For my dirty-minded readers (and oh how I adore you), that's not a metaphor. I'm actually talking about meat sauce.
Or if you're Sicilian like Joey Lupo in Speak Easy, or like my mother's family, you might call it gravy. In the book, there is a scene where Joey cooks pasta with gravy for Tiny and her sisters--one of my favorite scenes to write.
Aside from THOSE scenes. ;)
Anyway, I'm making it today for my family, and thought I'd share the recipe with you.
A little history first! My great-grandmother's name was Josephine, and she came with her husband and two young children from Carini, Sicily in 1902. My grandmother, Virginia, wasn't born until 1921, one of eleven siblings. (Sometimes it's very strange to me that Tiny is "older" than my own grandmother...)
Anyway, I guess the recipe came from the old country with her, but no one ever wrote it down. Much later, like maybe during the 60s or 70s, my mother told me that some of her aunt/uncles/cousins wanted the recipe, but no one who knew it would talk.
Through trial and error and memory, they put it together, but there was one special ingredient no one could pinpoint--and still nobody who knew it would talk.
Anyway, below is the one they came up with...WARNING: Your house will smell so good while this sauce is simmering, you might have the entire neighborhood floating to your door on the scent.
Joey's Meat Sauce (Bolognese)
5 garlic cloves, minced
2 Tbsp olive oil
1 medium onion, chopped
1 lb. bulk Italian sausage
1 lb. ground beef (optional)
1 large can crushed tomatoes
1 medium can tomato sauce
1 small can tomato paste
dried basil
dried oregeno
3-4 peppercorns
Italian seasoning
< 1 Tbsp cinnamon (I use a full Tbsp, but I love this flavor in the sauce...it was the guess at the secret ingredient)
1 Tbsp sugar
1 bay leaf
1/4 red wine (and since it's open, you might as well drink it while you cook, right?)
1) Brown the sausage in a frying pan, remove from heat and drain. Do the same for the beef, if you're using it.
2) In a large nonstick pot (I <3 my Le Creuset Dutch Oven), heat the oil and saute the garlic and onion. Then add the meat and all cans of tomatoes to the pot.
3) This next step cracks me up because you can tell that nobody really knew how much water to add, and even since then, no one has actually measured it: Fill each tomato can with water but not quite all the way to the top and pour them in.
Really precise, I know. But cooking is an art, not a science, right??
4) This one's even more precise: Cover the top of the sauce with basil, oregeno (less) and Italian seasonings (less). My best guess is maybe 1 Tbsp of basil and just 2 tsp of the other two. But this is a matter of taste!
5) Add the peppercorns, cinnamon, sugar, bay leaf, and wine.
6) Pour yourself a nice big glass of wine and stir until the lumps are gone over medium heat. Bring to a gentle boil and cover. Turn the heat to low, just enough to keep it simmering.
7) Simmer 1-2 hours over low heat. Take the cover off the last 20 minutes (and lock your doors). remove the bay leaf.
I like this sauce with both long and short pasta. My mother always called it simply "Mostaccioli" when she made it and served it with short tubular paste that had lines on it and slanted ends. Just thinking of it makes me think of childhood!
Oh, my mother did manage to finagle the secret ingredient out of an old great aunt, who was probably going senile and didn't realize she was giving it away.
It was nutmeg.
I was there when she told some of her family, and laughed my culo off at the room full of Italians hitting themselves on the head with one hand. "It was nutmeg! NUTMEG!"
I stick with cinnamon, but someday I might try a pinch of nutmeg instead. :)
Buon appetito!
Showing posts with label Speak Easy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Speak Easy. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 11, 2013
Monday, August 26, 2013
Speak Low Cover Reveal & Giveaway!
The day is here and I get to share with you the gorgeous cover of Speak Low, the sequel to Speak Easy!
My designer, Tom Barnes, did a fantastic job matching the feel of the second cover to the first, don't you think? I love looking at them together!
My Speak Easy readers (and oh, how I love you) can probably tell you where the boy is supposed to be, but even they disagree on WHO it is...you'll have to read the book to see!
The release date is set for November 4th, 2013.
Here's the book description, although this may change slightly...
We always want what we can’t have.
Tiny O’Mara is tired of living in a world where men make all the rules. After bootlegging enough whiskey to free her father from the DiFiore crime family, twenty-year old Tiny is determined to gain her independence.
But it’s going to cost her.
Her alliance with sultry Enzo DiFiore is based more on their explosive chemistry than loyalty or trust. But she’s promised him some information that will help him take revenge on The River Gang, and when he offers her a job, an apartment, and the prospect of nights spent together where anything goes, she can’t refuse—which only puts her further in his debt.
She needs gorgeous childhood pal Joey Lupo to help her again—when they’re not at each other’s throats, they make a good team, and her attraction for him is becoming impossible to deny. But after she rejects his offer to leave town together, he’s tempted to let her fend for herself.
As Enzo’s need for possession and power escalate and her feelings for Joey deepen, Tiny realizes her mistakes. She just hopes she gets the chance to fix them before it’s too late.
Add it on Goodreads!
And here's the giveaway...
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Good luck!
Cheers,
Melanie
My designer, Tom Barnes, did a fantastic job matching the feel of the second cover to the first, don't you think? I love looking at them together!
 |
| So who is it? ;) |
The release date is set for November 4th, 2013.
Here's the book description, although this may change slightly...
We always want what we can’t have.
Tiny O’Mara is tired of living in a world where men make all the rules. After bootlegging enough whiskey to free her father from the DiFiore crime family, twenty-year old Tiny is determined to gain her independence.
But it’s going to cost her.
Her alliance with sultry Enzo DiFiore is based more on their explosive chemistry than loyalty or trust. But she’s promised him some information that will help him take revenge on The River Gang, and when he offers her a job, an apartment, and the prospect of nights spent together where anything goes, she can’t refuse—which only puts her further in his debt.
She needs gorgeous childhood pal Joey Lupo to help her again—when they’re not at each other’s throats, they make a good team, and her attraction for him is becoming impossible to deny. But after she rejects his offer to leave town together, he’s tempted to let her fend for herself.
As Enzo’s need for possession and power escalate and her feelings for Joey deepen, Tiny realizes her mistakes. She just hopes she gets the chance to fix them before it’s too late.
Add it on Goodreads!
And here's the giveaway...
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Good luck!
Cheers,
Melanie
Monday, July 29, 2013
This is Not Your Nana's Historical Romance (Sexy Excerpt of SPEAK EASY)
WARNING: This post contains adult content. (Pretty much all sins are covered.)
Hello darlings,
So the craziest thing happened last week.
Speak Easy came out. People read it (wheee!) and loved it (I want to hug you!) and reviewed it (thank you!). I got to hear readers' thoughts for the first time ever--readers who are not my family/friends/bartender.
And I discovered something. Well, a few things.
1) New Adult readers are reluctant to pick up up a non-contemporary romantic story.
2) Historical is a dusty word.
3) Once people DID pick up Speak Easy, they were surprised at how sexy and modern it felt, even though it was set during the 20s.
What's a girl to do?
Since Speak Easy is my first book, I turned to bestselling authors who have more experience and asked advice--and because this community is so awesome, I got it. Here's what they said...
Change your cover and your description. Make it clear it's not your grandmother's historical novel. It's a hot smexy read and readers of contemporary New Adult will eat it up when they realize the historical setting only adds to the sexy feel.
So guess what I did?
And while I loved my pretty cover (and if you order the print version, you will still get that one), my sexy one makes me giddy like a Bombay Sapphire martini (extra dry, two olives, thanks).
Want to see it?
OK, just for you.
Because I'm all about giving in to temptation. ;)
And here's the new description...
**Warning** This is not your grandmother’s historical romance. If you’re looking for blushing maidens or proper gentlemen who ask permission to kiss the girl, this is not the book for you.
But if you like strong female heroines who take what they want and sexy dangerous men who can’t be trusted, look no further. If sizzling sexual tension and fast-paced action against a backdrop of Prohibition-era ambience sounds like your kind of cocktail—enter here. But beware…
Temptation is everywhere. And anything goes.
By day twenty-year-old Tiny O’Mara works for her father’s smalltime bootlegging operation, and by night she craves the roll-your-stockings-down lifestyle of a flapper—until her father is kidnapped by a mobster in Detroit's exploding organized crime scene, and it’s Tiny who has to come up with the ten-thousand-dollar ransom…in one week.
Suddenly she’s thrust into an intoxicating underworld of greed, lust, lies, and betrayal.
Enzo DiFiore is the son of the mobster holding her father hostage, but his screen idol looks and dangerous charm leave her breathless. When the forbidden spark between them refuses to burn out, she tries to use their powerful chemistry to buy more time. And irritatingly handsome childhood pal Joey Lupo has the street smarts Tiny needs to make a quick ten grand, but he’s got his own agenda where gang rivalries are concerned.
Deciding whom to trust isn’t easy in a world where everyone wants something—be it booze, money, power, or sex—and no one cares what it takes to get it.
Now, are you ready for a little Monday morning sizzle?
Good.
Here's an excerpt--an early scene between Tiny, the feisty heroine, and Enzo, her dangerous bad boy.
“Satisfied?” He set the phone down and raised his eyebrows at me.
“I guess.” At least I knew Daddy was still alive, and conscious enough to speak on the phone. My job now was to get the money. But even if I sold the twelve cases I’d pick up tomorrow night, I’d need to sell seventeen more to come up with five grand by Tuesday. It couldn’t be done—I needed more time. But what leverage did I have to bargain with? I looked at Enzo, my mind and heart racing.
No. You can’t.
“We should go. I promised to return you within twenty minutes.” Enzo gave me that slow smile, which made my belly go hollow. “And I do rather value those body parts your friend threatened.”
“Right.” I licked my lips as I walked to the door, and Enzo waited until I reached it before turning off the lamp. His silhouette came closer in the darkness, and my insides tightened.
Oh yes, I can.
“If you’ll move, I’ll unlock the door,” he said.
Fear and some other untamable feeling buzzed through me. “No.”
“No?”
“We still have five minutes.” I rushed forward and threw my arms around his neck, crushing my lips to his.
For a moment he was stunned; I heard his keys hit the floor. Then strong arms locked around my back, and his mouth opened wide over mine, his tongue lashing inside with deep, demanding strokes. My body ignited in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Keep your senses. This is just a ploy. You’re angry with him. Our mouths battled each other with such ferocity I couldn’t breathe, and I imagined the fire between us consuming all the oxygen in the room. He tasted like temptation—whisky and smoke.
Pressing my forearms against his shoulders, I jumped up and wrapped my legs around his waist. Enzo pushed my back up against the door, his hands slipping beneath my dress to the undersides of my legs, his fingers gripping the bare skin above my stockings. Gasping, I squeezed his torso between my thighs as his mouth traveled across my face and down my neck. His fingers edged inside the lace of my step-in, teasing the soft pink folds at my center while his tongue lingered in the hollow at the base of my throat. Something deep and powerful surged within me. Threading my fingers through his dark hair, I pulled his head back and we stared hard at each other before our mouths slammed together once more. He shifted my weight under one arm and found the side fasteners of my dress with the other.
Somehow, he undid seven hooks and eyes with one hand.
His fingers slipped inside my dress and pressed against the bare skin on my lower back. Then he swung me away from the door and moved to the desk, setting me on its edge with my dress bunched up around my hips. Standing between my knees, he ran his hands up my pale white thighs, which glowed in the dark above my stockings. My chest heaved with ragged breaths as he shrugged off his coat and loosened his tie. My hands itched to touch him, to travel under starched cotton and over hot skin, to reach low and feel exactly how he wanted me. To know for certain what he could to do to me, if I let him. For a moment, I forgot every circumstance that brought me here and nearly reached for the buttons on his trousers.
But just for a moment.
“Enzo,” I whispered instead, gripping the edge of the desk. “We can’t.”
He put his hands on my buttocks and pulled me flush against him. “You said we had five minutes.” He pressed the hard length of his cock between my legs.
Oh God, that feels so good. I struggled for control. “It’s been five minutes. And neither of us wants to get caught here.”
Hello darlings,
So the craziest thing happened last week.
Speak Easy came out. People read it (wheee!) and loved it (I want to hug you!) and reviewed it (thank you!). I got to hear readers' thoughts for the first time ever--readers who are not my family/friends/bartender.
And I discovered something. Well, a few things.
1) New Adult readers are reluctant to pick up up a non-contemporary romantic story.
2) Historical is a dusty word.
3) Once people DID pick up Speak Easy, they were surprised at how sexy and modern it felt, even though it was set during the 20s.
What's a girl to do?
Since Speak Easy is my first book, I turned to bestselling authors who have more experience and asked advice--and because this community is so awesome, I got it. Here's what they said...
Change your cover and your description. Make it clear it's not your grandmother's historical novel. It's a hot smexy read and readers of contemporary New Adult will eat it up when they realize the historical setting only adds to the sexy feel.
So guess what I did?
And while I loved my pretty cover (and if you order the print version, you will still get that one), my sexy one makes me giddy like a Bombay Sapphire martini (extra dry, two olives, thanks).
Want to see it?
OK, just for you.
Because I'm all about giving in to temptation. ;)
And here's the new description...
**Warning** This is not your grandmother’s historical romance. If you’re looking for blushing maidens or proper gentlemen who ask permission to kiss the girl, this is not the book for you.
But if you like strong female heroines who take what they want and sexy dangerous men who can’t be trusted, look no further. If sizzling sexual tension and fast-paced action against a backdrop of Prohibition-era ambience sounds like your kind of cocktail—enter here. But beware…
Temptation is everywhere. And anything goes.
By day twenty-year-old Tiny O’Mara works for her father’s smalltime bootlegging operation, and by night she craves the roll-your-stockings-down lifestyle of a flapper—until her father is kidnapped by a mobster in Detroit's exploding organized crime scene, and it’s Tiny who has to come up with the ten-thousand-dollar ransom…in one week.
Suddenly she’s thrust into an intoxicating underworld of greed, lust, lies, and betrayal.
Enzo DiFiore is the son of the mobster holding her father hostage, but his screen idol looks and dangerous charm leave her breathless. When the forbidden spark between them refuses to burn out, she tries to use their powerful chemistry to buy more time. And irritatingly handsome childhood pal Joey Lupo has the street smarts Tiny needs to make a quick ten grand, but he’s got his own agenda where gang rivalries are concerned.
Deciding whom to trust isn’t easy in a world where everyone wants something—be it booze, money, power, or sex—and no one cares what it takes to get it.
Now, are you ready for a little Monday morning sizzle?
Good.
Here's an excerpt--an early scene between Tiny, the feisty heroine, and Enzo, her dangerous bad boy.
“Satisfied?” He set the phone down and raised his eyebrows at me.
“I guess.” At least I knew Daddy was still alive, and conscious enough to speak on the phone. My job now was to get the money. But even if I sold the twelve cases I’d pick up tomorrow night, I’d need to sell seventeen more to come up with five grand by Tuesday. It couldn’t be done—I needed more time. But what leverage did I have to bargain with? I looked at Enzo, my mind and heart racing.
No. You can’t.
“We should go. I promised to return you within twenty minutes.” Enzo gave me that slow smile, which made my belly go hollow. “And I do rather value those body parts your friend threatened.”
“Right.” I licked my lips as I walked to the door, and Enzo waited until I reached it before turning off the lamp. His silhouette came closer in the darkness, and my insides tightened.
Oh yes, I can.
“If you’ll move, I’ll unlock the door,” he said.
Fear and some other untamable feeling buzzed through me. “No.”
“No?”
“We still have five minutes.” I rushed forward and threw my arms around his neck, crushing my lips to his.
For a moment he was stunned; I heard his keys hit the floor. Then strong arms locked around my back, and his mouth opened wide over mine, his tongue lashing inside with deep, demanding strokes. My body ignited in a way I hadn’t anticipated. Keep your senses. This is just a ploy. You’re angry with him. Our mouths battled each other with such ferocity I couldn’t breathe, and I imagined the fire between us consuming all the oxygen in the room. He tasted like temptation—whisky and smoke.
Pressing my forearms against his shoulders, I jumped up and wrapped my legs around his waist. Enzo pushed my back up against the door, his hands slipping beneath my dress to the undersides of my legs, his fingers gripping the bare skin above my stockings. Gasping, I squeezed his torso between my thighs as his mouth traveled across my face and down my neck. His fingers edged inside the lace of my step-in, teasing the soft pink folds at my center while his tongue lingered in the hollow at the base of my throat. Something deep and powerful surged within me. Threading my fingers through his dark hair, I pulled his head back and we stared hard at each other before our mouths slammed together once more. He shifted my weight under one arm and found the side fasteners of my dress with the other.
Somehow, he undid seven hooks and eyes with one hand.
His fingers slipped inside my dress and pressed against the bare skin on my lower back. Then he swung me away from the door and moved to the desk, setting me on its edge with my dress bunched up around my hips. Standing between my knees, he ran his hands up my pale white thighs, which glowed in the dark above my stockings. My chest heaved with ragged breaths as he shrugged off his coat and loosened his tie. My hands itched to touch him, to travel under starched cotton and over hot skin, to reach low and feel exactly how he wanted me. To know for certain what he could to do to me, if I let him. For a moment, I forgot every circumstance that brought me here and nearly reached for the buttons on his trousers.
But just for a moment.
“Enzo,” I whispered instead, gripping the edge of the desk. “We can’t.”
He put his hands on my buttocks and pulled me flush against him. “You said we had five minutes.” He pressed the hard length of his cock between my legs.
Oh God, that feels so good. I struggled for control. “It’s been five minutes. And neither of us wants to get caught here.”
He paused. “You’re right. Besides, what I’d like to do to you takes more than five minutes.”
OK, I'd better stop them there...but I promise you they get more than five minutes alone eventually. They get a whole lot more than that.
Want to know what they do with it?
Cheers,
Melanie
Friday, July 26, 2013
Speak Easy Release Tour Giveaway!
Hello, darlings!
This week has been very exciting--I love reading the reviews of Speak Easy and hearing things like "It's Boardwalk Empire: Detroit" or "I couldn't put it down!"
Before I decided to publish independently, I had NO IDEA how much reviews help authors. Thank you to everyone who's reading and reviewing. You're the best!
And I truly love hearing all the declarations for Team Enzo and Team Joey, or that the steamy scenes were smokin' hot. My goal was 1) to entertain you and 2) to turn you on. ;)
Goodreads winners, your books are shipping out today--they're going to Australia, the UK, and all over the US. Hope you enjoy! The NAmazing Adventure Quest 3 winner will also get their package shortly too.
If you didn't win one of those books, enter the giveaway below for fabulous flapper swag (see last week's Flapper Friday post) and a signed paperback copy. Good luck!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
This week has been very exciting--I love reading the reviews of Speak Easy and hearing things like "It's Boardwalk Empire: Detroit" or "I couldn't put it down!"
Before I decided to publish independently, I had NO IDEA how much reviews help authors. Thank you to everyone who's reading and reviewing. You're the best!
And I truly love hearing all the declarations for Team Enzo and Team Joey, or that the steamy scenes were smokin' hot. My goal was 1) to entertain you and 2) to turn you on. ;)
Goodreads winners, your books are shipping out today--they're going to Australia, the UK, and all over the US. Hope you enjoy! The NAmazing Adventure Quest 3 winner will also get their package shortly too.
If you didn't win one of those books, enter the giveaway below for fabulous flapper swag (see last week's Flapper Friday post) and a signed paperback copy. Good luck!
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Friday, July 19, 2013
Flapper Friday -- Speak Easy Swag & Release Tour Schedule
Happy Friday!
Those of you on the NAmazing Adventure, please click the banner on the right to be directed to my NAA post, and good luck!
Those of you here for a bit of modern flapper swag, allow me.
In honor of SPEAK EASY's *official* release week, which kicks off (*officially*) on Monday with a blog tour (schedule below), I'm giving away a grand prize swag pack!
(Psssst. Over here. Yeah, you. *Official* release is Monday. You want it early? Come around the corner. I've got what you want, and here's the password.)
The Speak Easy Modern Flapper Grand Prize Swag Pack contains...
1) Women's baby doll tee and chrome flask from Valentine Vodka--made in Detroit!
2) Agatha bracelet from JewelNinjas--totally art deco in style!
3) Red lipstick by MAC (perfect for making those bee-stung lips...lesson coming soon)
4) Great Gatsby Soundtrack (or $10 iTunes gift card...winner's choice)
5) Gatsby Style Flapper Headband--for your Daisy Buchanan moments...
6) Signed Copy of Speak Easy
7) $25 Amazon or Barns & Noble Gift Card
Tempted? Good. :)
Stop by one of these blogs next week and enter for your chance to win!
Speak Easy Release Tour Schedule
Monday, July 22, 2013:
Donnie Darko Girl
Mel & Erin Read A Lot
Paperback Princess
Seeking Book Boyfriends
The Life & Times of a Book Addict
The LUV'NV
The NAturals
Wine, Books & Fringe
Tuesday, July 23, 2013:
Lilybloombooks
Peace, Love, Books
Reading Books Like a Boss
Wine relaxation and my kindle
Breathe In Books
Wednesday, July 24, 2013:
Romantic Book Affairs
Whatshereads
A Tale of Many Reviews
Thursday, July 25, 2013:
Bookwhirlwind
Falling for YA
What Danielle Did Next
Total Book Nerds
Beauty but a Funny Girl
Friday, July 26, 2013:
All In One Place
I'll also post more fun Speak Easy stuff and the giveaway link here next week as well! Thank you, and good luck!
Cheers,
Melanie
Those of you on the NAmazing Adventure, please click the banner on the right to be directed to my NAA post, and good luck!
Those of you here for a bit of modern flapper swag, allow me.
In honor of SPEAK EASY's *official* release week, which kicks off (*officially*) on Monday with a blog tour (schedule below), I'm giving away a grand prize swag pack!
(Psssst. Over here. Yeah, you. *Official* release is Monday. You want it early? Come around the corner. I've got what you want, and here's the password.)
The Speak Easy Modern Flapper Grand Prize Swag Pack contains...
1) Women's baby doll tee and chrome flask from Valentine Vodka--made in Detroit!
2) Agatha bracelet from JewelNinjas--totally art deco in style!
3) Red lipstick by MAC (perfect for making those bee-stung lips...lesson coming soon)
4) Great Gatsby Soundtrack (or $10 iTunes gift card...winner's choice)
 |
| Some explicit content. Just like the book. ;) |
5) Gatsby Style Flapper Headband--for your Daisy Buchanan moments...
6) Signed Copy of Speak Easy
7) $25 Amazon or Barns & Noble Gift Card
Tempted? Good. :)
Stop by one of these blogs next week and enter for your chance to win!
Speak Easy Release Tour Schedule
Monday, July 22, 2013:
Donnie Darko Girl
Mel & Erin Read A Lot
Paperback Princess
Seeking Book Boyfriends
The Life & Times of a Book Addict
The LUV'NV
The NAturals
Wine, Books & Fringe
Tuesday, July 23, 2013:
Lilybloombooks
Peace, Love, Books
Reading Books Like a Boss
Wine relaxation and my kindle
Breathe In Books
Wednesday, July 24, 2013:
Romantic Book Affairs
Whatshereads
A Tale of Many Reviews
Thursday, July 25, 2013:
Bookwhirlwind
Falling for YA
What Danielle Did Next
Total Book Nerds
Beauty but a Funny Girl
Friday, July 26, 2013:
All In One Place
Saturday, July 27, 2013:
I'll also post more fun Speak Easy stuff and the giveaway link here next week as well! Thank you, and good luck!
Cheers,
Melanie
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Tempt Me Tuesday...Speak Easy's Chapter One
Hello darlings!
First, if you're looking for my NAmazing Adventure post, CLICK HERE.
For Speak Easy's first chapter, just read on...I hope it tempts you to want more. :)
Chapter One
Friday, July 13th, 1923
The woman approached me at the counter, keeping her eyes low. “A quart of maple syrup,” she said, her voice hushed.
I didn’t recognize her. “What kind?”
“Canadian.” Clutching her purse to her stomach, she peeked at me from beneath the brim of her hat.
“What are you making?”
“Griddlecakes.”
I nodded. If she’d answered waffles, or even pancakes, I’d have directed her to the east wall of the store, where tin cans of actual maple syrup were stacked three high on a shelf. But since she knew the password, I named our price and took down the order and her address. She’d get her whisky in a day or so.
Bootlegging was that simple for a small operation like ours. The customers were loyal, the neighborhood grocery store was a legitimate cover, and thanks to the narrow waterway separating Detroit from Canada and its distilleries, our whisky supply seemed endless. Timely payoffs assured us of little trouble from city officials, and the local cops were some of our best customers. So when the bell over Jefferson Market’s front door jangled again that afternoon, I greeted the customer with a smile. But as the well-dressed man removed his light gray fedora and walked toward me at the back of the store, the air took on a strange charge, and gooseflesh rippled across my skin.
It was him. The sheik.
He’d been in twice in the last week. Each time, he’d said practically nothing, bought one pack of Fatima cigarettes, and paid with a fifty-dollar bill. I thought of him as the sheik because he reminded me of a movie star: dark, silent, and handsome in that delighted-villain sort of way, as if he’d just tied a girl to the train tracks and now it was time for a cocktail and a smoke.
“Good afternoon.” His voice was deep and smooth, just how I imagined a screen idol’s should be.
“Are you Miss O’Mara?”
I blinked. He knows my name. “Yes. Can I help you?”
“Give this to your father.” He pulled an envelope from his coat and laid it on the counter, next to the cash register. When I reached for it, he placed his hand over mine, pinning it to the cool marble. A buzz swept up my arm as our eyes met. His were so dark they appeared black, and a small scar rested at the top of one cheekbone. “Tell him to answer by tonight.”
It took me a moment to find my voice. “All right.”
Replacing his hat on top of his slick dark hair, he walked out without looking back. The bell jangled once more, and I released the breath I’d been holding, leaning on the counter for support. I jumped when I heard a voice behind me.
“Tiny?” My older sister Bridget poked her head in from the stockroom, her long brown hair coming loose from its knot at her nape. “Daddy’s ready for you to make deliveries.”
Quickly I swiped the envelope into the front pocket of my middy blouse. “Should I go now?”
“Just let me put the bread in the oven,” Bridget said, disappearing into the stockroom again. She and her children lived in the apartment over the store. At almost twenty-one, I was more than ready to move out of our father’s house and get my own apartment, but it would have to wait. There were two more daughters after me who needed tending, and with our mother gone and Bridget widowed with three young boys, I wasn’t going anywhere soon.
While I waited, I fingered the envelope in my pocket. The sheik said Daddy had to answer by tonight, but what was the question? Was he a bootlegger too? He looked a little older than me, but still in his twenties, and wealthy, if his clothing was any indication. He wore exquisite three-piece suits. First black, then blue, and today, gray. I looked at the back of my hand, where he’d touched me, then brought it to my lips.
“What are you doing?” Bridget’s voice startled me again, and she laughed.
Cheeks burning, I tucked my hand into my pocket. “Nothing. Can I go?”
She nodded. “I’ll bring the grocery sacks out to you in the alley.”
I exited through the stock room into the wet heat of a Michigan summer afternoon. In the alley, I pulled the envelope from my pocket and looked at it. Jack O’Mara was written on its ivory face in black ink, the cursive letters small and lean. The seal was tight. No way to tell what its contents were, no clue as to who the sheik might be or whom he worked for.
Not that I much cared about his occupation.
If he comes in again, I’ll say hello first, I thought, recalling those dark eyes that smoldered like Valentino’s. “Hi, there,” I said, practicing. No, too girlish. I cleared my throat and tried again, imagining how a sultry screen vamp like Theda Bara would greet a man like the sheik. “Hello.” Yes, that was better. Deeper, more mature.
Next, I tried to even out my walk so that I could slink into a room, cigarette holder in one hand, highball in the other. But slinking was a bit difficult for me because one of my legs is shorter than the other, not that either of them is what you’d call long. My mother was so small she had difficult births, and my hip broke as I was being born. It hadn’t healed right, resulting in a one-inch difference, and I have to concentrate if I don’t want to limp, especially if I’m tired. But if I smoothed out my gait, kept my weight back and my chin down, bent my knees a little…
Damn. Slinking was harder than it looked.
Giving up, I jogged the rest of the way down the alley and pushed open the door to the garage. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw Daddy taking apart the back end of a Cadillac hearse.
Officially, he was an auto repairman, but his real talent was rebuilding cars—creating hidden compartments, phony gas tanks, false floorboards. It was amazing how many bottles of booze could be stashed in the unseen lining of an automobile. Hearses were especially popular with bootleggers because they had wide back ends, but I stuck with my Model T. Those hearses were creepy.
“I’m here!” I called over the banging of his hammer.
The noise stopped and he straightened halfway, bracing his hands on the hearse’s frame and tilting his chin toward me over one shoulder. His profile revealed the crooked line of his nose, which had been broken several times. “It’s over there. Can you load it?” He jerked his head toward two large boxes labeled Royal Baking Powder sitting on the cement floor near the door.
“Sure.”
“That’s my girl. Fifteen per bottle, and don’t take less.”
“I won’t. This came for you.” I moved closer to him and held out the envelope. “The man who brought it said you should answer by tonight.”
He took it from me, barely glancing at it before shoving it into the front pocket of his work overalls. “To hell with that. I don’t answer to him or anybody else.”
“What’s this about?”
“It’s nothing. Now go on, I’ll meet you at the boathouse at six sharp. I want to get the whole place cleared out, bring it all here.”
I nodded. That could take a while. We had a lot of booze stashed in that boathouse, probably enough to—
“What the hell do you want, a police escort?” He waved his hammer toward the door. “Get moving!”
“OK, OK. Jeez,” I muttered, hurrying over to the boxes loaded with whisky bottles. Daddy had a quick temper, but he wasn’t usually so short with me. Either it was something about the letter, or he owed money to his bookie. His business ventures made enough to house, clothe, and feed us, but every extra dime fed his ravenous betting habit. Every man has his temptations, I supposed, slipping my fingers underneath a box. And every woman too. I could still hear the sheik’s low, velvety voice in my head. My stomach tightened as I imagined getting him out of that buttoned-up three-piece suit, removing that crisp white collar, slipping the crimson tie from around his neck. A sweat broke out on my back.
I lugged the boxes just outside the door, then left them sitting there while I retrieved the car. Daddy and I shared a 1921 Model T Sedan he’d rigged with hidden compartments and a trunk with a false floor. Jefferson Market was painted on the side in cheerful white letters, and I always had bags of groceries in the back seat, just in case I got stopped. After pulling alongside the garage door, I turned off the motor and jumped out. I was leaning into the back lifting up the bench seat when I heard a deep voice behind me.
“Excuse me.”
My head snapped up, my heart hammering as I backed out. Please don’t be a fed. I turned around and sucked in my breath.
The sheik was leaning against the brown brick wall, barely three feet from me.
“What are you doing back here?” Definitely not the sultry greeting I’d rehearsed.
“Looking for you.” He lit one of his Fatimas and held it between long fingers, the smoke curling above his head.
“Why?”
“I’m wondering if you can help me out. I need some whisky.”
A trickle of sweat made its way down my chest. “What makes you think I can help you?”
He put the Fatima to his mouth, inhaling and exhaling in no particular hurry. I stared at his lips as they closed and opened around the cigarette. “I listen carefully in a crowd.”
I looked him over, trying to read his eyes, which were shadowed by the brim of his hat. “How much?”
“Maybe ten cases. That too much for you?”
I lifted my chin. “No.”
“How much do you charge?”
“Two hundred a case,” I said, quickly raising my price.
“And how soon can I get it?”
“As soon as you want it.”
He lifted his brow. “Impressive. You bring it over in the car?”
“Leave the details to me. You’ll get what you want.”
One side of his mouth hooked up. “I always do.” He came off the wall, and I backed into the Ford to steady myself. I wished I hadn’t chosen my shabbiest blouse this morning. It used to be red but had faded to a mealy-tomato color. When his feet reached mine, he swayed forward, placing his hands on the car’s roof, one on either side of me. The air hummed between us, and every inch of my skin tingled with awareness of him. I let my lips fall open.
His smile deepened. “I’ll be in touch, Miss O’Mara.” He straightened up, and with a tip of his hat, walked away.
“Just a moment!” Think of something—quick! “May I have a cigarette?”
Retracing his steps, he took a gold case from his coat pocket, opened it, and offered me a Fatima. I put it to my mouth. His fingers have touched this. His eyes held mine captive as he pulled out a lighter, and I jumped when the flame burst from its tip. Once the cigarette was lit, I took what I hoped looked like a deep and sultry drag.
With a nod, he walked away again, and I could think of nothing to make him come back. Nothing smart and sophisticated, anyway.
“Wait!” I called, shading my eyes from the sun. “What’s your name?”
He looked at me over his shoulder, but only smiled with closed lips before disappearing around the corner.
“Shit,” I said, kicking the tire of my car. I’d admitted too much for nothing in return. And he knows my name. What the hell? For all I knew he was going to sell my information to a prohi around the corner. I stared at the cigarette he’d given me, dragged on it, and swore again. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“She smokes and she curses,” said a voice behind me. “Should I bring you a spittoon too?”
I whipped around and saw Joey Lupo standing there with two grocery sacks in his arms and an irritating grin on his face. Joey was my age, some kind of cousin of Bridget’s late husband, Vince, and one of those guys whose big mouth is always trying to make up for his short stature. He once stole a pair of underwear from my dresser and charged the neighborhood boys a penny for a peek. Five years had passed, but I still hadn’t forgiven him.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “I thought you went to Chicago.”
“I’m back. You miss me?”
I sucked on my cigarette and blew the smoke at him.
His grin widened. “Still sugar-sweet. Some things never change.” He set the grocery sacks down and reached for a box. “Come on, Little Tomato, I’ll help you load.”
“Don’t call me that.” I was just about to tell him I didn’t need his help when Daddy came out the garage door. Throwing the cigarette to the ground, I tried to fan away the smoke but wasn’t quick enough. Daddy let me work for his bootlegging operation but he was strangely old-fashioned about lipstick and smoking, and I didn’t want a lecture in front of Joey.
“Frances Kathleen O’Mara, I told you no smoking and I meant it,” Daddy growled. “Your mother is turning in her grave, God rest her soul.” He crossed himself and looked skyward. “You see what these girls do to me, Mary?”
I rolled my eyes, ignoring Joey’s infuriating chuckle. “I’m twenty years old, Daddy, not ten.”
He glared at me. “You live under my roof, you follow my rules.”
How badly I wanted to say to hell with your roof and your rules—I’m done with them! But I couldn’t. I chewed my bottom lip instead, my fists tight with frustration.
“And Christ almighty, get going already. Here’s the orders.” Daddy dug a folded piece of paper from his pocket and shoved it at me before stalking back into the garage.
“Still living at home, huh?” Joey didn’t even try to hide his amusement.
“Shut up. If you came here to help, then get to it.” I picked up the second box, and we put the booze into the compartment beneath the rear seat, placing the grocery sacks on top. I started the car and looked at the list.
“Where you headed?” Joey asked.
“Smith, side door. Hix, back alley. Then Koehler. Last is Henshaw, and the housekeeper wants the delivery by four.” I wrinkled my nose and shoved the list back in my pocket. “The housekeeper. There goes my tip.”
Joey laughed, dug in one pocket of his grubby black pants, and tossed me a candy bar. “Here—here’s a tip for you. EAT. You haven’t grown an inch in three years—in any direction!”
Grimacing, I put the car in gear and moved forward, hoping I might run over his foot. Who the hell was Joey to talk? Maybe he’d filled out some since the last time I’d seen him, but he wasn’t that much taller than me. Four inches, tops. And that mop of mangy brown hair on his head made him look bigger than he was.
As I turned out of the alley and headed north on Jefferson into Grosse Pointe, my unease about the conversation with the sheik returned. It was the same creepy-crawly feeling I get when I enter a room and just know there’s a spider in it somewhere, watching me. But I sold whisky almost every day of the year. Why should it be any different just because the customer was a little mysterious and a lot gorgeous? Still, I found myself glancing over both shoulders more than usual as I unloaded and collected payment.
At the Smith and Hix houses I made a few dollars in tips, but Mrs. Koehler was five dollars short on her standing order. “Just bring it to the store as soon as you can, Mrs. Koehler,” I told her. She was a good customer, and we hated to lose anyone’s business. Some other bootlegger could come along tomorrow and try to undercut us.
By four o’clock I was headed for the Henshaw estate, and the twitchy feeling was still with me, like an itch that refuses to go away even once it’s been scratched. But when you’re breaking the law on a daily basis, perhaps a bit of anxiety should come with the territory. Daddy always says good instincts are more important than good friends in our business.
Rather than the stingy housekeeper, it was Mrs. Schmidt, the cook, who answered my knock at the kitchen door of the Henshaws’ lakefront mansion. When I greeted her, she welcomed me with a hug. Mrs. Schmidt had been close to my mother, who’d been a housemaid for the Henshaws before marrying my father. For a year after our mother died in childbirth with Mary Grace, Mrs. Schmidt brought meals to our house and spent her days off teaching Bridget and me to cook. As my sisters will attest, Bridget was the superior student.
“How are you today, Mrs. Schmidt?”
“Oh, I don’t like to complain,” she said, releasing me and rubbing the considerable width of her lower back. “But since you asked…”
I hid a smile as she ran through a list of ailments, nodding and clucking my tongue in sympathy. Finally she paused to draw breath, and I put the grocery bags on the butcher block and carried in the last of the whisky, setting the box on the black and white tiled floor.
“Thanks, love.” She brushed my hair off my face when I straightened. “Such a gorgeous color, this hair. Like sunlight through garnet. Why did you ever cut it off?”
“Just easier this way. Less fuss.”
“Your mother never minded the fuss of long hair.” Mrs. Schmidt crossed her arms. “And I don’t mind saying she wouldn’t have liked you cutting yours off.”
“Yes, you’ve mentioned that.” About a million times. I nodded my head of improperly bobbed hair toward the whisky. “Shall I move it to the cellar for you?”
“Leave it be, I’ll have the boy do it.” She paid me for the groceries, but Mr. Henshaw got his booze for free in exchange for allowing Daddy to use an old dock and boathouse at the edge of his property.
“And before you go…” From a canister on a pantry shelf she took a bill and tucked it into my palm. “Mr. Henshaw said to give this to you.”
When I saw it was a fifty, I gasped. “He did? Why?”
“I may have let it slip about your paying your way through nursing school.”
“Oh, Mrs. Schmidt, thank you!” I threw my arms around her globe-shaped middle and practically squeezed the life from her.
“You’re welcome, girl. Now scoot, I’ve got the groceries to put away.” Laughing, she shooed me out the back door, and I skipped to my car.
Fifty dollars! That would go a long way toward tuition and books. Classes would begin again in August, and they weren’t cheap. Daddy didn’t mind my going to nursing school as long as I kept the house running and my sisters in line, but he couldn’t be counted on to pay for anything. He claimed there was no money for it, but I suspected he didn’t offer much because the sooner I had my degree, the sooner he’d be on his own with the house and the girls. It took every ounce of restraint I had not to ask him about all the cash that ended up lining Ralph the Bookie’s pocket.
Sitting behind the wheel, I looked at the crisp fifty in triumph before tucking it into my pocket along with the wrinkly dollars and spare change the other customers had given me. But as I drove back to the store, I began thinking of all the things I could buy with that much money—a smart new dress, something with beading or fringe. A darling little cloche or headband. A pair of satin shoes for dancing.
And how many months’ rent would fifty bucks pay? I clenched my teeth. I didn’t need much—just a studio apartment with a little bath. My own space, in which I would do as I pleased, with no rules. I thought about the sheik, and the way he paid for his cigarettes with fifty-dollar bills. My pulse raced when I recalled how he’d leaned close to me, near enough for me to smell the smoke on his breath.
After parking in the alley behind the store, I peeked into the front but saw Joey at the register, so I headed up the steps to Bridget’s apartment. The smell of fresh-baked bread hit me in the stairwell and my stomach growled when I saw the two loaves on the kitchen counter. “Bread’s done, help yourself,” Bridget called from the front room, where the radio played “I’m Nobody’s Baby.” Humming along, I cut two thick slices and slathered them with butter. Bridget’s cooking and baking skills trumped mine by a mile, and I nearly moaned as I sank my teeth into the doughy white softness. She wandered in a minute later with two-year old Charlie on her hip.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I thought it was Joey.”
“Does that mean I have to put the bread back?” I mumbled, my mouth full.
She smiled, which always changed her face from plain to pretty. “No, you can have some. Do you want some cold meat for a sandwich? Joey brought some ham from Eastern Market.”
I shook my head and polished off the first slice. “I saw him downstairs. I thought he moved to Chicago.”
She set Charlie on the yellow linoleum floor and sliced a piece of bread for him. “He did, but his mother took ill, and he’s worried about her. Wants to stay closer to home for a while. I know he’s not your favorite, but try to be nice. He’s family.”
“He’s not my family.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“He’s a pain in the ass.”
She pursed her lips as she handed Charlie the bread, and I decided to switch topics. “Look at this.” I licked my fingers and pulled the fifty-dollar bill from my pocket.
Bridget wiped her hands on her stained apron and took the bill. “Jaypers cripes! Where’d you get that?”
“From Mr. Henshaw, as a tip.” I picked up my second slice of bread and sank my teeth in. “But don’t tell Daddy.”
Our eyes met, and I knew she understood. Bridget kept my tips for me, stashing them in a big yellow envelope underneath her mattress. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Daddy, but I felt safer with my tips out of the house. “Want me to put it with the rest?”
I hesitated, the image of myself in a beaded dress and satin shoes vanishing in a puff of smoke. “I guess so.” Slumping into a chair at the round kitchen table, I dropped my forehead to the wood. “But boy, I wish I could be spending some of that money on something else. Like a new dress. Or shoes. Or rent.”
She patted my shoulder before going into her bedroom, which was off the kitchen. “Is Daddy giving you a rough time?” she asked when she returned.
I sat up and shrugged. “I’m twenty years old. I’m just tired of living with my father and having two little sisters underfoot all the time.”
Bridget went to the stove and stirred something in a large copper pot. “You’ve got your own bedroom. That’s more than I had when I lived at home.”
“So what? The only thing I do in it is read and sleep. And I can hardly even do that without one of the girls barging in on me.” I sat up straight and mimicked our sisters’ high-pitched voices. “Tiny, can you mend this blouse? Will you make my lunch? Can I wear your blue sweater? She’s bothering me! She’s following me! She hit me!”
“Well, cheer up.” Bridget clacked the spoon on the edge of the pot and set it aside. “Molly will be done with school in three years, and by then Mary Grace will be old enough to look after herself. You’ll be free to do as you please.” She turned and waggled her brows at me. “Inside your bedroom and out.”
“But that’s years away! I want a little excitement in my life now.” I thumped the table for emphasis.
“Take it from me—a little excitement goes a long way,” said Bridget, gesturing toward the front room, where I could hear her two older boys playing. “You don’t want to do what I did.”
That was true. Bridget had gotten pregnant before her wedding and Daddy had been furious. But still. “For cripes sake, Bridget, when would I have the opportunity? I haven’t even kissed anyone in months!”
“So kiss somebody.” Bridget grinned and dropped into the chair across from me. “Then give me all the saucy details.”
“It’s more than that,” I went on. “In the morning I want to get up and go to work without cleaning up a big mess after breakfast. At night, instead of washing all the dinner dishes and making sure everyone has clean clothes for the next day, I want to go dancing and drink champagne. I want to wear a short dress and red lipstick without my father scolding me. I want to hit the best nightclubs with a dashing swain at my side to light my cigarettes. Like the Arrow Shirt man,” I said wistfully. “Or the sheik.”
Bridget laughed. “The sheik?”
“That guy who comes in for the Fatimas. He was in again today looking for Daddy.” I touched my buttery mouth, picturing the sheik’s lips on his cigarette.
The light in Bridget’s eyes went out. “Oh.”
“Any idea who he is?”
She jumped up, grabbed the broom from the corner and swept the floor with angry strokes, shooing Charlie into the front room. “No. But I don’t like the looks of him.”
“Since when? The other day we were both swooning over him like he was Valentino.”
“Something about the way he keeps showing up gives me a bad feeling.” She swept harder, not meeting my eyes. “He reminds me of those guys who used to come around for Vince.”
My twitchy feeling returned. I knew the kind of men she was talking about. The day Vince was murdered two years ago, he was picking up a mobster named Big Leo Scarfone from the police station. He’d been shot right there on the sidewalk. Twenty-one times.
I swallowed. “You think he’s connected to Vince’s…to what happened to Vince?”
“I don’t know, Tiny. I don’t recognize him. I just suddenly got a bad feeling, that’s all.” Finally, she stopped sweeping and looked at me, tears in her eyes. “You need to be careful. A little excitement is one thing, but I don’t want to be up at night worrying about you. Understand?”
I nodded, deciding not to mention the episode in the alley. She put the broom away and returned to the stove as I recalled getting the news about Vince, delivered by a Detroit police officer at the store. Three other men were killed that day, including Big Leo and Joey’s father. The third guy lived just long enough to break the code of silence and reveal the names of the gunmen, members of a rival crime family. They were arrested and charged with murder, but Bridget said they’d never go to jail, and she was right. It took the jury less than fifty minutes to find them innocent.
I was hoping her instincts about the sheik were off. Because I wanted to see him again.
First, if you're looking for my NAmazing Adventure post, CLICK HERE.
For Speak Easy's first chapter, just read on...I hope it tempts you to want more. :)
Chapter One
Friday, July 13th, 1923
The woman approached me at the counter, keeping her eyes low. “A quart of maple syrup,” she said, her voice hushed.
I didn’t recognize her. “What kind?”
“Canadian.” Clutching her purse to her stomach, she peeked at me from beneath the brim of her hat.
“What are you making?”
“Griddlecakes.”
I nodded. If she’d answered waffles, or even pancakes, I’d have directed her to the east wall of the store, where tin cans of actual maple syrup were stacked three high on a shelf. But since she knew the password, I named our price and took down the order and her address. She’d get her whisky in a day or so.
Bootlegging was that simple for a small operation like ours. The customers were loyal, the neighborhood grocery store was a legitimate cover, and thanks to the narrow waterway separating Detroit from Canada and its distilleries, our whisky supply seemed endless. Timely payoffs assured us of little trouble from city officials, and the local cops were some of our best customers. So when the bell over Jefferson Market’s front door jangled again that afternoon, I greeted the customer with a smile. But as the well-dressed man removed his light gray fedora and walked toward me at the back of the store, the air took on a strange charge, and gooseflesh rippled across my skin.
It was him. The sheik.
He’d been in twice in the last week. Each time, he’d said practically nothing, bought one pack of Fatima cigarettes, and paid with a fifty-dollar bill. I thought of him as the sheik because he reminded me of a movie star: dark, silent, and handsome in that delighted-villain sort of way, as if he’d just tied a girl to the train tracks and now it was time for a cocktail and a smoke.
“Good afternoon.” His voice was deep and smooth, just how I imagined a screen idol’s should be.
“Are you Miss O’Mara?”
I blinked. He knows my name. “Yes. Can I help you?”
“Give this to your father.” He pulled an envelope from his coat and laid it on the counter, next to the cash register. When I reached for it, he placed his hand over mine, pinning it to the cool marble. A buzz swept up my arm as our eyes met. His were so dark they appeared black, and a small scar rested at the top of one cheekbone. “Tell him to answer by tonight.”
It took me a moment to find my voice. “All right.”
Replacing his hat on top of his slick dark hair, he walked out without looking back. The bell jangled once more, and I released the breath I’d been holding, leaning on the counter for support. I jumped when I heard a voice behind me.
“Tiny?” My older sister Bridget poked her head in from the stockroom, her long brown hair coming loose from its knot at her nape. “Daddy’s ready for you to make deliveries.”
Quickly I swiped the envelope into the front pocket of my middy blouse. “Should I go now?”
“Just let me put the bread in the oven,” Bridget said, disappearing into the stockroom again. She and her children lived in the apartment over the store. At almost twenty-one, I was more than ready to move out of our father’s house and get my own apartment, but it would have to wait. There were two more daughters after me who needed tending, and with our mother gone and Bridget widowed with three young boys, I wasn’t going anywhere soon.
While I waited, I fingered the envelope in my pocket. The sheik said Daddy had to answer by tonight, but what was the question? Was he a bootlegger too? He looked a little older than me, but still in his twenties, and wealthy, if his clothing was any indication. He wore exquisite three-piece suits. First black, then blue, and today, gray. I looked at the back of my hand, where he’d touched me, then brought it to my lips.
“What are you doing?” Bridget’s voice startled me again, and she laughed.
Cheeks burning, I tucked my hand into my pocket. “Nothing. Can I go?”
She nodded. “I’ll bring the grocery sacks out to you in the alley.”
I exited through the stock room into the wet heat of a Michigan summer afternoon. In the alley, I pulled the envelope from my pocket and looked at it. Jack O’Mara was written on its ivory face in black ink, the cursive letters small and lean. The seal was tight. No way to tell what its contents were, no clue as to who the sheik might be or whom he worked for.
Not that I much cared about his occupation.
If he comes in again, I’ll say hello first, I thought, recalling those dark eyes that smoldered like Valentino’s. “Hi, there,” I said, practicing. No, too girlish. I cleared my throat and tried again, imagining how a sultry screen vamp like Theda Bara would greet a man like the sheik. “Hello.” Yes, that was better. Deeper, more mature.
Next, I tried to even out my walk so that I could slink into a room, cigarette holder in one hand, highball in the other. But slinking was a bit difficult for me because one of my legs is shorter than the other, not that either of them is what you’d call long. My mother was so small she had difficult births, and my hip broke as I was being born. It hadn’t healed right, resulting in a one-inch difference, and I have to concentrate if I don’t want to limp, especially if I’m tired. But if I smoothed out my gait, kept my weight back and my chin down, bent my knees a little…
Damn. Slinking was harder than it looked.
Giving up, I jogged the rest of the way down the alley and pushed open the door to the garage. Once my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I saw Daddy taking apart the back end of a Cadillac hearse.
Officially, he was an auto repairman, but his real talent was rebuilding cars—creating hidden compartments, phony gas tanks, false floorboards. It was amazing how many bottles of booze could be stashed in the unseen lining of an automobile. Hearses were especially popular with bootleggers because they had wide back ends, but I stuck with my Model T. Those hearses were creepy.
“I’m here!” I called over the banging of his hammer.
The noise stopped and he straightened halfway, bracing his hands on the hearse’s frame and tilting his chin toward me over one shoulder. His profile revealed the crooked line of his nose, which had been broken several times. “It’s over there. Can you load it?” He jerked his head toward two large boxes labeled Royal Baking Powder sitting on the cement floor near the door.
“Sure.”
“That’s my girl. Fifteen per bottle, and don’t take less.”
“I won’t. This came for you.” I moved closer to him and held out the envelope. “The man who brought it said you should answer by tonight.”
He took it from me, barely glancing at it before shoving it into the front pocket of his work overalls. “To hell with that. I don’t answer to him or anybody else.”
“What’s this about?”
“It’s nothing. Now go on, I’ll meet you at the boathouse at six sharp. I want to get the whole place cleared out, bring it all here.”
I nodded. That could take a while. We had a lot of booze stashed in that boathouse, probably enough to—
“What the hell do you want, a police escort?” He waved his hammer toward the door. “Get moving!”
“OK, OK. Jeez,” I muttered, hurrying over to the boxes loaded with whisky bottles. Daddy had a quick temper, but he wasn’t usually so short with me. Either it was something about the letter, or he owed money to his bookie. His business ventures made enough to house, clothe, and feed us, but every extra dime fed his ravenous betting habit. Every man has his temptations, I supposed, slipping my fingers underneath a box. And every woman too. I could still hear the sheik’s low, velvety voice in my head. My stomach tightened as I imagined getting him out of that buttoned-up three-piece suit, removing that crisp white collar, slipping the crimson tie from around his neck. A sweat broke out on my back.
I lugged the boxes just outside the door, then left them sitting there while I retrieved the car. Daddy and I shared a 1921 Model T Sedan he’d rigged with hidden compartments and a trunk with a false floor. Jefferson Market was painted on the side in cheerful white letters, and I always had bags of groceries in the back seat, just in case I got stopped. After pulling alongside the garage door, I turned off the motor and jumped out. I was leaning into the back lifting up the bench seat when I heard a deep voice behind me.
“Excuse me.”
My head snapped up, my heart hammering as I backed out. Please don’t be a fed. I turned around and sucked in my breath.
The sheik was leaning against the brown brick wall, barely three feet from me.
“What are you doing back here?” Definitely not the sultry greeting I’d rehearsed.
“Looking for you.” He lit one of his Fatimas and held it between long fingers, the smoke curling above his head.
“Why?”
“I’m wondering if you can help me out. I need some whisky.”
A trickle of sweat made its way down my chest. “What makes you think I can help you?”
He put the Fatima to his mouth, inhaling and exhaling in no particular hurry. I stared at his lips as they closed and opened around the cigarette. “I listen carefully in a crowd.”
I looked him over, trying to read his eyes, which were shadowed by the brim of his hat. “How much?”
“Maybe ten cases. That too much for you?”
I lifted my chin. “No.”
“How much do you charge?”
“Two hundred a case,” I said, quickly raising my price.
“And how soon can I get it?”
“As soon as you want it.”
He lifted his brow. “Impressive. You bring it over in the car?”
“Leave the details to me. You’ll get what you want.”
One side of his mouth hooked up. “I always do.” He came off the wall, and I backed into the Ford to steady myself. I wished I hadn’t chosen my shabbiest blouse this morning. It used to be red but had faded to a mealy-tomato color. When his feet reached mine, he swayed forward, placing his hands on the car’s roof, one on either side of me. The air hummed between us, and every inch of my skin tingled with awareness of him. I let my lips fall open.
His smile deepened. “I’ll be in touch, Miss O’Mara.” He straightened up, and with a tip of his hat, walked away.
“Just a moment!” Think of something—quick! “May I have a cigarette?”
Retracing his steps, he took a gold case from his coat pocket, opened it, and offered me a Fatima. I put it to my mouth. His fingers have touched this. His eyes held mine captive as he pulled out a lighter, and I jumped when the flame burst from its tip. Once the cigarette was lit, I took what I hoped looked like a deep and sultry drag.
With a nod, he walked away again, and I could think of nothing to make him come back. Nothing smart and sophisticated, anyway.
“Wait!” I called, shading my eyes from the sun. “What’s your name?”
He looked at me over his shoulder, but only smiled with closed lips before disappearing around the corner.
“Shit,” I said, kicking the tire of my car. I’d admitted too much for nothing in return. And he knows my name. What the hell? For all I knew he was going to sell my information to a prohi around the corner. I stared at the cigarette he’d given me, dragged on it, and swore again. “Shit, shit, shit.”
“She smokes and she curses,” said a voice behind me. “Should I bring you a spittoon too?”
I whipped around and saw Joey Lupo standing there with two grocery sacks in his arms and an irritating grin on his face. Joey was my age, some kind of cousin of Bridget’s late husband, Vince, and one of those guys whose big mouth is always trying to make up for his short stature. He once stole a pair of underwear from my dresser and charged the neighborhood boys a penny for a peek. Five years had passed, but I still hadn’t forgiven him.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “I thought you went to Chicago.”
“I’m back. You miss me?”
I sucked on my cigarette and blew the smoke at him.
His grin widened. “Still sugar-sweet. Some things never change.” He set the grocery sacks down and reached for a box. “Come on, Little Tomato, I’ll help you load.”
“Don’t call me that.” I was just about to tell him I didn’t need his help when Daddy came out the garage door. Throwing the cigarette to the ground, I tried to fan away the smoke but wasn’t quick enough. Daddy let me work for his bootlegging operation but he was strangely old-fashioned about lipstick and smoking, and I didn’t want a lecture in front of Joey.
“Frances Kathleen O’Mara, I told you no smoking and I meant it,” Daddy growled. “Your mother is turning in her grave, God rest her soul.” He crossed himself and looked skyward. “You see what these girls do to me, Mary?”
I rolled my eyes, ignoring Joey’s infuriating chuckle. “I’m twenty years old, Daddy, not ten.”
He glared at me. “You live under my roof, you follow my rules.”
How badly I wanted to say to hell with your roof and your rules—I’m done with them! But I couldn’t. I chewed my bottom lip instead, my fists tight with frustration.
“And Christ almighty, get going already. Here’s the orders.” Daddy dug a folded piece of paper from his pocket and shoved it at me before stalking back into the garage.
“Still living at home, huh?” Joey didn’t even try to hide his amusement.
“Shut up. If you came here to help, then get to it.” I picked up the second box, and we put the booze into the compartment beneath the rear seat, placing the grocery sacks on top. I started the car and looked at the list.
“Where you headed?” Joey asked.
“Smith, side door. Hix, back alley. Then Koehler. Last is Henshaw, and the housekeeper wants the delivery by four.” I wrinkled my nose and shoved the list back in my pocket. “The housekeeper. There goes my tip.”
Joey laughed, dug in one pocket of his grubby black pants, and tossed me a candy bar. “Here—here’s a tip for you. EAT. You haven’t grown an inch in three years—in any direction!”
Grimacing, I put the car in gear and moved forward, hoping I might run over his foot. Who the hell was Joey to talk? Maybe he’d filled out some since the last time I’d seen him, but he wasn’t that much taller than me. Four inches, tops. And that mop of mangy brown hair on his head made him look bigger than he was.
As I turned out of the alley and headed north on Jefferson into Grosse Pointe, my unease about the conversation with the sheik returned. It was the same creepy-crawly feeling I get when I enter a room and just know there’s a spider in it somewhere, watching me. But I sold whisky almost every day of the year. Why should it be any different just because the customer was a little mysterious and a lot gorgeous? Still, I found myself glancing over both shoulders more than usual as I unloaded and collected payment.
At the Smith and Hix houses I made a few dollars in tips, but Mrs. Koehler was five dollars short on her standing order. “Just bring it to the store as soon as you can, Mrs. Koehler,” I told her. She was a good customer, and we hated to lose anyone’s business. Some other bootlegger could come along tomorrow and try to undercut us.
By four o’clock I was headed for the Henshaw estate, and the twitchy feeling was still with me, like an itch that refuses to go away even once it’s been scratched. But when you’re breaking the law on a daily basis, perhaps a bit of anxiety should come with the territory. Daddy always says good instincts are more important than good friends in our business.
Rather than the stingy housekeeper, it was Mrs. Schmidt, the cook, who answered my knock at the kitchen door of the Henshaws’ lakefront mansion. When I greeted her, she welcomed me with a hug. Mrs. Schmidt had been close to my mother, who’d been a housemaid for the Henshaws before marrying my father. For a year after our mother died in childbirth with Mary Grace, Mrs. Schmidt brought meals to our house and spent her days off teaching Bridget and me to cook. As my sisters will attest, Bridget was the superior student.
“How are you today, Mrs. Schmidt?”
“Oh, I don’t like to complain,” she said, releasing me and rubbing the considerable width of her lower back. “But since you asked…”
I hid a smile as she ran through a list of ailments, nodding and clucking my tongue in sympathy. Finally she paused to draw breath, and I put the grocery bags on the butcher block and carried in the last of the whisky, setting the box on the black and white tiled floor.
“Thanks, love.” She brushed my hair off my face when I straightened. “Such a gorgeous color, this hair. Like sunlight through garnet. Why did you ever cut it off?”
“Just easier this way. Less fuss.”
“Your mother never minded the fuss of long hair.” Mrs. Schmidt crossed her arms. “And I don’t mind saying she wouldn’t have liked you cutting yours off.”
“Yes, you’ve mentioned that.” About a million times. I nodded my head of improperly bobbed hair toward the whisky. “Shall I move it to the cellar for you?”
“Leave it be, I’ll have the boy do it.” She paid me for the groceries, but Mr. Henshaw got his booze for free in exchange for allowing Daddy to use an old dock and boathouse at the edge of his property.
“And before you go…” From a canister on a pantry shelf she took a bill and tucked it into my palm. “Mr. Henshaw said to give this to you.”
When I saw it was a fifty, I gasped. “He did? Why?”
“I may have let it slip about your paying your way through nursing school.”
“Oh, Mrs. Schmidt, thank you!” I threw my arms around her globe-shaped middle and practically squeezed the life from her.
“You’re welcome, girl. Now scoot, I’ve got the groceries to put away.” Laughing, she shooed me out the back door, and I skipped to my car.
Fifty dollars! That would go a long way toward tuition and books. Classes would begin again in August, and they weren’t cheap. Daddy didn’t mind my going to nursing school as long as I kept the house running and my sisters in line, but he couldn’t be counted on to pay for anything. He claimed there was no money for it, but I suspected he didn’t offer much because the sooner I had my degree, the sooner he’d be on his own with the house and the girls. It took every ounce of restraint I had not to ask him about all the cash that ended up lining Ralph the Bookie’s pocket.
Sitting behind the wheel, I looked at the crisp fifty in triumph before tucking it into my pocket along with the wrinkly dollars and spare change the other customers had given me. But as I drove back to the store, I began thinking of all the things I could buy with that much money—a smart new dress, something with beading or fringe. A darling little cloche or headband. A pair of satin shoes for dancing.
And how many months’ rent would fifty bucks pay? I clenched my teeth. I didn’t need much—just a studio apartment with a little bath. My own space, in which I would do as I pleased, with no rules. I thought about the sheik, and the way he paid for his cigarettes with fifty-dollar bills. My pulse raced when I recalled how he’d leaned close to me, near enough for me to smell the smoke on his breath.
After parking in the alley behind the store, I peeked into the front but saw Joey at the register, so I headed up the steps to Bridget’s apartment. The smell of fresh-baked bread hit me in the stairwell and my stomach growled when I saw the two loaves on the kitchen counter. “Bread’s done, help yourself,” Bridget called from the front room, where the radio played “I’m Nobody’s Baby.” Humming along, I cut two thick slices and slathered them with butter. Bridget’s cooking and baking skills trumped mine by a mile, and I nearly moaned as I sank my teeth into the doughy white softness. She wandered in a minute later with two-year old Charlie on her hip.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I thought it was Joey.”
“Does that mean I have to put the bread back?” I mumbled, my mouth full.
She smiled, which always changed her face from plain to pretty. “No, you can have some. Do you want some cold meat for a sandwich? Joey brought some ham from Eastern Market.”
I shook my head and polished off the first slice. “I saw him downstairs. I thought he moved to Chicago.”
She set Charlie on the yellow linoleum floor and sliced a piece of bread for him. “He did, but his mother took ill, and he’s worried about her. Wants to stay closer to home for a while. I know he’s not your favorite, but try to be nice. He’s family.”
“He’s not my family.”
“He’s a good guy.”
“He’s a pain in the ass.”
She pursed her lips as she handed Charlie the bread, and I decided to switch topics. “Look at this.” I licked my fingers and pulled the fifty-dollar bill from my pocket.
Bridget wiped her hands on her stained apron and took the bill. “Jaypers cripes! Where’d you get that?”
“From Mr. Henshaw, as a tip.” I picked up my second slice of bread and sank my teeth in. “But don’t tell Daddy.”
Our eyes met, and I knew she understood. Bridget kept my tips for me, stashing them in a big yellow envelope underneath her mattress. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust Daddy, but I felt safer with my tips out of the house. “Want me to put it with the rest?”
I hesitated, the image of myself in a beaded dress and satin shoes vanishing in a puff of smoke. “I guess so.” Slumping into a chair at the round kitchen table, I dropped my forehead to the wood. “But boy, I wish I could be spending some of that money on something else. Like a new dress. Or shoes. Or rent.”
She patted my shoulder before going into her bedroom, which was off the kitchen. “Is Daddy giving you a rough time?” she asked when she returned.
I sat up and shrugged. “I’m twenty years old. I’m just tired of living with my father and having two little sisters underfoot all the time.”
Bridget went to the stove and stirred something in a large copper pot. “You’ve got your own bedroom. That’s more than I had when I lived at home.”
“So what? The only thing I do in it is read and sleep. And I can hardly even do that without one of the girls barging in on me.” I sat up straight and mimicked our sisters’ high-pitched voices. “Tiny, can you mend this blouse? Will you make my lunch? Can I wear your blue sweater? She’s bothering me! She’s following me! She hit me!”
“Well, cheer up.” Bridget clacked the spoon on the edge of the pot and set it aside. “Molly will be done with school in three years, and by then Mary Grace will be old enough to look after herself. You’ll be free to do as you please.” She turned and waggled her brows at me. “Inside your bedroom and out.”
“But that’s years away! I want a little excitement in my life now.” I thumped the table for emphasis.
“Take it from me—a little excitement goes a long way,” said Bridget, gesturing toward the front room, where I could hear her two older boys playing. “You don’t want to do what I did.”
That was true. Bridget had gotten pregnant before her wedding and Daddy had been furious. But still. “For cripes sake, Bridget, when would I have the opportunity? I haven’t even kissed anyone in months!”
“So kiss somebody.” Bridget grinned and dropped into the chair across from me. “Then give me all the saucy details.”
“It’s more than that,” I went on. “In the morning I want to get up and go to work without cleaning up a big mess after breakfast. At night, instead of washing all the dinner dishes and making sure everyone has clean clothes for the next day, I want to go dancing and drink champagne. I want to wear a short dress and red lipstick without my father scolding me. I want to hit the best nightclubs with a dashing swain at my side to light my cigarettes. Like the Arrow Shirt man,” I said wistfully. “Or the sheik.”
Bridget laughed. “The sheik?”
“That guy who comes in for the Fatimas. He was in again today looking for Daddy.” I touched my buttery mouth, picturing the sheik’s lips on his cigarette.
The light in Bridget’s eyes went out. “Oh.”
“Any idea who he is?”
She jumped up, grabbed the broom from the corner and swept the floor with angry strokes, shooing Charlie into the front room. “No. But I don’t like the looks of him.”
“Since when? The other day we were both swooning over him like he was Valentino.”
“Something about the way he keeps showing up gives me a bad feeling.” She swept harder, not meeting my eyes. “He reminds me of those guys who used to come around for Vince.”
My twitchy feeling returned. I knew the kind of men she was talking about. The day Vince was murdered two years ago, he was picking up a mobster named Big Leo Scarfone from the police station. He’d been shot right there on the sidewalk. Twenty-one times.
I swallowed. “You think he’s connected to Vince’s…to what happened to Vince?”
“I don’t know, Tiny. I don’t recognize him. I just suddenly got a bad feeling, that’s all.” Finally, she stopped sweeping and looked at me, tears in her eyes. “You need to be careful. A little excitement is one thing, but I don’t want to be up at night worrying about you. Understand?”
I nodded, deciding not to mention the episode in the alley. She put the broom away and returned to the stove as I recalled getting the news about Vince, delivered by a Detroit police officer at the store. Three other men were killed that day, including Big Leo and Joey’s father. The third guy lived just long enough to break the code of silence and reveal the names of the gunmen, members of a rival crime family. They were arrested and charged with murder, but Bridget said they’d never go to jail, and she was right. It took the jury less than fifty minutes to find them innocent.
I was hoping her instincts about the sheik were off. Because I wanted to see him again.
I wanted to do more than that.
Friday, June 28, 2013
Flapper Friday: Condom Crazy
This is one of those history lessons we didn't get in school.
A lovely reader who just finished an ARC of SPEAK EASY emailed me about a scene where Enzo retrieves a condom from his coat pocket. (It is a favorite scene of mine.)
She was curious about the accuracy of this--did such a thing exist in the 1920s?
Why, yes!
I admit that when I was writing the scene, I looked it up to make sure (that's the downside of writing hot scenes in historical settings--you have to stop and look things up...more on that another time).
But here are Five Fun Things about Condom History.
1) According to Salon.com, "The oldest condoms ever found were dug up in the cesspit — or big toilet — of Dudley Castle, an English ruin, in 1985. Made of fish and animal intestine, the condoms were most likely dropped into the cesspit sometime in the mid 17th century."
Fascinating. And yet disgusting.
2) The first rubber condoms were produced in the mid-19th century, and they only covered the tip--men had to be measured by a doctor for a proper fit, and even then they'd fall off during use (go figure). Pretty soon rubber manufacturers figured out that full-length one-size-fits-all condoms would sell like mad in pharmacies.
Genius!
3) Condom use got a big boost during World War I because they prevented soldier deaths from STD's like syphilis. However, the U.S. military, under pressure from "purity advocates," was the only force not to supply its troops with condoms. Way to go, Uncle Sam!
4) In 1918, condoms began to be publicly, legally sold to Americans for the first time in forty-five years. Through the 1920s, catchy names and slick packaging became an increasingly important marketing technique for many consumer items, including condoms.
5) Margaret Sanger held the First American Birth Control Conference in November 1921 in New York City. Condom sales doubled worldwide in the 1920s!
So, yes...we may not like to think about our great-grandparents in terms of pre-marital sex or Three Ramses condoms, but there it is!
Have a safe weekend. ;)
Cheers!
A lovely reader who just finished an ARC of SPEAK EASY emailed me about a scene where Enzo retrieves a condom from his coat pocket. (It is a favorite scene of mine.)
She was curious about the accuracy of this--did such a thing exist in the 1920s?
Why, yes!
But here are Five Fun Things about Condom History.
1) According to Salon.com, "The oldest condoms ever found were dug up in the cesspit — or big toilet — of Dudley Castle, an English ruin, in 1985. Made of fish and animal intestine, the condoms were most likely dropped into the cesspit sometime in the mid 17th century."
 |
| Animal skin condom c. 1900 |
Fascinating. And yet disgusting.
2) The first rubber condoms were produced in the mid-19th century, and they only covered the tip--men had to be measured by a doctor for a proper fit, and even then they'd fall off during use (go figure). Pretty soon rubber manufacturers figured out that full-length one-size-fits-all condoms would sell like mad in pharmacies.
Genius!
3) Condom use got a big boost during World War I because they prevented soldier deaths from STD's like syphilis. However, the U.S. military, under pressure from "purity advocates," was the only force not to supply its troops with condoms. Way to go, Uncle Sam!
4) In 1918, condoms began to be publicly, legally sold to Americans for the first time in forty-five years. Through the 1920s, catchy names and slick packaging became an increasingly important marketing technique for many consumer items, including condoms.
 |
| I like to think Enzo used Three Sheik. ;) |
5) Margaret Sanger held the First American Birth Control Conference in November 1921 in New York City. Condom sales doubled worldwide in the 1920s!
 |
| Yay Margaret! |
So, yes...we may not like to think about our great-grandparents in terms of pre-marital sex or Three Ramses condoms, but there it is!
Have a safe weekend. ;)
Cheers!
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Tempt Me Tuesday: Get in THE MOOD
Best viewed with a cocktail and the Great Gatsby soundtrack.
 |
| Booth at Club 23 |
 |
| Several fun things happen in stairwells... |
 |
| ...as well as underground tunnels. |
 |
| What's better than a man in a three-piece suit at a speakeasy? |
 |
| Um, this. |
 |
| The hair. The eyes. THE LIPS. Meet Enzo DiFiore. |
 |
| OK, the modern room can go, but the man? He stays. |
 |
| As promised, there IS a gorgeous boy in a kitchen (meet Joey)...although he's dressed in the scene. (Boo, I know.) |
 |
| My cover girl is the perfect Tiny O'Mara. |
 |
| The clothes...the clothes. There are suits... |
 |
| and a chemise... |
 |
| and headbands... |
 |
| and dresses... |
 |
| and shoes... |
 |
| and a step-in... |
 |
| and more dresses! |
 |
| Here's how they kept those stockings rolled. |
 |
| And there is kissing. Even when they shouldn't...especially when they shouldn't. |
Intrigued? Come back soon for a sneak peak at chapter one!
Cheers,
Melanie
Friday, May 31, 2013
Flapper Friday: SPEAK EASY Cover Reveal & Gift Card Giveaway!
This is a really exciting day for me! And it's almost the weekend--what could be better?
For today's Flapper Friday, I'm revealing the cover for SPEAK EASY, my NA Historical coming out July 22nd.
This is my debut novel, so I'm completely giddy about this (also kinda nauseous, but I do have a bit of stage fright).
So what's SPEAK EASY about? Think NA meets Boardwalk Empire. Here's the scoop:
July, 1923. The ‘20s are roaring, and twenty-year-old Tiny O’Mara is desperate for a little anything-goes excitement. But when her father is kidnapped by a mobster in Detroit's exploding organized crime scene, she’s shocked to find herself caught up in the bootlegging wars of Prohibition—and torn between two gorgeous gangsters on opposite sides.
Isn't she pretty? I love her!
Click here to add to Goodreads. :)
I'm also on Facebook, and I will be posting lots of fun photos and things related to the book and the Prohibition era leading up to release day.
I'm planning lots of fun swag and book giveaways, so stay tuned!
For now, how about a gift card giveaway to kick things off?
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Thank you Julie at AToMR tours--you're wonderful!
And thank you readers & writers for stopping by. Cheers!
For today's Flapper Friday, I'm revealing the cover for SPEAK EASY, my NA Historical coming out July 22nd.
This is my debut novel, so I'm completely giddy about this (also kinda nauseous, but I do have a bit of stage fright).
So what's SPEAK EASY about? Think NA meets Boardwalk Empire. Here's the scoop:
July, 1923. The ‘20s are roaring, and twenty-year-old Tiny O’Mara is desperate for a little anything-goes excitement. But when her father is kidnapped by a mobster in Detroit's exploding organized crime scene, she’s shocked to find herself caught up in the bootlegging wars of Prohibition—and torn between two gorgeous gangsters on opposite sides.
To save her father’s life, she’ll have to choose between them. But deciding whom to trust isn’t easy in a world where everyone wants something—be it booze, money, power, or sex—and no one cares what it takes to get it.
Temptation is everywhere.
If you drank up Anna Godbersen's BRIGHT YOUNG THINGS and LUXE series or Jillian Larkin's FLAPPERS series (but enjoy the sexytimes of NA), I think you will like this cocktail too. It's also got a shot of Stephanie Plum, because I'm a girl who loves her Ranger & Morelli!
Now the cover:
Isn't she pretty? I love her!
Click here to add to Goodreads. :)
I'm also on Facebook, and I will be posting lots of fun photos and things related to the book and the Prohibition era leading up to release day.
I'm planning lots of fun swag and book giveaways, so stay tuned!
For now, how about a gift card giveaway to kick things off?
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Thank you Julie at AToMR tours--you're wonderful!
And thank you readers & writers for stopping by. Cheers!
Friday, May 10, 2013
Flapper Friday -- Gatsby Style (It's the Cat's Meow)
Introducing Flapper Friday!
Since SPEAK EASY is set in 1923, I'm dedicating (most) Fridays in the near future to all things flavored with roaring twenties--fashion, cocktails, music, movies, books...Jazz Age thrills in a modern world.
So how perfect is it that today is the release day for Baz Luhrmann's THE GREAT GATSBY?!
As a retro culture junkie and a word nerd, this pleases me greatly. YES, I know that Luhrmann spiked the Fitzgerald punch with a pint of JAY Z and crusty literary types are harrumphing about it. YES, I know that the costumes are not exactly historically accurate. (Click here for an awesome article in the Atlantic by 20s fashion expert Dierdre Clemente about why it doesn't matter.)
Who cares? As Clemente says, Lurhmann's Gatsby is "darker, grittier, and much sexier than the priggish Fitzgerald could have imagined. It's a 21st century Gatsby, set in the 1920s, which, paradoxically, ups its connection to the decadent period it depicts."
Darker? Grittier? Sexier?
Serve. It. Up.
If you're like me, you will be obsessing over the fashions in the film. Those beaded dresses! The headbands! The jewelry! The three-piece suits! The cloches! The bow ties!
I must have them. If you must as well, here are some suggestions...
The Dresses
Check out this Pinterest board by Linda De Clario, who designed a collection of beaded flapper dresses. Here's an example:
Stunning! And it comes in other colors too. Click here for her website.
The Headbands
Stay away from costumey feathers and try beads (or sequins if you must get glittery).
And don't forget the men. Brooks Brothers has entire Gatsby Collection. Here's a taste...
And if you really want to splurge, get yourself a pair of art deco-inspired heels by Chrissie Morris.
Can't afford them? Me either. But perhaps we could treat ourselves to an art deco manicure.
Cheers, all you beautiful little fools. Here's to repeating the past, our way.
Since SPEAK EASY is set in 1923, I'm dedicating (most) Fridays in the near future to all things flavored with roaring twenties--fashion, cocktails, music, movies, books...Jazz Age thrills in a modern world.
So how perfect is it that today is the release day for Baz Luhrmann's THE GREAT GATSBY?!
As a retro culture junkie and a word nerd, this pleases me greatly. YES, I know that Luhrmann spiked the Fitzgerald punch with a pint of JAY Z and crusty literary types are harrumphing about it. YES, I know that the costumes are not exactly historically accurate. (Click here for an awesome article in the Atlantic by 20s fashion expert Dierdre Clemente about why it doesn't matter.)
Who cares? As Clemente says, Lurhmann's Gatsby is "darker, grittier, and much sexier than the priggish Fitzgerald could have imagined. It's a 21st century Gatsby, set in the 1920s, which, paradoxically, ups its connection to the decadent period it depicts."
Darker? Grittier? Sexier?
Serve. It. Up.
If you're like me, you will be obsessing over the fashions in the film. Those beaded dresses! The headbands! The jewelry! The three-piece suits! The cloches! The bow ties!
I must have them. If you must as well, here are some suggestions...
The Dresses
Check out this Pinterest board by Linda De Clario, who designed a collection of beaded flapper dresses. Here's an example:
Stunning! And it comes in other colors too. Click here for her website.
The Headbands
Stay away from costumey feathers and try beads (or sequins if you must get glittery).
 |
| Click here to for the Etsy Shop! |
 |
| Click here for the Etsy Shop!
The Jewelry
Look for cool art deco shapes! I adore these two bracelets from jewelNINJAS.
|
 |
| The Agatha Bracelet |
 |
| Kimmy Bracelet in Tangerine |
And don't forget the men. Brooks Brothers has entire Gatsby Collection. Here's a taste...
And if you really want to splurge, get yourself a pair of art deco-inspired heels by Chrissie Morris.
Can't afford them? Me either. But perhaps we could treat ourselves to an art deco manicure.
Cheers, all you beautiful little fools. Here's to repeating the past, our way.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
