#TemptationTuesday got something in store for literary lovers!
Here at Beyond My Writing Space Tuesdays are all about romance. I love characters and story lines that suck you in and I have to say Amy and Deck got me. This one’s definitely on my kindle to read list when the “spring break” finally arrives in 4 days. 🙂
Here’s the deets from Amazon:
Amy Miller gets dumped on her wedding day and everyone knows it’s for the best. Except for Amy. When her best friend treats Amy to a little retail therapy and convinces her to treat herself to an extravagantly priced but adorable pair of shoes that purportedly once belonged to a siren of the silver screen, she balks at first, but their allure soon wears her down. Once they are hers, everything in her life starts to change. A new romance blossoms, but things may not be what they seem.
As sparkly and witty as a 1940s screwball comedy, and filled with quirky characters and lots of delightful surprises, Rita Hayworth’s Shoes is a delightful roller coaster ride of romance and intrigue.
Rita Hayworth’s Shoes – Francine LaSala
Amy pulled more books out of boxes as Deck rattled around the kitchen for a while. He returned with a tray laid out with her antique teapot and two of her favorite little china cups.
“What do you have there?” she asked, delighted that he had not only found her collection but decided to use it.
“A literary tea party, of course. I think there’s plenty of madness to go around when it comes to you and I,” he smiled. “But no madeleines.”
“I must have run out.”
“Now how will we properly remember and share things past without our madeleines?”
She grinned. “I’m starting to think the past is overrated.”
“So is Proust,” he said, as he poured out two cups, offering her the one with the little green flowers. She couldn’t help but smile as she watched him take up the other tiny cup in his substantial hand, pinching the delicate handle between two massive fingers. He looked very much the part of Gulliver in Lilliput.
“Let’s see. What else do you have here?” he asked, scanning through her books with his free hand. “What really gets Amy going?” He looked up. “And why are you staring at me?”
“No reason,” she said.
“Fair enough,” he said as he shuffled through. “If you don’t mind me saying so, I think this is more Faulkner than one person should be allowed to own. No wonder your brain doesn’t work right.”
“Faulkner’s a genius,” she said. “He’s difficult maybe. But once you understand him, he’s incredibly satisfying.”
“I guess I have to agree about the genius part. But I never found him to be that difficult. They’re really great stories, but they’re pretty basic when you get right down to it.”
“Are you kidding me? As I Lay Dying was such a complex, tragic novel. Brilliant really.”
“Tragic?” he asked, almost mockingly.
“Yes,” she insisted. “And brilliant.”
“I’ll give you brilliant,” he said, and gave her a serious look.
“But Amy, you do know this is a comedy, right?” She gasped. “It is not! How could you say such a thing?”
“Think about it.”
“What’s there to think about? Their mother is dead and the family sets out on a pilgrimage to bring her home and bury––-”
“They’re mountain folk and they’re sitting around waiting for her to die,” he said. “Her name is Addie Bundren. Get it? Added burden? You don’t get it. Okay. Let’s go through it.”
“Addie’s dying and her only request is that she be buried with her family.”
“And not the group of yahoos she gave birth to,” he laughed.
“So her husband, Anse, builds her a coffin, and sells some of their belongings to finance the trip.”
“Why wouldn’t he just sell those things to buy her a coffin and just be done with it?” he said.
“And then they head to Jefferson and all kinds of terrible things happen.”
He giggled. “They lose the coffin in the river.”
“The barn burns down,” she said, shaking her head. “And that poor tragic girl.”
He smirked. “Who tries to get an abortion from the pharmacist and ends up sleeping with him, too?”
“And the little boy and the buzzards.”
“After a week and a half with no embalming and a good soak in the river, I’m surprised there weren’t more buzzards.”
“I still don’t see how any of this is funny.”
“Amy, they have no teeth. They have backwards ideas about everything.” She regarded him with a horrified stare. “Oh, man. You really don’t get it, do you? You’re much too serious.” He shook his head. “You’re missing out then,” he said, holding up the book. “Because it’s fucking hilarious.”
She stared at him silently for a few moments, a blank expression on her face. “There’s something wrong with you.”
“Maybe. But I know funny when I see it.”
“Maybe we should just drop it.”
“Tell me what else drives you. What makes you think?” he asked, moving closer to her. “Fuck that, actually. Tell me what makes you feel.”
She inched away from him. “I guess…” she paused, unsettled and intrigued at once. “I guess these do. My books. The words. You know?”
“I might,” he said, and picked up a collection of poems. “ee cummings?”
“ee cummings is beautiful,” she scowled. “These poems are deep and they are exquisitely written and they are nothing to laugh at.” She snatched the book out of his hands. “You’re not going to ruin this for me, too.”
He gazed at her for a moment before he spoke, “I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands.”
She froze. She could feel his eyes on her as he spoke these beautiful words, ones she had always wanted to hear like this. His eyes bore right through her. But she couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t breathe. She felt a familiar electric current flowing through her and she was very confused. This was all quite unexpected, but then, in a way, not.
“The voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses,” he continued, and he moved closer to her, lightly touching her hand. His touch set off a surge of tiny tingles under her skin.
He kneeled in front of her and stroked her face, and only then could she look at him, confused and elated as she was by the terror and delight and comfort she felt, all mixed together, all happening at once.
“Nobody,” he whispered, “not even the rain, has such small hands.” And then he kissed her. Gently. Sweetly. So many precious emotions tied into one simple gesture. And she kissed him back, feeling a different kind of passion, an all-encompassing passion––a kind of passion she had never known before.
And just as suddenly, he pulled away and clutched his chest. “Oh, my God!” she gasped.
“Now you’re trying to kill me?” he said.
“No. Oh God, no. Are you okay?”
He smiled and pulled her close. “Never better,” he said as he kissed her again.
Also Available from Francine LaSala:
Francine LaSala has written nonfiction on every topic imaginable, from circus freaks to sex, and edited bestselling authors of all genres through her company, Francine LaSala Productions. The author of novels Rita Hayworth’s Shoes and The Girl, The Gold Tooth & Everything, and the creator of The “Joy Jar” Project, she lives with her husband and two daughters in New York. Email her: firstname.lastname@example.org.
Here’s how to find Francine online:
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