Yankee Doodle Dead Ball

Judith Arnold

If you’ve studied American history, you’ve heard of the Battles of Lexington and Concord. In the centuries since those battles took place, another battle has simmered between Lexington and Concord over which

town can lay claim to the “shot heard ’round the world”—the first shot actually fired in the American Revolution. Lexington partisans claim that first shot was fired by the British soldiers on the Lexington Town Green. Concord partisans argue that what happened in Lexington was a massacre, not really a battle, because the colonial settlers did not fire back. According to this argument, the “shot heard ’round the world” was one fired by a member of the colonial militia at the Old North Bridge in Concord. The American Revolution began nearly 240 years ago, and the two towns have been fighting over which town can boast of being the “birthplace of American liberty” for almost as long.

I mention this because I live in a town very near Concord and Lexington, a town which played such a pivotal role in the American Revolution that when postal zip codes were being assigned in the 1960’s, my town won the coveted zip code “01776,” beating out both Lexington and Concord for that honor. So when I decided to set my new mystery, Dead Ball, in a small town west of Boston, I wanted to make the setting a town as fiercely devoted to its colonial heritage as the towns in this part of Massachusetts truly are.

(I wish I could say that the fictional town of Rockford, where Dead Ball takes place, was named after a great Revolutionary War hero, but the truth is, I named the town after Jim Rockford, the detective portrayed by James Garner in “The Rockford Files.” Jim Rockford is one of my heroes, even if his heroics don’t date back to the American Revolution.)

My editors loved the idea of setting Dead Ball in a colonial-era Massachusetts town, and they urged me to play up the Yankee Doodle Dandy setting as much as possible. In mystery series, the location is nearly as important as the plot. The plot might be the pretzel, but the location is the coating of salt crystals that give the pretzel its flavor.

So I salted the fictional town of Rockford with plenty of colonial references. The park where Lainie Lovett, Dead Ball’s sleuthing heroine, plays soccer is named Minuteman Field, and her rec-department team is dubbed the Colonielles. The main road through Rockford is Liberty Road, and the Mexican restaurant where Lainie and her friends retire for margaritas after their soccer practices is the Olde Towne Olé. (The French restaurant in town is the Partie de Thé, which is French for “Tea Party,” a nod to the Boston Tea Party.)The murder victim is found in a subdivision called Emerson Village.

I had a lot of fun creating Rockford, with its patriotic Revolutionary War spirit. Dead Ball is a murder mystery, but it’s also a comedy with gentle notes of satire. We proud citizens of colonial New England can laugh at ourselves even as we’re waving our flags and cheering the fife-and-drum corps who march in our town’s Fourth-of-July parades and perform at our Colonial musters every autumn.

The mystery Lainie solves belongs in Rockford. Lainie meets with the man who might become her next lover—or who might be the murderer—at the real Walden Pond, which is just a few miles from my house. We don’t take Walden Pond for granted in these parts, but we accept that our nation’s resplendent history coexists quite nicely with its present in this part of Massachusetts—and in the world of Dead Ball.

When Judith Arnold’s family moved to Massachusetts twenty-five years ago, her husband contemplated joining the town’s militia, which reenacts the Battle of Concord every year on Patriots Day. If he did that, he thought, Judith could be his “camp wench.” Much as she loves him, she decided she did not wish to be a wench, colonial or otherwise.

Judith's current release, Dead Ball, has hit the Amazon Kindle bestseller lists. Along with the Kindle edition, Dead Ball is also available in a print edition at Amazon and Barnes & Noble, in a Nook edition, and at Kobo. You can visit her web site to learn about her independently published romances. For more information about her upcoming titles, discounts and deals, please sign up for her newsletter.

A Letter to all Millenials by Jenny Gardiner

authors note: 

With it being graduation time, I thought I'd post a recent column I ran as my regular column in my city's newspaper. It elicited a bit of response so I figured I'd re-post it here for your contemplation...

Dear Millenials:

            On behalf of my generation, I'd like to apologize. I know there are those who consider you pampered and fragile and expectant of handouts, desperate for the wub-wub-wub of your helicopter parents to swoop in and save you from failing.

            But I see it differently. I see us as having failed you on far too many levels. And for that I'm most sorry.

            We arrogant Baby Boomers thought we knew it all: how to succeed in business (and life) without really trying. Yet then imposed on our children a set of rigorous expectations, so that they became near-paralyzed in their Herculean efforts to achieve them. To make matters worse, the terms and conditions got changed while they were busy killing themselves to succeed by our skewed definition.

            Yeah, my tribe imposed structure out the wazoo: no more playing outside, for fear of kidnappings. Only organized sports, the earlier and more intense the better. Learn your Beethoven while in utero, by God, all to prepare you for a lifetime of preparing you. For what? That's what a lot of these kids are starting to wonder now that they're young adults. For what?

            They had to overachieve in order to achieve. The one or two AP courses of my era morphed into quintuple that and more. Childhood became a grind, working to the breaking point, whether in academics, sports or work, preparing you for work. Because these kids practically had to know their career path by Kindergarten.

            And in the middle of it all, the bottom dropped out. Even though they did what they were told: work your fingers to the bone to get into the premier college. Don't you dare ever do anything wrong, because it will destroy your permanent record, permanently. Caught with a beer at the age of 18? You'd better hang it up and plan for a lifetime of misery, because You. Will. Pay. Forever.

            And now? With an economy my peers decimated, these young adults carry debilitating college debt, for which they cannot find relief: Congress made sure they could never, ever discharge that debt. And despite that unspoken deal we made with them to abandon their childhoods in order to achieve their adult goals, they can't find jobs, thanks to an economy that still barely chugs along.

            Instead we have bright, productive, ambitious kids inventorying sweaters at The Gap if they're lucky, or floundering for years in unpaid internships, because that's all that's out there. No insurance, can't afford rent, so they live at home, feeling like losers. Type-A-perfect-score-on-the-SAT-attended-UVA-or-Haverford-or-Dennison-invented-the-cure-to-cancer-but-can't-get-hired-losers.

            I want to tell them, "Go. Have fun. Stop worrying about everything." Yet they were brainwashed into a culture of fear. How could you not be afraid, 24/7, when we have CNN broadcasting nothing but "updates" (even when there are none) on a missing and presumed malevolently-downed jet? When Fox News' business model is "scare-the-hell-out-of-you-24/7"? Weaned on war and attacks and uncertainty, it's impossible not to "catch" the fear if you're subjected to it long enough.

            My advice for those soon to enter college is not to amass reams of debt for an undergraduate degree at an overpriced university; stay local and save. Look for scholarships when possible, but ironically, in reality, most super-achievers actually don't qualify for merit money anyhow, so why bother? Better yet? Take a gap year and breathe.

            Try to have fun while you're in college, while trying on lots of hats to see what truly does strike your fancy. And when you graduate? Travel. See the world. Do it on the cheap while cheap doesn't bother you so much: assuming eventually you'll actually earn some money, you'll get soft and grow accustomed to sleeping on beds, and want to eat at nice restaurants and drink good wine. But now? Forego the comforts to burnish the memories of your journey, which will far more imprint on you and your future than would that unpaid internship-to-nowhere that lies in wait regardless of when you get back.

            I wish I had answers for these young adults who doubled down on our rules and were robbed of the intended results. I wish stress and anxiety in young people wasn't at record levels. I wish we weren't drugging these kids up with pharmaceuticals to counter the irrational demands we've placed on them.

            And mostly, I wish we hadn't denied them their childhoods. But I'm encouraged that now that they're adults, these bright people are realizing they can rewrite the rules to suit their needs, and they can find joy in less, and not feel bound by this rewardless, perpetual, nose-to-the-grindstone movement we launched on them. They're eschewing the materialism of my generation in favor of simplicity. Their "failure" is ultimately their greatest success.

            I was inspired recently by a young couple that travel the country, playing music at farmers markets, sleeping in a retrofitted van. Or the young man who took a break from straight-A grades in a premier college to decompress and work on a sailboat instead. And the UVA grad who got tired of a futile job search and instead took her barista act on the road, California-bound.

            Sadly, our cost-cutting, budget-busting, bottom-line society has rendered the finer things in life irrelevant. Music education, arts education, a liberal arts degree? All now viewed by "deciders" as obsolete. Value is only placed on science and technology, so those without such skills are considered professionally irrelevant.

            In the meantime, my generation wanted what we wanted and needed it now. And that means sorry, kids, we've fished out your oceans, drilled out your Earth, squandered your resources, and now, lucky you, we're leaving you to hold the bag and figure out if you can fix the mess we've handed you. Thank goodness we made sure you were the smartest generation ever. You're gonna need it.

            In the meantime, in this graduation season, I wish you all nothing but peace and happiness. And hope the journey to find that is a joyful one. 

  Sleeping with Ward Cleaver

Slim to None

Anywhere But Here

Winging It: A Memoir of Caring for a Vengeful Parrot Who's Determined to Kill Me

Accidentally on Purpose (written as Erin Delany)

Compromising Positions (written as Erin Delany)

I'm Not the Biggest Bitch in this Relationship (I'm a contributor)

And these shorts:
Idol Worship: A Lost Week with the Weirdos and Wannabes at American Idol Auditions

The Gall of It All: And None of the Three F's Rhymes with Duck

Naked Man On Main Street

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 find me on my website

Writers: Nature or Nurture?

We are thrilled to have something a little different to the Girlfriends Book Club today... a man.  Okay, so more than this, Grant Blackwood is the New York Times bestselling author of the Briggs Tanner series (re-releasing this month), as well as the co-author of novels with Tom Clancy, Clive Cussler and James Rollins. Thank you for visiting with us, Grant, and welcome to the club!  

By Grant Blackwood

Tanner Briggs Novels, coming May 27th!

Do writers come into this world with the "scribe's spark" or can it be born later through random forces in our lives?  It's a popular and hotly debated question among writers and readers alike. 

            When I was ten, Irwin Allen style disaster movies such as The Poseidon Adventure and The Towering Inferno were all the rage.  I loved them all. So I tried to write one.  Its tentative title was "Death in Airtight Tube" and it involved a undersea train tunnel that partially collapses, trapping a slew of fascinating characters in the doomed vehicle.  A decent premise, perhaps, but I hadn't the vaguest concept of the basics — dialogue, point-of-view, exposition, and so on.  I was about a thousand words into the story when I got distracted by collecting doodle bugs in my backyard and abandoned the project.  The question is, had I decade earlier emerged into this world with the desire to tell stories?  I have no idea.  And I don't think anyone else does either — about themselves or about anyone else.

            It wasn't until 1987, when I was a couple months out of the Navy that I put pen to paper again (not counting high school book reports on The Catcher in the Rye and Plato's The Republic) — or in my case, fingers to typewriter.  What came out of that chattering, White-Out guzzling machine was the first draft of my first novel, now dubbed my "sock drawer book" because that's where it sat, deservedly unpublished, for the next five years until I lost it in a move.  It was an awful piece of writing, only better than "Death in Airtight Tube" because I managed to extort 100,000 words from the plot.  Even so, I was hooked.  The image of complete strangers glued to their chairs, entranced by a story and characters that I made from whole cloth was intoxicating.

            Now a junkie, I dove into the writing life and never looked back.  That was 27 years ago and now I'm a different person from the student who hated and was baffled by English class.  Diagram a sentence?  No thanks.  Topic sentences and transitions?  Where's a sharp stick I can jab into my eye?  Since my mom had handed me my first Dr. Seuss book I'd loved reading, but I had no interest in how the sausage got made. 

            Somewhere between  "Death in Airtight Tube" and when I wrote "The End" on the last page of my sock drawer book all that changed.  I don't know when or how it happened, but for the better part of my adult life I've been not only disassembling, studying, and resembling the sausage machine, but also the sausage itself, right down to its atomic structure.  And I've learned.  However, aside from the quantifiable decades of practice and trial-and-error (emphasis on the latter) I can't tell you how, but I have given the mysterious process a name: "Writer's Osmotic Syndrome", or WOS.

            There seems to be a consensus that the bits and pieces that make up a great book can be through diligence learned and even mastered.  Characterization can be learned.  Dialogue can be learned.  Plotting can be learned.  All of it can be learned.   Writers that persist are proof of this.  No one sticks with an endeavor without seeing improvement.  That's human nature — unless that is you're Sisyphus and you've got no choice but to roll the boulder. 

            Given the daunting attrition rate in our business, the most pressing question is not about technique, but about the unrelenting drive it takes to succeed as a writer.  Is this quintessential ingredient sewn into our DNA before we first open our eyes, or can you plant the seed yourself?  Certainly no one can do it for you, or teach it to you, but I say desire can indeed be self-sewn.  And self-nurtured. 

            The problem is, along the way struggling writers often hear that you're either born with it or you're not.  Rarely is this enigmatic "it" explained; nor the reasoning behind the the axiom.   This should be a red flag for writers.  And as most writers are saddled with a stubborn streak the size of Montana, let such red flags be to you what red flags are to bulls.  Charge at anything with "No" emblazoned across it.

            The tiniest of sparks can be coaxed into a furnace. 

            Writer's Osmotic Syndrome applies even to desire.

Grant Blackwood is #1 New York Times bestselling author. His latest, The Kill Switch, co-written with NYT bestselling author James Rollins released this week! He'll be relaunching his Briggs Tanner series on May 27th. For more information visit Grant's website, GrantBlackwood.com.

The Miracle Mile, Benihana, and the Truth About a Novel's Setting

by Saralee Rosenberg

Readers often ask novelists what inspires their stories. And just like answering a test question correctly, they give writers the highest mark for this response: The plot was autobiographic  and/or it originated from someone’s real life incident. 

In other words, phooey on the made-up stuff. We want

“real life”, like what Jodi Piccoult writes about. And E.L. James.

Try as I might, I don’t understand this reaction. Fiction is not the same as biography or memoir. It is intended as an entertaining and engaging story that explores honest emotions through characters that are figments of the writer’s imagination. 

Or so I was told.

I learned a different lesson when I did a book tour for my debut novel, A LITTLE HELP FROM ABOVE. Rather than creating a fictional setting, I chose Manhasset, an affluent suburb on Long Island's north shore. There were several reasons, but it was not lost on me that its main street, Northern Blvd, was home to "The Miracle Mile". Think Tiffany, Burberry and dozens of other luxury retailers that dote on the mink and manure set.

What can I say? My characters like to shop.

But when I spoke at local events and mentioned that I wasn't from Manhasset, in fact I was originally from Indiana... well! That confession really pissed people off. WHAT? But you described the area perfectly. You mentioned the Miracle Mile and Benihana. Maybe your husband is from here?

They simply did not want to accept that an outsider could depict their hometown without having been a present or former taxpayer. More to the point, they implied that they felt a little duped by my portrayal, to which I said, “Aren't you happy that I was so convincing?” Not according to locals. 

I disagree. 

A writer that remains true to a setting and honors its history, honors the reader as well. An authentic setting also tells the reader that the writer has taken great pains to create a true backdrop, thereby validating the characters and their journeys. In other words, a writer that bothers to get the facts straight about a location promises to be as diligent when exploring matters of the heart. No false notes allowed!

That is why integrity is the key that unlocks the writer’s door, not familiarity with the best place to grab dinner. Although truth be told, I’m still a huge fan of the Hibachi steak at Benihana. Ah! Research!

Saralee Rosenberg is the author of A LITTLE HELP FROM ABOVE, CLAIRE VOYANT, FATE AND MS. FORTUNE, and DEAR NEIGHBOR, DROP DEAD (Avon/HarperCollins). Her latest project is a novel for younger readers, THE MIDDLE SCHOOL MEDIUM. Visit her website. www.saraleerosenberg.com

Location, Location, Location!

Do you love New York?

             Or would you hate it, even on a spring day in Central Park?
 
What about your characters? 

We know how important is to describe where your story is taking place: if it could happen anywhere, you miss a huge opportunity to create a meaningful story world for your reader. But have you ever considered the importance of setting to each of your characters? How does each one feel about it? And how does that affect what they do in your story?

Setting can  enrich a character's behavior by causing them to react in ways that move the action forward. In other words, setting can create conflict.  There are two kinds of conflict: Internal and External. 

Internal conflict is what happens inside a character - and it can change the dynamics of any setting.


If your hero loves the beach, she'll be relaxed there. It will be the ideal setting to slow down the pace and let a romance build. Then again, if she hates the beach - whether she refuses to be seen in a swimsuit, or if her brother drowned in the ocean - that first date could be a nightmare before the picnic basket is unpacked. 



Popular "fish out of water" stories use the setting to create inner conflict through contrast. Put a city gal in a country setting for the first time, and the humor will write itself. Send her home to the small town she escaped, and drama will infuse every scene.

External conflict is something that happens right there on the outside when your characters have other business to attend to. The romantic couple at the beach could get rained out, or distracted by a lifeguard rescue, or lose the car keys in the sand.  The gal in the country could experience her first tornado, or a flirty sheriff, or a lack of cell phone signal. Pile some external conflict on a scene already rife with internal conflict and you get a double whammy - a scene so exciting there is no way the reader can resist.

The point is, when we talk about setting, anything can happen - and should.  Where we are and how we feel about it makes a big difference in our lives. Where your characters are and how they feel about it can make a big difference in your story.
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Leslie Lehr is a prizewinning author, essayist, and screenwriter. One of her favorite settings is at book festivals where she gets to discuss her new novel, What A Mother Knows.

You can follow Leslie at www.facebook.com/authorleslielehr
Tw @leslielehr1
or email her at lesliejlehr@gmail.com

How I Stole a Manor House for My Novel

by Cindy Jones

Since we are discussing setting I will reluctantly work past my discomfort to share, not only how I obtained realistic details to create the manor house in my novel, but also how a sense of poetic entitlement caused me to behave badly.  Ahem.  (Sound of me clearing throat).  I avoided arrest and have purposely omitted names in this post in order to protect myself.

On my last day in England I drove several hours to see a country house.  I mention driving in order to establish my mental state upon arrival.  Driving on the wrong side of the road inside-out and backwards, navigating round-abouts and side-swiping overgrown hedgerows, leading cars in a very slow parade and watching drivers raise fists and shake their heads as they passed me, I was stressed.

Plus, I was nervous, palms sweating and stomach fluttering, on the verge of actually meeting the house of my dreams, a lovely country house, not too grand yet big enough to house the literary festival my characters were producing.  I'd met the house online and consulted the website photos again and again, searching for nuances as I created every atom of my fictional world.  But as I drove I worried that I might discover I'd gotten something wrong, something that would be obvious to anyone who had ever been to England.  Five years work could go down the drain.

Arriving near the destination, homemade signs appeared with arrows pointing the way, then a welcome sign with hours posted, and finally a sign that said "closed".  Surely a mistake.  The hotel concierge had said "open from 11 to 5".  She didn't say the hours applied to one Sunday a month.  It had never occurred to me that the house would not be open to me.  It was mine.

A man on a backhoe, spreading chips around a mucky parking lot dismounted and approached me as I stepped out of my car.  "Can I help you?" He said, defeated and melancholy like Ralph Fiennes speaking to the corpse in his English Patient airplane.  I told him I was there to see the house and he said, "Oh, well. It's not open today."

Surely he would be flexible.  "But I've come all the way from Texas."   The house was not visible from the road or the parking lot.  Only a hint of red brick showed through the foliage, not enough to get a sense of its shape.  

"I'm afraid not," he said, looking away.

"Could I just walk around the outside and take pictures?"

"We have several work projects underway and it just wouldn't be possible."  He suggested I return the next day, but I would be long gone in the opposite direction the next day.  I explained about my novel and offered to pay for the privilege of a quick look but he seemed to think I was just another ill-mannered tourist, not an author who had dreamed of his house and featured it in a novel, a love one would think we shared.  He walked away.

How casually he denied what I so desperately wanted.  I shut my car door and pulled out of the mucky parking lot and into the road leading away from the house of my dreams, unable to let go of my disappointment.  And that was when my mother spoke up, the same mother who introduced me to Heathcliff, who loaned me her wedding dress to wear in a sixth grade play, and who insists on happy endings.  "Go on," she said.  "Walk up there and look at the house."

Right.

But I did it.  I took my camera and walked up the drive, nervous, even though I was sheltered from the man on the backhoe by the same trees hiding the house.

It was lovely.  I snapped pictures as I circled, wary of running out of time, afraid of being nabbed, but what struck me most was the feeling of serenity, of the mighty monument of a house rising from the earth, concealed in this quiet place, rich with history, family buried in the chapel yard, lovely gardens as far as the eye could see.

Being there added to my understanding, created new intimacy, but the main thing was: I'd gotten it right.  My characters could exist on the other side of the windows, coming through doors, alive in this place.  But at that moment of clarity, an actual woman who was not one of my characters, appeared in an upper story window.  "Do you mind?" she yelled unkindly, "my family lives here."  I was about to explain about  my novel and how I'd come so far to see her house, but I stopped because backhoe man appeared in my peripheral vision, approaching with long, angry strides.  "I told you to leave," he said.

Not my cars.

And I did.  I hightailed it to the car, shifted into drive, and tried to remember to stay on the wrong side of the road as I made my getaway.  Although I did indeed finally meet the house of my dreams, I lay awake that night feeling remorse for trespassing.  I would like to say it won't happen again.            


A setting detail from My Jane Austen Summer, page 42:

"Trees and shrubs on either side of the path still obscured the view so that only a hint of red brick peeked through the leaves.  A sign appeared on our right announcing Newton Priors, open to the public the first Sunday of the month." 

Have you ever been caught trespassing for fiction??  If so, please share so I don't feel so exposed here...

Visit my author site HERE.

Cindy Jones is the author of My Jane Austen Summer, the story of a young woman who thinks she may have realized her dream of living in a novel when she is invited to participate in a Jane Austen Literary Festival.  Her problems follow her to England where she must change her ways or face the fate of so many of Jane Austen’s secondary characters, destined to repeat the same mistakes over and over again.

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A Mother's Day treat: an exclusive sneak peek from Jamie Brenner's new novel, RUIN ME! by Brenda Janowitz

Happy Mother's Day!  I'm so thrilled today because we've got one of my favorite authors here, the fabulous Jamie Brenner.  She's giving us a sneak peek of her latest novel, RUIN ME.  I'm a huge fan of Jamie's work-- I talked about her fabulous novel, THE GIN LOVERS, this past February, and now with RUIN ME, she's got another smart, sexy page turner on her hands.

I know that the second you read this excerpt, you are going to hop online and order your copy of RUIN ME-- I'm about 1/3 of the way through and it's beyond fabulous-- but, before you do that, let's hear from Jamie first!

THE MOTHER'S DAY DIVIDE

by Jamie Brenner

Hallmark doesn’t make a Mother’s Day card that reads, “Thanks for being so controlling! In my rebellion, I fell in love in love with someone completely inappropriate – but totally hot.”

I’m thinking maybe they should – because a lot of us have been there.

In a perfect world, mothers are wise creatures who guide us by love and example. And in this perfect world, daughters only emulate their and make them proud. But in reality, we often have to distance ourselves from our mothers to define ourselves, even if just temporarily. Who hasn’t pushed back against a curfew, a dress code, disapproval over a boyfriend? Ideally, these are temporary hiccups. But in some cases, mothers and daughters are so opposite, the divide defines their entire relationship.

In RUIN ME, my heroine needs to step out of the long shadow of her famous mother. Anna Sterling is a powerful art dealer who expects her daughter to follow in her footsteps, and Lulu, a senior at NYU, has her own ideas about art – and life. When Lulu finds her passion and ideas embodied in a mysterious, bad-boy street artist known as GoST, things get dicey. (See above-mentioned Hallmark card).

As I celebrate Mother’s Day, I think about my own bumps in the road – the ones that are behind me, and the ones that are ahead now that I’m on the other side of the fence. Judging from my teenage daughter, I expect I’ll have fodder for at least another book or two on this subject. Maybe more.

RUIN ME

by Jamie Brenner

Chapter 1

There’s a thing that happens at these art gallery parties filled with the beautiful people. Everyone orbits the room pretending not to look at the one person they all want to notice them. They pretend that her glance isn’t the ultimate prize.

I’ve been playing this game my entire life.

The owner of New York’s most prestigious art gallery, she is a pale-skinned, willowy brunette, wears dark-red matte lipstick, and is dressed in all white. There are several ropes of pearls around her neck and a cigarette in her hand—even now, when no one smokes in public anymore. She’s like a living photo from the past, Coco Chanel or Dovima. She is timeless but perfectly of this moment. Elegant, powerful, elusive.

She’s my mother.

“You should stand closer to him so you get in some of the photos,” she says to me so quickly and quietly no one else would have heard.

I immediately cross the room. I’m a junior at NYU, an art major, and girlfriend of one of the hottest up-and-coming painters in New York. But around my mother, I’m still the six-year-old who ignored her warning never to use the scissors without her permission, only to cut my own bangs and ruin my hair for a year.

Hoping to satisfy her, I stand closer to my boyfriend, Brandt. It’s not even his night, but he looks like the star. And in three months, he will be: It will be his paintings on the walls, his sound bites the journalists and bloggers want. But for now, New York magazine just wants a photo of us together for their party section.

“I’m going to get some fresh air,” I whisper to him, uncomfortable with the attention. It’s late, close to midnight by now. He looks at me, his blue eyes shiny, his cheeks flushed from excitement and wine. He is talking to the showing artist, Dustin McBride, whom my mother just poached from Vito Schnabel’s gallery.

A few months ago, Dustin wouldn’t have given Brandt the time of day. But now Brandt is part of the club. Not just an “emerging” artist but one about to have his first one-man show with Anna Sterling.

“I’ll go with you,” Brandt says, but I know he doesn’t mean it. He’s high from all the attention, buzzing with it. Hovering close by is Inez Elliot, my mother’s trusted gallery director and probably the coolest girl I know. She has pale coco skin and bleached blond hair offset by dark eyebrows—Rita Ora on steroids. I smile at her; she looks away.

Other women are circling—the art groupies, the hipster writer from The Times, and even the new “it” girl model with her heart-shaped lips, pink-edged blond hair, and stud in her nostril. Brandt drinks it all in. He was made for this.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell him.

Outside, I gasp with relief when I feel the humid June air. The streets of SoHo feel like they are running on different oxygen than the freezing gallery. For the first time in hours, my goose bumps disappear.

This wasn’t how my summer was supposed to go, I thought while crossing Greene Street. I’d wanted to be spending this week packing for a trip to Spain with my roommate, Niffer. We’d spent months planning our trip and even knew where we would eat dinner our first night—Els Pescadors, for tapas. It’s where Niffer met her boyfriend, Claudio, last summer. He still works there.

Now Niffer is going without me, thanks to my mother.

I inhale the summer air greedily and walk slowly down West Houston Street in my impractical shoes and sheath dress. The initial elation of escaping the party turns sour as I start to perspire. I’m exhausted.

I always imagined working at the gallery alongside my mother. Dreamed of it, actually. I knew it was my future. But now that she wants me to start this summer, it feels all too soon.

But, I can’t say no to my mother—I never have. And now I’m paying the price for it. Keeping up with her breakneck work ethic is going consume the next two months of my life, as it has consumed all of hers. She only took time off from the gallery twice in twenty-five years: when I was born, and then six months later, when my father killed himself.

My phone vibrates in my dangly, beaded vintage clutch. A part of me dares to hope that it’s Brandt, saying that he wants to get some air, too. “Let’s get pizza,” or more likely, “Let’s fuck.”

I pull the phone out. It’s my mother. “Where are you? Richard wants a quote from you.”

“From me?” Richard is the art critic for The New York Times.

“Yes, Lulu.”

“I’m outside. I just needed some fresh air. I’ll be back in a minute.”

I dutifully turn to head back to the gallery. And that’s when, out of the corner of my eye, I see something.

I look up. Sure enough, on the side of a building, ten stories above the street, a man dangles from a harness. One arm is perfectly still, the other is waving in sharp, methodical sweeping motions. He is holding a stencil in one hand, spray-painting with the other.

I watch, rooted in place, mesmerized as swaths of paint start to form an image. It’s a dark-haired woman. The spray can leaves a trail of colors to form a blue shirt with capped sleeves and a long yellow skirt. The woman’s body appears to wilt, her arm falling to her side. I take in the image from top to bottom. It’s Snow White. She’s beautiful, vulnerable, falling into the legendary sleep that will only be broken by her prince.

He moves quickly, now painting near Snow White’s limp hand. His body blocks my view. Finally, he pushes back on his feet, moving away from the painting. It is now complete, with a poisoned apple dropping from her limp hand.

But it’s not just any apple—it’s the tech company logo.

I gasp. It’s the most exciting piece of art I’ve seen all night, and it’s on the side of a building.

Suddenly, the can of spray paint falls from his hand. It seems to happen in slow motion, tumbling over and over, until it hits the sidewalk with a tinny crash.

The noise attracts other people, and a small crowd gathers at the base of the building. People are pointing. And then, nearby, the wail of a police siren.

But he is not finished yet. With quick, efficient circular motions of his arm, he claims the painting, tagging the piece with the name GoST. And I realize I am witnessing the artist whose brilliant, politically-edged stencil paintings have been popping up all over walls and billboards in SoHo and the Village. A thrill runs through me.

And just like that, he is gone.

Copyright © 2014 by Jamie Brenner

About the author:

Jamie Brenner is the author of THE GIN LOVERS, chosen by Fresh Fiction as one of their Top 13 Books to Read in 2013. Jamie also writes erotic fiction under the name Logan Belle. Her debut novel, BLUE ANGEL, was the first in an erotic trilogy published by Kensington, followed by the erotic romances NOW OR NEVER, THE LIBRARIAN and MISS CHATTERLEY. Her novels have been translated into a dozen languages. She lives in Manhattan, blogs for Romance at Random and Heroes & Heartbreakers, and is busy raising two daughters who aren't allowed to read her books. To read more or contact her, visit jamiebrenner.com or follow her @jamieLbrenner

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I’m the author of SCOT ON THE ROCKS and JACK WITH A TWIST. My third novel, RECIPE FOR A HAPPY LIFE, was published by St. Martin's on July 2, 2013. My fourth novel, THE LONELY HEARTS CLUB, was published by Polis Books on May 6, 2014.

My work’s also appeared in the New York Post and Publisher’s Weekly. You can find me at brendajanowitz.com or on Twitter at @BrendaJanowitz.