Things That Matter: Introducing novelist Jeff Gephart

I met the very talented and witty Jeff at the meetings of a local book group, where he keeps us in stitches every month with his clever, funny comments. He published his first novel, The Second Life, in 2006, and was writer/actor in a comedy sketch show that ran for three seasons on cable markets in the eastern and midwestern USA. He’s also worked as a graphic designer and a teacher.

His latest book is Out of Dark Places. Here’s what it’s about:

Writer Jeff Gephart

For Lukas Willow, the only fate worse than death… is life.

Lukas was once a musical prodigy, but his life took a vastly different turn when he discovered that he possessed unexplainable clairvoyant powers.  Haunted by troubling visions, he has become an alcoholic recluse, his life suspended in a stagnant state of paranoia and self pity.  When the mysterious Katie Reiker, a beautiful but emotionally scarred young woman, shows up on his doorstep, an unconventional relationship begins to develop that might just save them both.  Time is running out, however.  An impending natural disaster that only Lukas knows about forces him to make a difficult decision that will affect the lives and futures of everyone in his town.

This poignant and captivating novel about the importance of making connections explores the paradoxes of finding hope, forgiveness, and redemption, even when faced with the fatal condition of being human.

And here’s an excerpt:

CHAPTER ONE

It’s 4:56 in the rain.

Any other day, any other kind of weather, and it’s just a few minutes before five.  Almost happy hour.  But 4:56 in the rain is different.  Nothing good happens in the rain.

Perhaps she’s not coming, Lukas thinks to himself.  Staring through the thick windowpane as the rain cascades over it in billowy sheets is like watching the world from behind a waterfall.  Not as magical, but just as isolating.

Lukas’s eyes drift toward a particular patch of soggy grass close to the house in the backyard.  The waterfall effect makes it difficult to judge distance, but Lukas knows the spot well.  He wonders if archaeologists a few generations from now will dig up that spot and unearth tiny pieces of antiquated stereo components, put them on display in a museum somewhere, and marvel at the primitive way in which twentieth century humans lived their trifling lives.

Lukas Willow’s footsteps, ordinarily loud against the ancient oak hardwood floor, have trouble competing against the nearby sound of water raging through the tin gutters as he makes his way across the unlit parlor.  The furnishings are sparse.  A coffee table with a deep brown finish centers the symmetrical layout of the room, and it matches the end tables on either side of a dilapidated maroon sofa.  All three surfaces are barren, covered only by faint stains which have alternately darkened and lightened scores of small circles and half-circles onto the wooden surfaces.  The room smells as quiet as it looks.  Cold, like the rest of the house.  Lukas sets a wet glass down on the left end table and creates another dark circle.  He grabs the Glenfiddich and drains the last drops of liquid from the bottle into his glass.  Placing the empty bottle gingerly into a wastebasket near his feet, he stoops to look for ice cubes in the adjacent mini freezer.  This freezer should sit higher, on top of something, he thinks.  Knees don’t bend like they used to.

A sudden tapping rattles the glass part of the front door.  Lukas is undeterred by the interruption; his ice cubes are frozen together into one misshapen conglomeration.  Scanning his dusty surroundings, he retrieves a brass letter opener from a nearby countertop and chips off a few chunks of ice.

Again the knocking, louder this time, almost urgent.  He scoops the ice gently into his glass, making sure not to spill, and uses the letter opener to stir.  Wearily, he straightens his legs and ambles toward the front door.

Katherine Reiker looks older than twenty-one.  Her hair, when not soaked and matted to her head, is probably the same dark brown color as her upturned eyebrows.  Her narrow, wiry shoulders are shivering.  “Mr. Willow?” she asks, but Lukas has already turned and started walking back inside.  She follows.  “I’m Katie,” she says, pausing just inside the door to shake off some of the excess wetness.  “I’m sorry I’m so late.”

Even drenched, she’s pretty.  It’s so easy for twenty-one-year-old girls to be pretty.  Late Katie.  “I have a doorbell,” Lukas says.

Out of Dark Places

“I’m sorry,” she says.  And it sounds like she really is.  Lukas feels a stab of uneasiness.  That didn’t come out right.

“I have somewhere to be, but you can take a quick look to get an idea of the place if you’d like,” Lukas says, still listening to the rain.  This isn’t the sort of rain that just happens to fall; it is hurtling toward the earth, determined, as if each drop has its own vital mission to accomplish upon landing.  If nothing else, he likes the sound of serious rain; it goes well with Scotch.

“That’d be great,” Katie says, and a lopsided smile stretches across her face that almost mutes the rain.

Lukas turns and crosses the stone floor of the alcove toward the staircase, passing by a two-level bookshelf built into the wall that displays only two identical layers of dust.  Although the uneven wooden stairs look like relics, they register barely an audible creak as Katie follows him up.  The clacking of her clogs against the rigid wood, however, is deafening.  At the top of the stairs, Lukas pauses outside the door, motioning for Katie to go inside.  The walk up the stairs has left him lightheaded.  Too many drinks, possibly.  Too few trips to this part of the house, probably.  Not enough drinks…definitely.

The girl steps lightly into the old apartment-style room and looks around, as if silently assessing its livability.  The doorframe is low, and Lukas would have to slouch his lanky frame to pass under it, but he stays just outside, on the landing.  He has no interest in the old room; he knows it well.  It hasn’t changed much since he’d rented it as a student, long before he bought the house.  Not much has been added.  A few items have been removed.  But everything has changed.

“I was excited to see your ad,” Katie says, her slender fingers delicately examining a discolored pine desk in the corner.  The room is a humble space, with a slanted ceiling and a lone window shrouded by a dusty film that suggests it hasn’t been disturbed in years.  A twin-sized bed, lumpy and thin, sits on cinderblock supports across from the desk, and has been covered by boxes and warped stacks of papers, bundled with roughly tied twine.  Lukas had mentioned over the phone that he had been using the room primarily for storage, and had promised to clean it out, but he hadn’t yet gotten around to it.  Standing in the doorway, Katie shrugs awkwardly, and Lukas has no idea how to interpret the gesture.  She scans the room again, smiles, and says, “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to find a place this close to the start of the semester.”

“You got good and soaked out there,” Lukas notes.  He feels old.  Particularly in a college town, particularly beside Katie.  So young, soaked and she doesn’t even care; she’ll bounce back.  “Umbrellas aren’t as popular as they used to be, I s’pose.”

“Actually, I have one, but I was running late and forgot it.”  Katie turns to meet his gaze, then quickly turns away.  She stares pointedly at the old piano bench, inconspicuous upon first glance from its neglected spot beneath three boxes of yellowed paperback books.  “Then I forgot to bring the address with me and went to the wrong house at first.”  Forgetful Katie.  Free-spirited maybe.  Still young enough to get away with it.  She runs her fingers through the wet, shoulder-length strands of her hair, and paces around the room, scanning each direction as if looking for something in particular.  “God, I must look ridiculous,” she says with a sheepish grin.  Lukas catches himself on the verge of smiling.  Somehow, her remark didn’t sound as phony as it should have.  Funny how a pretty girl’s self-consciousness somehow makes her even prettier.  She stops and faces him.  “Aren’t there any mirrors in this place?”

The question catches Lukas off guard.  He gulps down the last watered-down sip of Scotch and shakes his head.  He doesn’t need to run a mental inventory of the house’s supplies.  “No,” is all he replies.

Catch up with Jeff and find his books at:

http://www.jeffgephartwriting.com/

https://twitter.com/#!/@Jeff_Gephart

http://www.amazon.com/Jeff-Gephart/e/B004WH7CSA/ref=ntt_athr_dp_pel_1

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/out-of-dark-places-jeff-gephart/1100178590?ean=9780984639205&itm=1&usri=out+of+dark+places