by Jae
Table of Contents
INTRODUCTION
CONSIGNMENT BY ELAINE BURNES
CHERRY PARK PULP BY JOVE BELLE
BOOKS, RENOVATIONS, AND A VESPA BY MELISSA GRACE
KINDRED SPIRITS BY LEA DALEY
BETWEEN THE LINES BY A.L. BROOKS
ROMANCE ON A SIDE NOTE BY CHRIS ZETT
WROTE TRIP BY CORI KANE
ORPHANS’ CHRISTMAS BY KATHY BRODLAND
VEGAN DELIGHTS BY HAZEL YEATS
CRUISE BY JACELLE SCOTT
SEX SELLS BY JAE
FAUX PAS BY ANASTASIA VITSKY
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
OTHER BOOKS FROM YLVA PUBLISHING
COMING FROM YLVA PUBLISHING IN SUMMER 2016
FINDING
MS. WRITE
Jae & Jove Belle (Ed.)
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www.ylva-publishing.com
INTRODUCTION
Every time we go to a book fair or a literary conference, we again realize what a special bunch “book people” are. When talking about books, even the most introverted readers and writers step outside themselves and become very passionate.
While some of them leave their non-reading spouses at home, many share the love of reading, writing, or publishing with their partners—and some even met their significant others through books. One of them is Ylva Publishing’s very own Lois Cloarec Hart, who fell in love with her editor and is now married to her.
So we thought why not put together an anthology full of stories about book people—writers, editors, bookstore owners, librarians, journalists, beta readers, and readers finding love with each other. We had a lot of submissions, and we think we selected a wonderful mix of stories from established and first-time authors from all over the world.
We hope you enjoy this glimpse into the publishing world!
Jove Belle & Jae
CONSIGNMENT
BY ELAINE BURNES
Patricia scanned the images from the various security cameras, keeping an eye out for shoplifters. A woman sat by the window in the café, nursing a cup of coffee and typing on her laptop. Again. She spent hours every day in the store, with her one cup, pretending she wasn’t there just for the free Wi-Fi. But from the outside, she made the place look busy, so that was good. Patricia moved on to the next screen. A couple of women read to their toddlers in the kids’ section. At the new-releases table, Jean chatted with Sally while they unpacked books and stacked them carefully.
Done procrastinating, Patricia turned to her computer and called up the distributor’s online order site. When did bookselling become so tedious? Twenty-five years ago, she reminded herself, when she bought the place. Seemed like a good idea at the time, right? Her only competitors were chain stores she could outmaneuver with good customer service. Then came the World Wide Web. And Amazon. But she was surviving. Putting in the café a decade ago helped. Now if she could just find the time to take a vacation. Maybe meet someone. She couldn’t remember the last time she had a date.
An incoming e-mail pinged. Patricia switched programs. She stared at the new message in disbelief. She read it again. Three times. Rhonda Fernly would come to her store for a book signing. The Rhonda Fernly. Patricia gasped. Rhonda Fernly was the hottest lesbian romance writer…ever. Hot both in looks and in popularity. Even straight women wanted her books. Wanted her. Rhonda almost never went on book tours. Patricia had been trying for years to get her to come. It wasn’t as if The Bookmark was a tiny shop in the middle of nowhere. This was trendy, hip Cambridge, Massachusetts. Okay, so the shop was in a strip mall on Mass. Ave., almost in Arlington. Not in the Square, any square. Not Harvard, Central, or even nerdy Kendall Square. Still.
Patricia focused on the details. Next month. Thursday, the fifteenth. Good. Plenty of time to prepare. Maybe the Globe would list it in “Bookings.” Plan. Come up with a plan. She raced out of the back room to tell her staff. Everyone squealed appropriately. The woman at the window looked up, furrowed her brow, and then went back to typing.
Midweek, Patricia sat alone at the cash register while Sally ate lunch. That woman, the Wi-Fi freeloader, stepped up to the counter holding a book. “Could I speak to the manager, please?” she asked.
Patricia eyed her. She wasn’t as young as she had appeared, sitting by the window. About Patricia’s age, maybe forties. She didn’t recognize the book. “I’m the owner. Will that do?”
The woman’s eyes widened, and she inhaled audibly. “I’m sorry. I mean, yes, of course.” She wouldn’t make eye contact. “I was wondering… I didn’t see this on the shelf… Would you ever consider…?” Her blush deepened with each stammer.
Patricia waited. It wasn’t as if there was a line forming.
The woman cleared her throat, made eye contact, and took a deep breath. “I wrote this book. A novel. Could… Would you consider carrying it on consignment?” Those last words came out in a rush.
Patricia mentally rolled her eyes. One of those. “So you are,” she looked at the cover, “Julie Bower?”
“Brower. With an R. Julia Brower.”
“Julia?” She squinted. Time to consider glasses? “Yes, Julia. Brower. Congratulations. That’s quite an accomplishment.” Which any Tom, Dickhead, or Harriet could achieve with a laptop and CreateSpace.
Julia smiled and held the book like an offering.
Patricia leaned back ever so slightly. Don’t touch it. Once you touch it, you’ve lost. “What’s it about?”
Julia’s face lit up. “Oh. Well. It’s a multigenerational family saga about a woman, adopted as an infant, who…”
Patricia’s mind wandered. How many bottles of water will Rhonda need? What brand did her agent’s e-mail say she preferred?
“…then after the fire, once she realizes all she’s lost, she goes in search of herself. Metaphorically, really.”
“Really.”
“I can leave you this copy. See if you like it.” She still held the book. Patricia didn’t take it.
What did this make? The tenth this month? At least she was a regular customer. “Sure. Leave it, and I or one of my staff will take a look. I can’t promise anything, though.”
Julia beamed. “Oh, thank you.” She placed the book on the counter and stepped back, nearly colliding with Sally, who had an armful of books. She apologized with a stammer and left the store.
Sally shook her head. “Another one, eh?”
Patricia sighed. “I wonder what her story is.”
“I’m sure she’d be happy to tell you. She looks like she has a crush.”
“She does not. She only wants me to carry her book. She and a gazillion others.”
“I’m surprised you let her leave it.”
Patricia shoved the book toward Sally. “You could read it.”
Sally backed away. “No way. I can’t keep up with the mainstream stuff.”
Patricia picked it up and flipped to the copyright page. “It’s not self-published. Small press. Lesbian.”
“Definitely your genre,” Sally said with a wink.
Patricia looked around to see if any customers were in view and then flipped the bird at Sally, who chuckled and disappeared behind a bookcase.
The problem with accepting the book at all was seeing Julia every day. Now that they’d spoken, Patricia feared there was some contract between them, that she should let her know about the book, but she hadn’t had time to even think about it. Thankfully, Julia mostly hung out in the café, and Patricia le
ft that to Roberto. Really just Bob, but he said Roberto sounded better for business. No, she had a real contract with Rhonda Fernly, whose agent had a list of demands two pages long.
Patricia updated her website and Facebook page to feature the upcoming reading, sent the notice to her e-mail list and all print and online media she could think of, and put Jean in charge of posters for the stores in the mall. Then she put together the shopping list for the reading—a rug for Rhonda to stand on, a specific brand of bottled water, a snack of select organic fruits and nuts. Endless. But so worth it. Rhonda Fernly! Just to meet her. She’d be the biggest name Patricia had ever had in her store. Would she have room for everyone? As it was, she pushed bookcases out of the way in the reference section to set up chairs. She had to be sure to order enough copies of Rhonda’s latest, Plunging to the Falls.
The night before the reading, Patricia made sure the cleaners waxed the floor. The day of, she harassed her staff endlessly to keep the store straightened. Nervous as a gnat, she steered clear of the café at the front and the table where Julia sat. She’d deal with her after Rhonda’s reading.
As evening approached, Patricia hovered near the door, waiting for Rhonda to arrive. Julia, she noticed, had left. Business usually slowed after dinner, but not tonight. Customers streamed in. All for Rhonda. But no Rhonda. Patricia waited. And, well, waited.
With only minutes to spare, Rhonda arrived with a flash of chartreuse scarf, scarlet lipstick, and an expression that reminded Patricia of Norma Desmond. Not the Gloria Swanson version. Carol Burnett’s. Bright scarf, flowing dress, lots of makeup. Her author photo must have been taken decades ago. And her perfume. Floral. Was that Chanel? Patricia wrinkled her nose. Her mother used to wear that.
Patricia had hoped to have time to chat with Rhonda, perhaps show her the store. She tried not to gush as she introduced herself and her staff, impressed Rhonda came alone and not with an entourage.
“Lovely to meet you, Patty,” Rhonda said with a glance around the store. “It is rather smaller than I expected.”
“It’s Patricia, actually.”
Rhonda smiled. Cheshire cat–like.
Then Rhonda spent another thirty minutes in the back room—getting ready, she said. What does one have to do other than pull out the book and find the page to read from? Patricia appeased the audience by letting them know Rhonda was in the building. Latecomers were filling the aisles around the chairs.
Finally, Rhonda made her entrance. Wild applause broke out. Patricia breathed a sigh of relief. This would be good. Very good indeed. She introduced Rhonda to a rapt audience of a few men but mostly women, with an age range from college girls to grannies. Pleased, Patricia stepped aside, and Rhonda took the podium. More wild applause.
As it died down, Rhonda glared at the bottle of water. “It’s too cold,” she said. “I need room temperature.” It had been at room temperature since Patricia bought it two days ago, but she switched it out for another one.
The mic was bothersome. “I never use them,” Rhonda said. She began reading in a soft voice. The room stilled except for the customers at the front ordering cappuccinos and the boy in the children’s section who decided to melt down.
“Could you speak up,” someone from the back called out.
Rhonda paused, glared, and then resumed at the same volume. She read in a dreary monotone, plodding through sentences meant to be energetic, erotic. She gestured wildly with ring-bedecked hands, bracelets clanging. That, everyone could hear. Patricia cringed. Rhonda complained she was hot. Patricia’s staff set up a fan, but then Rhonda complained it blew her hair. Plus, the fan drowned her out. Then her sheaf of papers flew off the podium. Those in the front row scurried to collect them, and Rhonda spent the next fifteen minutes reordering them. It seemed she hadn’t numbered the pages. She resumed reading, but the next page made no sense. She stopped, reordered some more, and continued. People started chatting to each other. Some checked their phones. Those standing wandered away. Others eased out of their seats and left. Patricia wanted to leave too.
By the time Rhonda finished reading—twice as long as Patricia had allotted—half the crowd had left. Instead of taking questions, Rhonda lectured. Romance, she griped, was the miserable stepchild of literature. Ignored, left to fend for itself. Not the brilliant literary fiction prize judges fawned over, or that spoiled brat, mysteries. Patricia wanted to raise her hand and argue that, regardless, romance was her bestselling category. She wouldn’t be in business but for the likes of Rhonda’s many books. But Rhonda took no questions, barely looked at the audience. She exhorted, “Don’t ever let me hear you call my books lesbian fiction.”
Patricia gasped. The audience, what was left of them, was ninety percent dykes. Rhonda wrote some of the hottest lesbian sex scenes found anywhere. Her books fairly steamed off the shelves.
“Don’t belittle yourselves,” Rhonda continued, “by labeling me a lesbian writer. We are beyond labels.”
Except, Patricia mused, for the ones on the shelves specifically categorizing all books. Labels aren’t about the writer, she grumbled to herself because Rhonda sure wasn’t going to let her have her say. Labels are for the reader. No one complains when science fiction is off by itself, or mystery. Patricia prided herself on The Bookmark’s extensive LGBT section.
The audience, Patricia noticed with concern, glared back at Rhonda. Her staff, now an hour into overtime, gave her pleading glances. Time to shut this down while there were still people left to buy books.
Patricia strode to the podium and declared decisively, “Thank you, Ms. Fernly!” She clapped, hoping the audience would pick up on the cue. One or two did. She escorted Rhonda to the table, with the special Mont Blanc pen Patricia had to purchase for her to sign with, and urged those left to come forward.
Alas, Rhonda sat at the table, piles of her books like a wall around her, but no one lined up. Some mingled and chatted, but no one bought a single fucking book.
“Patty,” Rhonda called out, “this water is too warm. I need some ice.”
“Patricia,” Patricia said.
“Excuse me?”
“My name is Patricia.” She fought the urge to bellow.
Rhonda smiled and held up her glass. “Ice?”
Bitch.
Thank God dinner hadn’t been part of the deal. Patricia ushered the few remaining customers out, told her staff to leave the chairs set up, and sent them home to get some rest. She ignored Rhonda until she switched off the lights and had time to cool off.
“Thank you for coming, Rhonda,” she said as she escorted her to the door.
“Well, that was a bust, as they say in showbiz,” Rhonda said. “Not one book signed.”
“Maybe they already owned all your books,” Patricia said, dodging the truth.
“But even those who brought books didn’t ask for them to be signed.” Rhonda didn’t sound hurt. More peeved. As if it was the customers’ fault.
Patricia considered the potential consequences of being blunt. The reading was over. She didn’t care if Rhonda ever came back. What could Rhonda do to her? She certainly wasn’t going to pull her books from the store.
“I hope you don’t mind if I’m brutally honest…” Patricia paused, but Rhonda didn’t stop her. “I think you turned them off with that speech. Half had already left because they couldn’t hear you read.”
Rhonda narrowed her eyes and looked Patricia up and down. “No need to get defensive, my dear.” She waved a bejeweled hand around the dim store, lit only by security lights. “This is hardly a venue commensurate with my stature. Forgive me for being ‘brutally honest,’ as you say, but I think it’s more likely my agent confused your little shop for another, more appropriate, establishment.”
With that Rhonda pushed through the door and disappeared into the night.
“Fuck
ing bitch,” Patricia muttered as she locked the door.
For the next hour, Patricia folded and stacked chairs as a form of therapy. Swoosh, click, thunk. Over and over. What a disaster. She cringed, imagining what would go around Facebook and Twitter by morning, if not already.
It was past midnight when she crawled into bed and lay awake another hour. She reached over a pile of books to click on the light. For the hell of it, she grabbed the one on top and started reading. Didn’t even look at the cover or blurb.
The next morning, Patricia staggered around the store, both sleep deprived and hung over. Not from booze, however. She stood in a daze by the front window, at the empty table where Julia should be sitting but wasn’t. Nor did she come in over the weekend.
Monday, still feeling stuck between alternate universes, Patricia spotted her, back in her usual seat. She nearly wept with relief. She made two cups of coffee and went over to Julia.
She held out a coffee. “For you.”
Julia looked up from her computer and blinked as though waking from a dream. “Oh.” She took the coffee. “Thank you.”
“May I? I won’t stay long.” Patricia gestured to the empty seat.
“Of course.”
“I loved your book.”
“What?”
“Your book. I read it Thursday night. The whole thing. In one big gulp. I didn’t want it to end, but I couldn’t wait to find out what happened.” Patricia didn’t usually gush. She’d had time to formulate her feelings, but it still came out in a rush.
“Oh my God. Really?”
“Oh, really. So tell me, the cigarette ash, the house ashes—all those references were metaphors for the ash of her life, right?”
Julia stared at her. She closed her computer. “Yes. You saw that?”
