the sway of the shapely backside moving in front of me as we picked our way across the crowded Minnesotan beach. The opportunity to see Julia in a bikini was nearly enough to make me forget my aversion to sand. But not quite.

I hovered awkwardly, shoes in one hand and our lunch in the other, while Julia scouted an unoccupied location close to the water's edge. She pulled a blue and white checked blanket from her canvas tote bag and claimed the small parcel of land as ours.

I continued to scan our surroundings while she busied herself with the task of flattening the blanket across the bumpy sand. Minnesota was heralded the land of 10,000 lakes, but the city of Minneapolis wasn't known for its scenic beaches. We'd driven about thirty miles west of the Twin Cities, close to the state boundary, to Square Lake Beach. I'd never been before and was sorely disappointed to discover that Square Lake was not, in fact, a square.

Clusters of family groups dotted the lakeshore, all trying to squeeze out the last little bit of summer before the school year started and the weather took a turn for the worse. The high-pitched squeals of children laughing sounded more like the shriek of mortar bomb in the moments before detonation.

I sat down on the beach blanket with my legs tucked tight to my body and rested my chin on the tops of my knees. I dug my toes deep into the golden-colored sand. A lot of people like me—separated military personnel susceptible to PTSD flashbacks—avoided the beach. The sand along Minnesotan lakes hardly resembled the dirty moon dust of an Afghanistan desert, but it was familiar enough to have made me hesitate.

"Sunscreen?" Julia offered.

I shook my head and continued to wiggle my feet deeper into the loose sand, like planting myself into the landscape. "I'm good."

"Your fair skin won't last the afternoon," she prophesized.

She pulled a comically large bottle of sunscreen from her beach bag. It was so big, it needed a hand pump.

“Over-compensating?” I remarked as she began to liberally apply the lotion to her arms and the tops of her shoulders.

“I’m fighting off the wrinkles for as long as I can. Don’t squander your youth, soldier.”

I regarded her, my eyes squinting into the bright afternoon sun. “You can’t be that much older than me.”

She smiled and her mouth curled up on one side. A manicured eyebrow rose over the top of her dark sunglasses. “I guess you’ll never find out.”

“I could always look you up in the system, you know," I threatened.

“I don’t have a criminal record, darling.”

"So you say."

She made an amused humming sound in response.

“There’s ways. I could find out,” I huffed.

Julia smiled, a look intended to placate or humor me. “I’ve no doubt; you’re a very talented detective.”

"We'll see about that one."

I was both excited and nervous to be starting my new job with the Minneapolis Cold Case division in the morning. I knew how to be a beat cop, but this was relatively new territory. It still wasn't clear to me what I would be doing day-to-day, but I hoped the learning curve wouldn't be too great.

After Julia finished applying sunscreen to herself, she turned her attention to me even though I’d rejected her initial offer.

"Take off your shirt and I'll do you, dear."

Normally I liked going for the low-hanging fruit, but I ignored her offer. Unfortunately, Julia noticed. Julia noticed everything, especially the things I tried to keep to myself.

"You've nothing to be self-conscious about, dear."

"Only craters on my back," I retorted. "It's like looking at a topographic map of the moon."

I tucked my legs tighter to my chest. I'd been so anxious about sand, it had nearly distracted me from another of my insecurities; the I.E.D. that had killed the majority of my unit had left its mark on my back. Even if I was able to limit my flashbacks, my skin remained a physical reminder of what we'd endured.

"Hush," she chastised.  "No one is going to even look."

She grabbed the bottom hem of my t-shirt, yet I continued to resist.

"You can't know that."

"Yes I can."

"How?"

"Because they're looking at me," she answered as she slipped my shirt over my head.

I didn’t continue to put up a fight since her hands were on me. Instead, I closed my eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the sun on my face and the heat from her touch as she covered the tops of my shoulders with sunscreen. My eyes remained closed as her lotioned hands traveled farther down my back. Besides medical doctors, Julia was the only other person to touch my back after I'd been injured.

She swept my ponytail to the side and her hands moved back up to my shoulder blades. "I'm proud of you, Cassidy." She spoke near my ear.

"For taking off my shirt?"

"No. Dr. Warren told me your therapy was going well, but I never expected to be at the beach with you so soon."

I snorted. "So much for doctor-patient confidentiality."

"It's not her fault," she defended. "I'm a hard woman to say no to."

"Don't I know it," I quipped.

My PTSD symptoms hadn't improved much working with my previous psychologist with the police department, and the unpaid medical bills had been piling up. Julia had found my current therapist, Dr. Susan Warren, through connections with the Lawyers Serving Warriors project. In addition to keeping a dream journal, part of my therapy had been introducing myself to scenarios that might trigger a flashback.

I had promised Julia a trip to the beach in exchange for dinner at Mickey's, an old-school diner in Minneapolis that specialized in loaded cheeseburgers, thick steak fries, and chocolate malts. She very rarely indulged in that kind of caloric food, but it was a fair trade-off for putting myself in a vulnerable setting. Plus, I got to see her in a bathing suit. That, at least, hadn't been a disappointment.

She gently patted my back. "There. All done."

I immediately eyeballed my discarded t-shirt.

"It's up to you, dear," Julia decided.

She grabbed a paperback book out of her tote bag and leaned back on the blanket.

Instead of giving in to my insecurities, I left my shirt on the blanket. I wasn't a great reader, so I hadn't thought to bring a book. In the absence of something to keep my mind busy, I stood from the blanket.

Julia's gaze broke away from her book to follow me. "Leaving so soon?"

I jerked my thumb in the direction of the water. "I'm gonna go in. Do you want to come?"

"I'm fine for now."

I put my hands on my hips and gazed down at my beautiful girlfriend. The day was hot, and perspiration had begun to bead on her taut abdomen. The white material of her bikini contrasted appealingly with her olive-tinted skin. I was thankful for the mirrored reflection of my sunglasses that made my gawking less obvious.

"Don't tell me you're one of those women who don't like to get wet."

Julia smirked. "You should know better than that, Cassidy."

I gasped in mock surprise. "There are impressionable ears around here."

"How about impressionable eyes?" she posed.

She lifted her sunglasses to her forehead, and her dark eyes raked over my body from head to toe. Unlike myself, Julia made no attempt to hide her stare. My short board shorts and bikini top didn’t show off as much skin as Julia's bathing suit, but she gazed at me like a predator stalking its prey.

"Sure you don't wanna swim?" I offered.

She returned her sunglasses back to the bridge of her nose. "No. I think I'll enjoy the view for now." kThe tip of her tongue poked out and slowly ran the length of her dark red lips.

I didn't need a lake to get wet.


I padded across the beach and stood close to the water's edge so that the small, creeping waves licked at my toes. The inland lake was warm—shallow enough that swimming in the late summer months was bearable. At a deeper, larger lake only the brave or the foolish ventured into the water, even in late August.

I waded out until the water level reached my exposed belly button and then ducked under the first small whitecap. Growing up near so many freshwater lakes, it had become one of the things I’d missed the most when I’d been stationed abroad. I loved swimming, but I'd stuck to the pool at the police academy since I'd been back in the States for fear that the sensation of gritty sand beneath my toes might trigger an unwelcomed memory. But there was something familiar—almost maternal—about swimming in a lake that I hadn't realized I’d missed until now.

I remained underwater and kicked my legs hard, swimming just beneath the water's surface. Submerged, I could focus on the steady beat of my heart. It was calming, centering.

It was easy to take for granted the simple things—things that I cherished even more so now that I’d seen life on the other side. Turning on a faucet and clean, drinkable water coming out. Being able to get out of bed without having to put prosthetic legs on first. Flipping a toggle and a light going on. Going to the grocery store and buying whatever food I wanted. Holding my girlfriend’s hand in public without fear of harassment. I knew I had it good.

I resurfaced when my lungs demanded air. My wet ponytail clung down the center of my back, and my ears filled with the high-pitched call of a cry for help. My thoughts had floated back to my time in the Kumar District in Southeastern Afghanistan, and for a moment I worried my brain was playing tricks on me—that the muffled yells I heard were only inside my head.

I looked toward the beach and saw Julia standing near the water's edge. She held one hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes like a visor. She seemed to be looking at me, but not exactly. A small crowd of onlookers had similarly gathered on the shoreline, and one of them--a young woman in a one-piece bathing suit--waved her arms above her head. The disorienting yelling continued until I finally saw them, off in the distance. They looked like a mirage on the blue, shimmery horizon, but I could just make out the figures of two individuals on an oversized, orange inflatable raft.

I didn't quite know what was going on, but my instinct was to swim toward them. I freestyled—my best stroke when I swam on my high school swim team—out to the orange inflatable. It had to have been at least half a football-field-length away, and as I swam nearer, the orange blob began to take the shape of an inflatable dinosaur or a dragon.

Two children—a boy and a girl—neither of them older than 10 years old, clung to the inflatable raft.

I tread in place a few feet away from their blow-up toy. The water was well over my head, let alone theirs.

"Are you guys okay?" I asked in a voice that belied my alertness. I didn't want them to panic. "Need a tow back to shore?"

"I don't know what happened," the little boy cried. He had his arms thrown around the plastic neck of the dinosaur. "I don't know how we got so deep."

"It'll be okay," I assured them. "You two keep holding on, and I'll pull you in."

The little girl—his sister, I assumed—didn't speak. Her small body shivered despite the bright sun directly above us.

"This is a pretty cool floaty toy," I observed. I made conversation to distract the kids from noticing how deep the water was and how far away from shore we were.

"It's a dragon," the boy told me. "We just got it."

"That's cool. Are you guys brother and sister?"

"Uh huh," the boy confirmed.

"You come to the beach a lot?"

"Uh huh," he said again.

His sister remained silent, probably paralyzed from the situation.

We made slow progress as my legs propelled us beneath the water's surface. The current was working against me and the head of the giant inflatable dragon acted like a sail in the wind. It made sense how they'd managed to float away so quickly.

"What's your favorite thing to do at the beach?" I asked, still trying to distract them.

We would be fine as long as they stayed on the inflatable raft and didn't panic. I was a strong swimmer, but I didn't like the prospect of two kids flailing and clinging to me like I was their personal lifevessel.

"I like digging really deep holes and burying my dad in the sand," the little boy proudly told me.

"That's pretty cool. How about you?" I asked the recalcitrant little girl.

"I like to build sandcastles," she finally told me in a halting voice. 

"Oh yeah? I like to do that, too."

"Aren't you a little old to make sandcastles?" the little boy shrewdly observed.

"You're never too old for that," I insisted.

We gradually floated closer to shore.

"Cody! Jennifer! Oh my God!" I heard a panicked voice call from the beach.

When the water was shallow enough, the boy and girl jumped off of the inflatable toy and ran into the outstretched arms of a woman whom I took to be their mother.

"Mom!" the boy yelled as he gave her a crushing hug. "I don't know what happened. We were playing in the water, and then it was over our head."

I dragged the plastic dragon the rest of the way to shore, docking it where the creeping waves wouldn't be able to reach it.  A small crowd had gathered, but I was no longer concerned if anyone saw the scars on my back.

The woman rushed to me with her children clinging close. "Thank you. Thank you so much. I must have fallen asleep reading my book. One minute they were playing on their raft, and the next they'd drifted so far away. Can I—can I pay you or something?" She looked around helplessly as if searching for her purse.

I waved her off with a hand. My legs ached, and my breathing was slightly labored. "That's not necessary. Just happy to help. Although you may want to keep the dinosaur in the pool next time."

"Dragon," the little boy was quick to correct me.

With the boy and girl now safe on shore, the crowd of onlookers eventually bored and went back to their respective beach spots.

Julia slipped her hand into mine as we walked back to our beach blanket. She rested her head atop my shoulder even though I was still drenched from my swim.

"You're quite the hero," she observed. "In and out of uniform."

I let the compliment slide off me. That label—the H-word—had never sat easily with me. "I think you like me better out of uniform."

She kissed me—my reward for being heroic, I supposed. "You're an idiot."

"True. But I'm your idiot," I said with a cheeky grin.

She only laughed and shook her head.

A New Adventure

There's been much a-brewin' in the Lentzski household these days. First, I got married. Second, I moved to Boston....uh, surprise?

The movers came on a Friday, we were married on Sunday, and on Tuesday we packed up the cat and the turtle and drove 16.5 hours from Wisconsin to Massachusetts. It's been a non-stop summer between planning a wedding and a cross-country move, and I'm looking forward to things starting to settle down. There's still boxes to unpack, tedious moving details to take care of, and a cat who's been taking naps under the bed. 

I've lived in the Midwest my entire life. I love the Midwest. I love the Midwest so much, I write novels about women falling in love in the Midwest. The move was employment-driven, but it's also about having new adventures. I now find myself entirely out of my comfort zone and away from friends and family, but knowing that I have you all helps ease that anxious pit at the base of my stomach.

Because of this chaos, I haven't been able to write much lately, but once the packing boxes have been recycled and I can coax my cat to get out from beneath the bed, know that I'll be back to work and back to bringing you stories.

In the meantime, if you know where I can get good Mexican food in New England, let me know.

Prost,

Eliza

 

When History Repeats Itself

Full disclosure: I haven't written much these past few weeks. My brain has been too distracted this summer. I can't seem to look away from the hate and vitriol spewing from the Trump campaign and the demonizing of Hillary Clinton by liberals who clearly have nothing to lose—nothing at stake—if Trump wins. This presidential election has consumed my thoughts since the political conventions a few weeks ago.

And now the city that I love is on fire.

I can't take a side. You know I come from a law enforcement family. But I'm also not about to fly a Thin Blue Line flag in my front yard. We've seen too many instances of police abuses of power that have resulted in the unnecessary death of young, black men in recent months. But I also can't condone violence of any kind, even though Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. said in 1966, "I think that we've got to see that a riot is the voice of the unheard. And, what is it that America has failed to hear? It has failed to hear that the economic plight of the Negro poor has worsened over the last few years."

I drive through Milwaukee's most blighted neighborhoods nearly every day. One cannot be blind to the systemic racism that continues to make Milwaukee the most segregated city in the country, and in a recent report, Wisconsin was named the country's . I live two miles from the epicenter of this recent violence, yet I might as well be on a different planet for the real distance between the neighborhood I live in and where the fires are burning.

When C and I bought our house a few years ago, we inherited a stack of original documents that had been passed from one owner to the next since the home's construction in 1941--original house blueprints, receipts for work done, mortgage payments, etc. Among the papers is the house's original title and a contractual agreement. The house is now within the city of Milwaukee, but at the time of its construction, it was a subdivision with stipulations as varied as if you could have a fence in your yard, or what kind of materials could be used in the construction of the home's roof. One of these stipulations was that all homes in the subdivision had to be worth at least $5,500. At the time, this kind of premise was meant to keep "the wrong kind" of homeowners from living in the neighborhood, i.e. people of color. But this was a far more subtle form of racism than the stipulation that appeared a few lines later:

You read that right: only white people were allowed to live in my neighborhood in 1941. This wasn't the Jim Crow South with their segregated schools and drinking fountains. This happened in the supposedly "free" North. What's happening in Milwaukee and in other cities across the country didn't happen overnight. It's the result of generations of redlining, white flight, disinvestment, and downtown development projects (i.e. a $250 billion dollar basketball arena) that ignore the needs of the rest of the city.

Our country needs to heal after this long, hot summer, but maybe more than that, we need a history lesson to understand how we got to this point.

Heat

It goes without saying....NSFW

+ + +

My home state of Minnesota was better known for bitterly cold winters instead of sweltering summer heat. But every year, for one excruciating week in late summer, the weather became unbearable. Because temperatures rarely got over 80 degrees, not too many apartment complexes offered central air, mine included.

To combat the heat, I laid in bed on top of my sheets, stripped down to nothing but a tank top and underwear. I'd gone so far as to chill a wet washcloth and drape it across my forehead. The ceiling fan above my bed spun at its highest setting to no avail. If I had grown up below the Mason-Dixon line I would have considered myself soft, but my arctic blood couldn't handle the consecutive days of temperatures spiked in the mid-90's, with oppressive evening humidity making it even worse.

Despite the evening hour, I wasn't tired; and even if I was, it was too hot to sleep. I didn't want to leave my bed either; I couldn't move without profusely sweating. My phone was within reach though, so I decided to text Julia instead to pass the time.

Hey, beautiful, I sent off a text in greeting.

I didn't have to wait long for her response: Good evening, Detective Miller.

A smile spread across my face. I could practically hear Julia's tone in my head—clipped and formal, with the slightest hint of bemusement.

I snuggled a little deeper into the pillows I'd stacked up against the wall that acted as my headboard. What are up to tonight? I asked.

Well, I was reading a book, but I suppose now I'm talking to you.

Reading in bed?

I pictured in my mind's eye Julia propped up against a mountain of pillows, black-framed reading glasses on, and a sheer nightgown as her pajamas. It had become a familiar scene when I slept over, usually with me surrounded by case files and briefs of whatever case she was working on, futility trying to distract her from work.

I'm on the couch. The one you decided we still had to 'break in.'

Julia had only been in her new apartment for a handful of months, and her brand new furniture was still stiff and uncomfortable—much like someone's first impression of Julia herself, until they got to know her. 

Hey, I just meant we need to sit on it more, I lied. It's not my fault you have a dirty mind.

You didn't seem to mind my dirty mind the other night.

I cleared my throat at her typed words, and if possible, my internal temperature increased even more.

I licked at my dry lips and sat up in bed. My fingers worked over the touch-screen keyboard of my smart phone. How about your mind and my mind have a little fun together? I proposed.

I leaned closer to the cell phone screen and waited with mounting anticipation for Julia's response. The three dots that indicated she was typing something popped up on my screen: I'm not sexting you.

I tossed my phone down and threw frustrated hands in the air, even though she would never see the gesture.

By the time I retrieved my phone, she'd sent me a second message: If you're interested in extracurricular activities tonight, you know where to find me.

I cracked the knuckle on my right thumb while I contemplated my response. We hadn't exactly been fighting about it, but I'd made it clear that I thought we spent too much time at her condo when I had a perfectly respectable apartment. I liked the familiarity and comfort that came with being surrounded by my own stuff. Julia's things were too nice, and I felt on edge at her place, worried I might break or stain something.

I composed my reply: Have a good night.

I winced with regret when I heard the sound of my ill-advised text being sent. I knew my abrupt dismissal would make her angry. I wished I had the ability to pluck my message out of the air and delete it, but that kind of feat wasn't possible.

I passed the next hour trying to watch the Twins game, but my eyes and my attention kept drifting back to my silent cell phone, which sat on the other side of the bed. Ever since I’d cut short my conversation with Julia, I hadn't received any calls or texts.

"Do something," I muttered to the inanimate object.

My instinct was to apologize, but I hadn’t really done anything wrong. It had been a juvenile way to end our conversation, but it was also unreasonable of Julia to expect me to come over any time I wanted to see her. She already held too much influence over me; it was about time I grew a backbone.

I'd nearly given up on hearing from Julia for the rest of the night when my phone finally buzzed with another text message. Answer your goddamn door.

Julia was at my front door.

"Shit."

I leapt out of bed, and not bothering to put on pants, I scrambled out of my room. My bare feet pounded on the hardwood floor as I rushed from the bedroom to the front door.

Julia stood outside my apartment door, her mouth curled in disapproval and her arms crossed across her chest. She wore a t-shirt and running capris. Her hair was pulled back in a half-ponytail, and her face was scrubbed clean of all makeup, even her signature red lipstick.

"Why weren't you answering your door?" she demanded. "I've been knocking forever." She stormed past me and into the apartment.

I doubted the exaggeration, but I didn't call her out on it. "I had the TV on in the bedroom," I explained. "I didn't hear you."

I sucked in a sharp breath as I closed the door behind her. My body felt on high alert as I mentally braced myself for an argument.

She stood in the front foyer, her dark eyes scanning the open layout. I knew she saw the water glass on the coffee table with no coaster, my police boots haphazardly discarded in the front foyer, and the dirty dishes from dinner piled in the kitchen sink.

"What brings you to my dilapidated part of city?" I knew I was playing with fire, but I couldn't help myself.

"You,” she grumbled. “I tried to go to sleep, but I couldn't because I was just so angry."

"So you decided to come over and yell at me?" I folded my arms across my chest. "That's going to help you sleep better?" I could feel my emotional walls rising and fortifying.

Julia shook her head hard. "I'm not angry at you; I'm angry at myself. I've been selfish and stubborn. You have every right to expect we spend time in your apartment, too."

I let my arms drop at my sides. I hadn't expected that. "I do?"

"Of course you do."

"But I don't have air conditioning," I meekly observed.

Julia fanned her face with her hand. "So I've noticed. Christ it's hot up here." Her hand fell to her midsection, and she pulled her oversized t-shirt up and off and dropped it to the floor.

My mouth hung open at the sight of her bare breasts and flat stomach.

She beckoned to me with a curled finger. "Get over here, Detective and help me with the rest of these clothes."

I quickly eliminated the distance between us. I circled her with my arms and kissed hard against her mouth. Everywhere our bodies touched, her skin felt cool compared to my overheated flesh. She'd traded an air-conditioned apartment for an air-conditioned car to come to my sauna. It seemed too good to be true.

I broke away from the kiss. "I love you," I told her somewhat breathlessly.

She stroked her hand down the side of my face and her serious gaze penetrated me. "I know you do. And I love you too, darling."

I resumed kissing her feverishly as if the intensity of my embrace might erase the memory of our childish night. If Julia hadn't humbled herself and driven across town to see me who knows how long we would have let our juvenile interaction fester. It reminded me to apologize more. Being in love was better than being right.

Julia let me waltz her back to the couch, the closest piece of furniture for my impatience. She sat in the center of the couch while I dropped to my knees before her. I rubbed the backs of her shapely calves and took a moment to admire her half-nakedness while she stared down at me through lightly lidded eyes. The late summer sun had darkened her light olive complexion. The tops of her shoulders had received the most color, a contrast to her creamy pale breasts.

I moved my hands from the backs of her calves up to her upper thighs. Her long eyelashes fluttered as I applied pressure to her firm thigh muscles. I leaned forward and licked a line from the waistband of her lyrca pants up to the shallow indent of her bellybutton. I held firm to her squirming hipbones as I dipped my tongue into her bellybutton. She murmured appreciatively as I flicked the tip of my tongue higher still. I stood taller on my knees to press my face between the valley of her breasts and inhaled her spicy scent.

The Twins game continued on in the background. The muffled voices of the TV announcers filtered from the bedroom where the TV was still on. The crowd cheered for the home team, and I couldn't help feeling like I had my own personal fan section.

Cass-i-dy! Cass-i-dy!

I pressed hot kisses against the flat plane of her sternum and stroked my fingers up the sides of her torso, tickling up her ribcage. The solidness of her core was made even more apparent in contrast to the soft weight of her naked breasts. I palmed her generous breasts and paid extra attention to her nipples, hardened by my touch despite the swampy heat of the living room.

Julia reached for the hairband that kept my unruly mane tied back in a ponytail and carefully pulled it free. My hair was longer than it had been in a long time, and the thick blonde waves tumbled past my shoulders to touch the tops of my breasts. She scraped her short fingernails across my scalp and massaged her fingers against my skull.

"Do you make it a habit of answering your door in your underwear?" she posed.

My eyes had shut of their own volition from the scalp massage, but I could hear the dangerous neutrality to her tone. "I knew it was you."

"But what if I hadn't been alone?" she countered. "Or what if one of your neighbors had been in the hallway?"

"Then I guess they would have gotten a cheap thrill," I shrugged.

"You know how I feel about that," she quietly warned.

"I'm teasing, baby.” I peppered kisses across her collarbone. “But if it'll make you feel better, I'll answer the door in a snowsuit next time."

Her response was to grab me firmly by the top straps of my tank top so I had no choice but to join her on the couch or have my shirt ripped to shreds. She palmed my braless chest through my tank top before yanking the shirt off. My swollen breasts and hardened nipples ached for her attention, and she didn't deny me for long. A firm hand to my chest had me falling back on the couch cushions. Julia leaned over my body, hand still pressing me into the pillows. She captured a tightened nipple between her lips and sucked. My hands immediately went to the back of her head, my fingers weaving through her dark raven hair.

She released my breast with a noisy pop. Her pink mouth curved into a knowing smile. "Better than over the phone?"

She returned her mouth to my nipple and lightly chewed on the sensitive bud.

"Fuck," I groaned. The curse vibrated deep in my throat. "So much better."

With her tongue and teeth still lathing attention on my breasts, she thrust her hand down the front of my cotton underwear and sought out my clit. The tip of her middle finger manipulated me briefly before that digit divided my shaved folds and slid into my wet heat.

I gripped tight to her biceps and cried out, caring little for the notoriously thin walls that separated us from my neighbors. In the beginning of our chaotic coupling, I had once thought Julia Desjardin to be a pillow princess. I'd never been happier to be wrong.

Julia continued to grope my naked breasts with one hand while the other remained buried in my underwear and buried in my overheated sex. The combined heat of the room and what she was doing to my body quickly had me sweating more than ever. My skin became slick with perspiration wherever she touched me. My body was on fire, or at least at risk of spontaneous combustion. What a way to go.

Julia's mouth sought out my neck. She licked the salty sweat from the side of my throat, and her ragged bursts of breath hit my ear. I matched the movement of my thrusting hips with the fingers pistoning between my thighs. The muscles in my abdomen tensed as I felt the tingling beginnings of an accelerated orgasm.

My heartbeat galloped in my chest and I swallowed mouthful of humid air. "It might be kind of fun though, don't you think?"

Julia didn't have to ask to what I was referring. She dotingly ran her fingers across my sweaty scalp. "I'm still not sexting you, dear."

The Final Rose: Amazon Edition

As most of you (hopefully) know, for the past few months I've been releasing a previously unpublished novel, The Final Rose, over at Wattpad, a reading app that gives subscribers access to millions of free books. As a serialized novel, each Friday I've posted a new 2-3K word chapter, which readers can vote and comment on. Next week I'll be publishing the completed novel on Amazon for those of you who prefer to hold books in your hands, or want to binge read the novel in one sitting rather than week-by-week, or simply want to support me with dollar bills. The content of the novel will be the same as the one on Wattpad, with slightly different chapter breakdowns and better (although never perfect) editing. 

The full novel will still be available for free on Wattpad for six months after it's complete. After that I'll be taking down a portion of the online book to continue to encourage its purchase on Amazon because, well, a girl's gotta eat. Because so much content will be available elsewhere, the novel will not be eligible for Amazon's Kindle Unlimited program, so if you're a KU subscriber, I hope you're fan enough to purchase the completed novel.

I've been generally encouraged by what I'm calling the Wattpad Experiment. At the time of this posting, I have over 60,000 followers on Wattpad, and an excerpt of The Final Rose was featured on Cosmopolitan.com. Not too shabby for a self-published author, amiright? My hope is that Wattpad, which is generally designed for a younger and more global audience, has exposed new readers to my writing, and that beyond The Final Rose they'll support future works and discover my more established stories and characters. I haven't decided yet if I'll be posting future stories on the app, but as always, stay tuned for more.

Eliza 

Chapter One

I stared out the rain-streaked window at the red adobe hills of New Mexico. It was just after dusk and the starless sky was a deep shade of purple. I’d never been to this part of the country before, and I was still getting my bearings. It had taken a long time to get to Santa Fe. I didn’t live close to any major airports, so just getting here had been an ordeal. After multiple flights and too many layovers, I’d had only enough time to check in to the hotel where we weren’t really staying, wiggle into a cocktail dress, and jump into the back of a limo with a gaggle of women whom I’d never met before.

I looked around at the smiling, eager faces of the six other women sitting in the back of the black limo. They all chattered excitedly while bits and pieces of their stilted conversations filled my head.

“I wonder if he’s as handsome in person as he is on TV,” a blonde girl in a bubble-gum pink dress thought aloud. She reminded me a little of Malibu Barbie.

Her sentiment was echoed by several others while I continued to stare out the limo window. The weather had cleared and beyond the water lines streaked across the windows, there was no sign that it had ever rained that day-a symptom of life in the high desert, I supposed.

“God, I’m so nervous,” the brunette sitting beside me muttered. She wore an off-the-shoulder green dress that matched the color of her emerald eyes.

“What about?”

She turned in her seat and looked at me as though I’d grown a third eyeball. “Everything!” she exclaimed. “Everything we say and do is going to be on television. They could edit us to look like lunatics.”

“Then why do it?” I asked.

“B-because … because.” She stammered and looked flustered by the question. “Why are you doing it?”

“My mom signed me up.”

“Really?”

“When the show’s producers contacted me, I thought it was a joke,” I shrugged. “But I said yes because my mom was so adamant about me doing it.”

She stared at me blankly. “So you’re not here because of Jacob?”

“Oh, is that his name?”

Her green eyes widened even more. I allowed myself a private smile; I knew his name, but I couldn’t help having a little fun at her expense.

The limo turned left onto an unpaved road and we bumped and jolted along for a few hundred feet before stopping in front of a palatial mansion that spread out in either direction along the horizon. The quiet chatter in the backseat came to a stop as realization simultaneously hit us: We were here. This was really happening.

The partition window rolled down to reveal two figures in the front seat: our uniformed driver, and one of the producers from the show.

“Okay, ladies,” the showrunner announced, “it’s time to meet our lucky guy.”

The other women primped their hair and checked their teeth for lipstick residue while one thought ran wild in my head: Was it too late to change my mind?

The door nearest to me opened, and the driver stuck out his hand to help me out of the low-riding car.

“Thank you,” I said with growing apprehension.

I stepped out of the limo and self-consciously brushed my palms down the front of my dress. The women in my group looked like disco balls and prom queens. In my short black dress, I felt very plain in comparison. We had only been allowed two suitcases, yet we’d been instructed to be prepared for any occasion, in both warm and cold climates, in addition to fourteen gowns for the rose ceremonies. I hadn’t owned a single dress prior to this experience. The cost of me being a contestant on this show had been a financial burden on my mother, but she had been relentless in her pursuit to get me here. My father had passed many years ago and it had only been the two of us for some time. My static love life had been on her radar ever since I’d returned to Michigan to take care of her.

I walked unsteadily on high heels that sank in uneven, scorched earth toward a large water fountain in front of the adobe-style architecture of the mansion. An attractive man in a meticulously tailored black suit and tie stood beside the water feature. His serious blue eyes watched me as I approached. I noticed that his stare never left my face. As I got closer, the dimple in his right cheek deepened when he smiled.

“Hi,” I greeted. The word nearly got stuck in my throat. I was rarely nervous meeting new people, but I was acutely aware of the multiple cameras that recorded our interaction. 

“Hello,” he returned. “I’m Jacob. And you’re stunning.”

“No, I’m Nokomis.”

His heavy black eyebrows crunched together. “Nokomis?” he repeated.

“It’s my name.” I felt my face growing warm. “It means ‘grandmother’ in Ojibwe.”

“Well you’re certainly the most beautiful grandmother I’ve ever seen.”

I covered my mouth with my hand as an obnoxiously loud laugh burst out of my lungs. I hated my laugh. If women were supposed to be dainty and demure, then my laugh was the exact opposite.

“That’s quite the line,” I wryly observed.

“Did it work?”

“We’ll see.”

Jacob’s easy demeanor could almost make me forget that whatever we said would later be edited and broadcast to millions of people across the country, including my mother. It was a sobering thought.

“I should probably get inside,” I excused myself. “There’s a line forming behind me.”

He grinned even wider, looking equal parts boyish and charming. “Sounds good. I’ll see you soon.”

I flashed him a quick smile and then followed a crew member inside the house. She was a short woman in pleated khaki pants and an oversized blue t-shirt. I wondered if women on the crew side of the show were instructed to dress as ordinary as possible so as to not compete for Jacob’s attentions.

Our limo had been one of the last to arrive because the mansion was already abuzz with activity. Women in cocktail dresses crowded around every available mirror, freshening up makeup and teasing life into their Brazilian blowouts. I watched the frenetic chaos with mounting anxiety.

“Jacob has a few more women to meet outside and then we’ll start filming in the house,” the crewwoman told me. “You’ll have a little time to get settled and introduce yourself to the other women before the fun begins.”

“Fun?” I laughed. “We’ll see.”

I retreated down a hallway in the opposite direction of the chaos and commotion coming from the other half of the house. I poked my head into a few rooms, all empty bedrooms, in exploration. It appeared as though no one had set claim to anything in the house yet, minus the mirror space, and our two pieces of luggage had yet to arrive.

I tried the handle of another closed door and, finding it unlocked, I pushed the door open. I entered a small powder room, which was currently occupied-another of the contestants was washing her hands. She wore a short red dress made shorter with high heels. Her dark brunette hair hit the center of her back. My gaze inadvertently traveled to the muscle definition of her thighs. She looked like a runner or a soccer player. 

“I’m sorry,” I quickly apologized. “I was just looking for where they put our luggage.”

“They won’t move our bags inside until after the rose ceremony,” she told me, looking unaffected that I’d walked in on her. “There’s no point in unpacking since seven of us are going home tonight.”

My head bobbed. “That makes sense.”

“What are you?”

“Pardon?”

The woman looked me up and down. Her stare made me feel even more out of place as though she could tell with just one look that I didn’t really belong. “Are you biracial? Hispanic? I can’t figure it out.”

“Anishinaabe,” I supplied.

“What is that?”

“It’s, uh, it’s like Native American, only I’m from Canada, and Native Canadian isn’t really a thing.” 

I had long struggled to explain my heritage to most Euro-Americans. Aboriginal peoples could seem as ancient and extinct as the dinosaurs, not someone you might meet at the grocery store.

“Well whatever you are, your skin is flawless.”

I cleared my throat. “Thanks.”

“I’m Candace, by the way,” she introduced herself. “I’m a twenty-eight-year-old small-business owner from Florida.”

“Nokomis. Twenty-seven,” I recited. “Freelance artist from Ontario, Canada.” After numerous months of screening and testing to get to this point, the introduction format had become second-nature.

“You’re lucky.” Candace leaned in close to the vanity mirror and tugged at the skin near her eyes. “You’ll stick out and become a fan favorite for sure. And you’re not, like, too dark which is in your favor. Girls with dark skin never make it very far.”

“They don’t?” I naively asked.

“Everyone watching at home likes to think that this is all random, but there’s a system to it,” she said. “It’s a game, just like any other reality competition.”

“You mean you’re not looking for love?” I laughed uneasily.

She didn’t crack a smile as though she couldn’t afford to waste one on me. “Jacob isn’t just picking who he wants to date. He’ll vote women to the next round as long as the producers think they’ll make for good TV. That’s why contestants with the craziest, biggest personalities go further than the pretty wallflowers. And only two kinds of women win this show,” she added. “Flight attendants and kindergarten teachers.”

“I’m not either of those,” I thought aloud.

“I bet you make it to the Final Four,” Candace said with some finality. “I’ll be gone before we even get out of the country.”

It was clear that Candace possessed a blunt, no-nonsense personality. Normally I admired that kind of forthrightness, but in this unique setting it made me feel under-prepared. Our run-in left me less than eager to mingle with the other women. Instead of hanging out in the large living room and waiting for Jacob with the others, I grabbed a bottled water from the bar and slinked outside.

The yard in the back of the mansion was fenced in with tall privacy shrubs that kept prying eyes out and us contestants in. Plastic lounge chairs surrounded an in-ground pool. It was a warm night and the air was dry. The sky was still starless, but the nearly full moon hung low in the sky. Pale moonlight shimmered across the pool’s chlorinated surface.

I sat down on one of the lounge chairs and slipped off my high heels. The concrete was still warm from that day’s desert temperatures and the residual heat felt good against the bottoms of my feet.

“Nokomis,” I heard a male voice call my name, “I’ve been looking for you.”

Jacob’s dress shoes clicked on the concrete that surrounded the pool. Two figures followed him, a man with an oversized television camera propped on his shoulder and the blue t-shirted woman from before.

“What are you doing out here by yourself?” he asked.

I squinted into the bright light attached to the large camera. “It was a little overwhelming in there,” I answered truthfully. “I needed some air.”

“I hear that. Are you cold?” Without waiting for my response, he started to remove his suit jacket.

“I’m okay.”

He ignored my protest and instead laid his suit jacket over my bare shoulders. “Sorry. It’s for production value,” he stated quietly. “They eat this stuff up.”

He took the vacant space beside me on the lounge chair. “So, where are you from, Nokomis?” he asked in a louder voice, this one meant for the camera.

“Canada, originally. But I’ve been living in northern Michigan with my mom for the past year. She’s, like, a superfan of the show.”

“How about you? Are you a fan?”

I shook my head. “I watched it here and there, I guess, but not religiously.”

“You said your name was Obijwe, does that mean you are, too?”

“Half,” I confirmed. I ran my palms over my bare knees. “My dad was white, but my mother’s family is Ojibwe.”

“Your dad was white?” Jacob asked, picking up on the verb tense.

Before I could respond, I heard the sound of someone clearing her throat. A freckle-faced redhead in a long blue gown stood a few yards away. “Hi,” she said with a dazzling smile. “Mind if I steal this guy?”

“Sure. Go ahead.”

Jacob stood up from the bench. “We’ll have to continue this at a later time,” he apologized.

I nodded and held back my grimace. I had known being on a show like this would require I share details about my life, my childhood, but I wasn’t eager to open up.

“Oh,” I said, remembering. “Jacob, wait. Your jacket.” I stood and shrugged off the suit coat.

Jacob took the jacket back from me and draped it over his forearm. “Thanks, Grandma.”

“That’s definitely not becoming a thing,” I scolded.

He grinned that same boyish smile from before. “Too late.” 

“Grandma?” I heard the redhead question as they walked away.

The remainder of the night passed quickly between individual on-camera interviews and trying to learn the other women’s names. I had no talent for remembering details, and I felt overwhelmed on Jacob’s behalf as he flit from one woman to the next over the course of the night.

Before the evening drew too late, producers ushered us into a large room occupied by two sets of risers. In the center of the room was a small table upon which a pile of long-stem roses had been arranged. The cocktail party was over. It was time for seven of us to go home.

I felt conflicted as I stood on the riser, flanked by the other women, as Jacob began the arduous process of choosing which contestants would survive the night. Did I want to go home? Or did I want to ride this adventure out for as long as possible? Ever since I’d returned to the reservation to take care of my mom, my world had felt very small. But I knew it had been the right move--the right thing to do. I had been living on my own after getting my MFA and working to pay off my grad school loans when I’d gotten the call that my mom had slipped on ice and had broken her hip. She wasn’t so old that the injury was life-threatening, but she didn’t have anyone to take her to the doctor or bring her to physical therapy. Her hip had since healed, but I was having a hard time moving out again and leaving her on her own now that she was well.

A gentle poke in the small of my back had me snapping to attention. Across the room, Jacob stared at me, twirling a red rose between his fingers. I couldn’t figure out what was happening. It was like when the teacher catches you sleeping during class and you don’t know the question that’s been asked.

“I think that’s you,” someone behind me urged. Hands returned to the small of my back and they gently nudged me forward.

The women who surrounded me moved so I could step down the risers and cross the room.

Jacob grinned when I stood before him. “Grandma Nokomis, will you accept this rose?”

Now was my chance to back out before things got too serious; I didn’t have to say yes. But as I stared at the deep red rose that Jacob offered me, I was reminded of my mother who had practically taken out a second mortgage on her house so I could have this opportunity.

“Sure,” I decided, smiling at the nickname.

“Cut!” someone off-camera yelled. “Sweetie, can you try to look a little happier about being selected?”

I bit down on my lower lip. “I’m sorry.” I blew out a long, tense breath. “Sorry,” I said, this time more quietly for Jacob’s benefit.

“It’s okay,” he reassured me. “I know this can be a little much.”

“Jacob,” one of the directors called, “try your line again.”

Jacob’s face returned to a serious visage. “Nokomis, will you accept this rose?”

I plastered a smile to my face. “Yes, of course,” I chirped, feeling equal parts plastic and forced.

I walked the long-stemmed rose back to my place on the risers. The girls in my way parted to make room for me, and I caught more than a few sympathetic glances thrown in my direction.

A few more names were called until Jacob had whittled the number of contestants down to twenty-one. Those of us with roses remained on the risers while the dismissed women were quickly skirted to another part of the mansion for their final interviews before they’d be sent home, or at least back to the hotel in Santa Fe.

A soft voice, barely a perceptible whisper, reached my ears: “You’re bleeding.”

I looked around, not sure from where the voice had originated. Everyone had their eyes on Jacob as he held a champagne glass in the air and gave a heartfelt speech about how excited he was about this journey and how he was confident that his future wife was in the room.

“Your hand. It’s bleeding,” the same voice, this time a little louder, spoke.

I looked down to my hands to see a thin line of crimson dribbling down my forearm. I had been clutching the rose too tightly and an errant thorn had scratched me. I wiped the blood from my arm and turned my head in the direction of the voice. It seemed to have come from the woman who stood directly behind me. I wondered if she had been the one who’d alerted me earlier when Jacob had said my name.

I noticed her dress first--in a short gold lamé dress and white blonde hair piled on top of her head, she looked like the angel topper on a Christmas tree. She was shorter than me, but because she stood on the tallest row of risers, we were at eye level. Her irises were dark blue with a small hazel circle around the pupils. She, like me, held one of the coveted roses. 

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I sucked my index finger into my mouth and tasted the iron tang of the blood. “Yeah. A thorn snagged me, I guess.”

Her mouth curved upward to form a pleasant smile. “They never warned us this process would be dangerous to our health.”

“Shit,” I heard a crew member curse. She was a serious-looking woman whose face was partially hidden by the ball cap she wore. “Ben,” she barked at a man hovering in the wings, “I told you to take all the thorns off the roses.”

“I’m sorry!” the man squeaked. “I must have missed one.” His relative youth and the panicked look on his face made me think he was an intern or at least very low on the chain of command.

“It’s okay,” I appeased. “It’s just a little cut.”

The stern-faced woman grabbed my uninjured hand and tugged me down the bleachers. “Come on, we’ll have a medic take a look. Can’t have the Talent injured on the first night.”

I swept one last desperate look in the direction of the blonde woman in the gold dress. Her blue eyes and crooked smile watched me get pulled away. She held her hand up and wiggled her fingers in parting.

+ + +

It was determined that I would survive the night and get to keep all my fingers. Once my wound was cleaned and bandaged, I was given instructions to find my suitcases, which had been transferred to the bedrooms during the selection process.

My luggage was in the first bedroom I looked. The room was sparsely populated with a bunk bed in each corner of the room. Quick mental math told me there were at least three similar bedrooms elsewhere in the house. Because I’d been delayed by the cut on my finger, all but one of the beds had already been claimed.

I wondered which room the girl who’d spoken to me after the rose ceremony had been assigned. I started to poke my head out the bedroom door to see if I could spot her, but I nearly ran into Candace, the woman from the powder room.

Candace strode into the bedroom. “Hey, looks like we’re roomies, Pocahontas.”

“It’s Nokomis.”

Candace ignored my correction and threw herself down on the bottom bunk of the bed where I’d be sleeping. “God, it’s like summer camp up in here,” she huffed. “I can’t wait for the next round to be axed.”

“How many get eliminated next?”

Candace squinted her eyes at me. “You really don’t watch this show, do you?”

I shook my head.

“We started at twenty-eight tonight, but now we’re down to twenty-one. Next week three more women will go home, so we’ll be at eighteen.”

“Ten go home within a week,” I thought out loud.

“Uh huh. And only fourteen will actually leave the mansion. Usually they go to an alternate location within the country first,” she noted, “but we’re so close to Mexico it might make sense to leave the country right away. Twelve or eleven will then go on to some tropical destination, six women get to meet Jacob’s family, four women will introduce Jacob to their family, three get whisked away to someplace super exotic, and then he’ll narrow it down to the final two women.”

I soaked in the details as best as I could. “You said you thought I’d make it to the final four,” I recalled.

Candace laughed. “Yeah, are you ready for America to meet your family?”

No. A world of no.

 

Objective: Matrimony

Forgive my relative silence over the past few weeks, friends. I've been spending a lot of time in airports with spotty wireless connections, and I'm currently writing you from Rocky Mountain National Park, at the same location where I wrote Winter Jacket 3. Thunderstorms blow through the valley almost every afternoon, which helps explain some of the angst and heartbreak in that novel. I'm at a pivotal juncture in my serial novel, The Fina Rose, so you should probably prepare yourself for a little rain in that book, too.

I'm anticipating finishing up TFR over the next month, and it will be made available on Amazon for those of you who've been holding off on the slow burn at Wattpad. I'm also beginning to plot out my next stand-alone, Objective: Matrimony, which is the purpose of this blog entry.

I'm a historian by training and profession, so it's a little remarkable that I've yet to embark in historical fiction. Objective: Matrimony will remedy that. My grandmother was born in the early 1920s. Growing up, she would entertain my little sister and me with stories about her childhood and coming-of-age during the Great Depression. Her stories are the reason I'm a historian today and a large reason why I love to tell stories myself.

One specific story has always stuck with me--the story of how her parents met. Long before online dating services, there was the newspaper. And in turn-of-the-twentieth-century America, it was not unusual for men and women to post classified ads in national and local papers seeking a potential husband or wife.

My great-grandfather was a potato farmer in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and my great-grandmother was a catalog model in Chicago. She responded to his Want Ad for a wife, and they corresponded briefly over handwritten letters, before she uprooted her life to become his wife in northern Michigan.

Without giving away too much, this is the world in which Objective: Matrimony will take place. I'm extremely excited about this new project, and I can't wait for you to meet my newest characters. Until then, I hope you're still enjoying Elle and Hunter's swan song and have become invested in the continued weekly adventures of Nokomis and Lee.

Prost,

Eliza