Thank you for spending Christmas through Easter with me in Lititz. To view our Bookends scrapbook full of photos, please visit my Web site at www.LizCurtisHiggs.com. I’m also honored when readers take time to drop me a line, and love to keep in touch once a year through my free newsletter, The Graceful Heart. For the latest issue, please write me directly at:
Liz Curtis Higgs * PO Box 43577 * Louisville, Kentucky 40253-0577
Until next time … you are a blessing!
Reader’s Guide
In every work regard the writer’s end,
Since none can compass more than they intend.
ALEXANDER POPE
1. Emilie Getz describes herself to Jonas Fielding as “born Moravian.” How has her from-the-cradle upbringing in the church helped shape her character? Maybe Bookends served as your introduction to the Moravians and their many historical traditions. In what ways are their methods of worship similar to those in your own church, particularly at Christmas and Easter? And what practices seem uniquely Moravian?
2. Are Jonas and Emilie truly “bookends,” looking at life from completely different viewpoints? Make a list of Emilie’s distinguishing character traits—perfectionist, touchy, serious—and then create a corresponding list that describes Jonas in opposite terms—easygoing, casual, fun-loving, and so forth. After coming up with as many opposites as you can, consider what traits Emilie and Jonas might have in common. What’s required for two “bookends” to build a long-lasting relationship?
3. If Bookends ever landed on the silver screen, which actors might you cast in the leading roles of Emilie, Jonas, and Nathan? Who might make a suitable Beth Landis, Helen Bomberger, or Dee Dee Snyder? When you read a novel, how do you form a clear picture of the characters in your mind—from how they are described physically, from what they say and do, or from the emotions they evoke as their stories unfold?
4. Prickly people like Emilie are often hard to sympathize with, perhaps because their overly sensitive natures feel uncomfortably familiar. Which aspects of Emilie’s life situation might you identify with in some way? Her long-term singleness? Her commitment to career success? Her uncertainty about motherhood? Her fear of failure? What did you learn about yourself while following Emilie’s journey?
5. Beginning the story during Advent and ending it on Easter served two purposes—from a spiritual sense, it connected the birth of Christ with the atoning death and resurrection of Christ. On a more human plane, the change of seasons was meant to show Emilie’s chilly personality thawing from winter to spring. Find an example of coldhearted Emilie from the early chapters and warmhearted Emilie from the closing scenes. At what points did she thaw along the way? Have you seen such transformations in real life?
6. Jonas is determined to show Emilie what joy really means. How would you define “fullness of joy”—practically, emotionally, and spiritually? At first, Emilie does little to encourage Jonas on his mission. What do you think motivates him to continue with his help-Emilie-find-joy project? If there’s an Emilie in your life, have you tried to help her embrace true joy? How would you go about it? And what might happen if you carried through with those ideas?
7. A charming child and countless pets contribute to Emilie’s growth. What role does little Sara Landis play in Emilie’s life? Have you had a similar experience with a youngster? As to the many animals that invade Emilie’s small house, how does caring for them stretch her in new directions? Has a pet affected your life in some way?
8. The opening epigraphs for each chapter are carefully selected, based on the action that follows or the mood of the scene. How do these brief quotations enhance the story for you? Flip through the two dozen epigraphs in Bookends. Which one is your favorite and why?
9. The prodigal son of Bookends is Nathan Fielding. What sort of feelings did this rebel stir inside you? Sympathy? Anger? Frustration? Were you surprised, perhaps even disappointed, with how things stood with Nate in the final chapter? What makes this ending more honest than a sudden conversion scene? Maybe you know a Nathan, someone who has chosen to turn his back on God. What will it take for Nate—or for your friend or loved one—to surrender his heart to the One who loves him?
10. If you were to pick a favorite scene from Bookends, which one might it be and why? Was it a funny scene or a tender one? Was it mostly humorous or gently spiritual? Weaving those two important threads—humor and faith—throughout the fabric of this contemporary romance was a daunting but delightful challenge. In what ways did Bookends succeed in giving you fullness of joy as a reader?
OTHER BOOKS BY LIZ CURTIS HIGGS
CONTEMPORARY FICTION
Mixed Signals
Three Weddings and a Giggle
HISTORICAL FICTION
Thorn in My Heart
Fair Is the Rose
Whence Came a Prince
NONFICTION
Bad Girls of the Bible
Really Bad Girls of the Bible
veiling Mary Magdalene
Rise and Shine
CHILDREN’S
The Pumpkin Patch Parable
The Parable of the Lily
The Sunflower Parable
The Pine Tree Parable
Go Away, Dark Night
Don’t miss this charming contemporary novel by bestselling author
LIZ CURTIS HIGGS
MIXED SIGNALS
Belle O’Brien, the woman behind the warmest voice in Virginia radio, has a problem: Her oldies show is a solid-gold hit, but her love life is an off-the-charts disaster. Her prospects for a husband are small-town slim. Will it be smooth-talking Patrick Reese? Moody but handsome David Cahill? Matthew the Methodist? Or the mysterious radio listener who signs his letters, “All Ears in Abingdon”? Join Belle as she embarks on a journey toward joy in this winsome tale filled with humor, tenderness, and endless surprises!
ISBN 1-59052-438-1
Preview another delightful novel by Liz Curtis Higgs …
Mixed Signals
Failure is the opportunity to begin again more intelligently.
HENRY FORD
RAINY DAYS AND MONDAYS never got Belle O’Brien down. Not when her radio listeners were waiting. “Hold On, I’m Coming,” she sang out with off-key abandon. Sam and Dave had nothing on her, she decided, grinning, as she tucked her jeans inside her short leather boots.
She tamed her unruly hair into a thick braid that reached her waist, and darted out the apartment door. A chilly, mid-October downpour waited to greet her. Overnight, the rain had carelessly washed the leaves out of the maple trees lining Lake Shore Drive, plastering them across the pavement like small scarlet hands.
Belle was still humming when she spun the wheel of her Pontiac toward the station. Still humming when she tossed the keys toward Max, the parking lot attendant, and made a wet dash for the glass front doors of her radio station.
The doors with the famous call letters mounted above them.
Yup. There they were. W … WT … WTI … W-what?
Her humming abruptly stopped as her heart lurched toward her boots, then snapped back with a sickening thud. Not again. Not this time.
Numb to the core, she stepped inside the reception area. Her umbrella was hanging open. So was her mouth.
“Belle!” Her general manager emerged from a huddle of men in suits and moved toward her. “You’re just in time. We’ve … made some major changes here.”
She gulped. “Starting with the call letters?”
“Right.” His smile was strained. “Welcome to WTIE, Chicago’s All-Sports TIEbreaker.”
Sports? Help, Lord! “I don’t do sports,” she croaked.
“You do now.” He reassured her with a wink. “Come meet your new program director, Snap Davis.”
She watched the circle of suits move toward her, all smiling, all talking at once. Her mouth had gone dry—past wool, past cotton, clear to the linen setting.
“There she is, gentlemen.” One of the strangers clenched his cigar in a chu
rlish grin. “The Belle of the Ball.”
“The what? You have the wrong announcer, Skip … ah … Slap … er …”
His tobacco-stained smile broadened. “Call me Coach.”
“Great.” She fought for breath, struggling to get her bearings. Her eyes drifted to the walls covered with thirty years of bold signatures scrawled there by every musical act that had hit the Windy City, from Sam the Sham to Manfred Mann.
Wait. She blinked. They didn’t! They couldn’t!
But they had. Her heart sank another foot as she took in the newly painted walls, now a solid navy latex. All those signatures, all that history, all her history.
Slam-dunked out of existence.
The suits guided her toward a row of shiny lockers, one of which prominently displayed her name in block letters. BELLE. She did as expected and yanked open the narrow metal door, only to find the shelves stuffed with sports paraphernalia: a Chicago Bulls jersey, a Cubbies cap, two Bears coffee mugs, a Blackhawks hockey puck, and two tickets to a White Sox game.
The loathsome new call letters were printed on everything.
She shuddered at the sight and slapped the door shut, turning to find her new boss regarding her with amusement. “You’ve planned this for months, haven’t you?”
“Smart girl.” Her cigar-chewing coach looked infinitely pleased with himself. “Only took us six hours and a ton of manpower to make the switch last night. None of your golden oldie pals were right for the new format. But we’ve found the perfect spot for you, sweetheart.”
“But where—where is everybody?” She knew. Of course she knew. Hadn’t she been down this road before?
“Nothing to worry your pretty head about, Belle. The rest of the staff received a generous severance check.”
“And the contents of their desk in a box, I suppose.”
He shrugged. “Ten years in broadcasting, isn’t that right, Miss O’Brien? You’ve been around. You know how it works. Frankly, if you weren’t a woman—”
One of the suits delivered a sharp elbow to his ribs.
“A talented woman, that is, you’d be looking for work along with the rest of them. As it is, Belle, we’re delighted to keep you on the payroll as WTIE’s official announcer. Commercial spots, sports scores, station IDs, all yours, ready to record.”
Great.
Why, oh why, on this of all mornings, hadn’t she listened to the station on the way to work? Instead of walking in clueless, she could have steered onto 94 South and kept driving.
The production director chimed in. “Yeah, we’re looking for a sexy, breathy sound, Belle. Higher-pitched than your normal on-air voice. Kind of like … like …”
Her stomach tightened, desperation setting in. “Like Betty Boop?”
“That’s it!” the suits sang out in unison.
Boop-oop-a-doop.
She knew what she wanted to do. What every fiber of her being insisted that she deserved to do. Tell Mr. Slap Happy to stuff his cigar in his cauliflower ear. Bulk-erase every inch of tape in the wretched place. Plant that hockey puck between her general manager’s chattering, chicken-livered lips.
That’s what she wanted to do. And more.
But what she did—what she had to do—was choke down the huge lump in her throat and accept the inevitable.
She had no choice. Single, living alone in an expensive city, she needed the money. They wanted Betty Boop? They got her.
All week long, she marched into the recording booth, put aside her pride, and squealed like a teenager on helium.
All night long, she sobbed herself to sleep.
Five stations in ten years, Lord! Her life was like a broken record. The Shirelles singing, “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?—tomorrow?—tomorrow?”
Five times she’d stuffed everything she owned into a moving van and headed for a new horizon—Kingsport, Richmond, Atlanta, Philadelphia, then, two years ago, Chicago.
Five times she’d prayed this would be the one. Home.
Five times she’d had her dreams trampled by new management, new formats, and men very obviously from Mars who had no idea how oldies radio worked.
Finally, Friday afternoon, after a depressing hour of heavy breathing and squeaking in the production studio, she pulled on her green wool coat and started toward the front door, her feet and spirits dragging.
“Belle.” She turned to see the receptionist signaling her. “Line three is for you. Pick it up in Snap’s office if you like. He’s already left for the Sox game.”
She ducked into his crowded corner office, wrinkling her nose at the stale cigar smell that permeated the air, and perched on the edge of his chair. Clearing her throat as if an imaginary On Air light had blinked to attention, she cradled the receiver against her ear and punched the third button. “Hello, this is Belle.”
“Sorry about the format switch, babe.” The male voice was warm, familiar, empathetic.
“Patrick!” She tightened her grip on the phone. “You heard about it, then?”
“Everybody heard about it, Belle. It was in all the trades today. Front page of Radio & Records. And above the fold, no less. Big story with a photo of the staff.”
Her throat suddenly felt drier than melba toast. “The staff? Before or after?”
“Before.” His voice softened. “You looked great, kid. Major-market material. Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?”
Patrick Reese, her first boss in broadcasting, always knew the right thing to say. She felt herself relax for the first time in days. “We haven’t talked since you moved to San Diego. How’s that working out?”
His masculine hoot was all the answer she needed.
“Guess it’s my turn to say sorry, Patrick. What happened?”
“The owner insisted we’d score big in the ratings with around-the-clock Christmas music. In July.”
She grinned. Good old radio. “So where are you now?”
“Abingdon, Virginia.”
Faint images of a small town tucked in the southwest corner of Virginia drifted through her mind. “I’ve been there.” Her memories swirled into focus. “A bunch of us from Appalachian State took a carload there one summer for the Virginia Highlands Festival. Very historic, as I remember. Quaint.” She chuckled. “Not exactly a radio town.”
“Precisely why I’m here, woman.”
“Let me guess.” She sighed, so weary she could hardly think. “You have a job offer I can’t possibly refuse.”
“More than that.”
She sensed him pausing for effect, imagined him leaning back, leather loafers propped up on a secondhand desk, the sleeves of his striped sport shirt rolled up to the elbows showing off his tanned, muscular arms. Casual. Confident. In control.
“I have the one thing you’ve always longed for, kid.”
“Is that a fact?” And don’t call me kid, she wanted to say. He was only a dozen years older than she. Forty-four to her thirty-two. Kid? Buddy, those days were long gone.
Wait. She frowned. What “one thing” had she always longed for?
Surely he wasn’t aware of that silly crush she’d had on him all those years ago? She had been a kid then, green as April grass in the Carolinas. They’d kept in touch over the years, simply because they were friends. Right? Just friends?
There was one way to find out. “W-what thing have I longed for, exactly?”
“Acting.”
“Acting what?” Foolish, she chided herself.
“Belle, I’m talking about theater. Acting on stage. You know, drama? You majored in it, remember?”
“Oh, that!” Relieved, she grinned into the phone. “Of course I remember. Truth is, I haven’t tramped the boards since you lured me away to WTFM.”
“I can fix that. Abingdon has a restored playhouse—”
“Barter Theatre!” Of course. The State Theatre of Virginia. “Patricia Neal played that stage.”
“And Gregory Peck and Ned Beatty and … Belle O’Brien?”
“Hmm. It does have a nice ring to it. What shows are they doing this season?”
“Aha! So you might be interested in Abingdon and WPER.”
“WPER, huh? Who’s the owner?”
“Uhh … I am.” He cleared his throat. “WPER stands for Patrick Edward—”
“Reese!” She chimed in with him, laughing.
He groaned. “I know, I know, it’s an ego thing.” The man sounded genuinely embarrassed. “The call letters were available so I couldn’t resist. Forgive me?”
A warm sensation skipped along her spine. She’d forgotten how much she loved sparring with him. “At least I won’t have to worry about whether or not the owner likes me.”
His tone was more subdued. “No, you won’t have to worry about that at all.”
Was it her imagination, or was the ground shifting?
“Uh, Patrick, I … I really do need to think about … things. When do you need an answer?”
His manner was all business now. “The station goes on the air the third of November. I’ll need you here by the first.” He launched into a description of the format, the hours, the staff he’d lined up, barreling along with his persuasive salesman patter.
After five nonstop minutes, she jumped in. “Slow down, mister! I’ve heard this song-and-dance before.” She swallowed, determined to make him see what this career was costing her. “Don’t you get it? I have a car with Illinois tags and a Pennsylvania driver’s license and a North Carolina savings account with exactly twenty-nine dollars in it.”
A week’s worth of frustration came rushing out of her, sweeping her along in its emotional wake. The tears she’d wept alone at home now showed up in Snap’s corner office, unbidden. “Patrick, I’m thirty-two years old and I have nothing. N-not a house, not a husband, not a child, not even a decent dining room set.” She sniffed, looking wildly about her for a tissue. “I have friends all over the country, but not one person I could call at four in the morning.”
Bookends Page 37
