Writing Excerpts
Chapter one from Peace, Love & Chocolate, a contemporary novel.
A short story: The Just In Case Letter from a collection of stories.
Nonfiction
The forward and first four pages from a self-help/memoir: Confessions of a Self-help Junkie: One Baby Boomer's Guide to Wisdom From Z to A.
Kitty Wisdom 101: a compilation of wise words and photographs of cats. The thinking cat's version of LOL cats, because if cat's could write, they would write like Hemingway.
They say what happens on a cruise, stays on a cruise, or does it?
Meet Tara Devereaux. She's a thirty-year-old, Harvard educated chemist with a secret passion for making chocolates. It's her only passion since her husband dumped her for her best friend on the most important day of her life.
Meet Mia. Tara's “fifty is the new thirty” widowed mother, an ex-super model, part-time dog breeder/handler and full time Diva.
These two women who share nothing in common (not even their shoe size), embark on a voyage of re-discovery and reinvention during a Caribbean Christmas cruise. Can Tara and Mia both find love and make peace with one another? Tara, tired of living under her famous mother's shadow, discovers her own beauty and power when she meets Jean-Pierre, a celebrity chef from Paris on board.
14 Days
5 Exotic ports of call
1 Ship of fools
A recipe for love or disaster? Sample a calorie-free first chapter.
Chapter One
“Truffles, why did daddy put you in your crate?” My chocolate Labrador pup cocked his head and bounded into my arms all floppy ears and tongue. “Where’s your daddy? Where’s your daddy,” I gushed, kicking off my shoes as he licked my face. The cool air-conditioned air soothed my pregnancy-swollen feet. All I wanted to do was lie down before my birthday dinner.
“Ben, sweetie?” I called down the hall. The living room was empty. I glanced at the framed wedding portrait above the fireplace, and smiled. A year later, I still couldn’t believe my good fortune -- gorgeous blue-eyed, black-haired Ben Devereaux, hottie and hotshot attorney, was my husband.
“Ben!” I called again as I marched down the long hallway, Truffles skidding ahead of me, towards our bedroom. I grabbed the doorknob and hesitated…what if Ben’s inside wrapping your birthday present? I hate surprises and felt a thrill of excitement as I turned the knob. Nothing could have prepared me for the next image. Try as I might, no delete button could ever erase it. The soft, late afternoon light filtered through the filmy silk drapes that matched the duvet cover of our king-sized bed. Our cozy marital bed had transformed into a scene from a soft-core porn film. Two naked bodies writhed in perfect rhythm in the gauzy light. Gorgeous, tanned, athletic bodies…beautiful to watch, if they weren’t my husband and my best friend Stacey.
A rapid sequence of every movie cliché played out in front of me. Ben’s deer- caught-in-the-headlights look of horror. Squelched yelps from Stacey. Bodies separating, Bed covers yanked to cover private parts. Ben gulped and said the lamest, most clichéd thing possible, “It’s not what you think.”
I almost laughed at the B-movie dialog but instead leaned against the doorframe in mute shock. A wave of nausea swept over me. In the corner, a bouquet of helium balloons printed with Happy 30th Birthday waved at me. In a nanosecond my perfect life ended with a bang.
On paper, I had it all. I was a Harvard educated chemist with a promising job, a dreamy husband, a much desired baby on the way, and even a purebred puppy. And I’d accomplished it before my personal goal of the big 3-0. Well, so much for Type-A, over-achiever dreams. Maybe I’d reached too high.
Ben’s the kind of guy who’s so good looking other women did a double take when they saw him with me. You didn’t need a Harvard degree to know what they’re thinking. Okay, so I don’t like wearing make-up. I have pale skin that only vampires would love, limp mousy hair, thin lips that could use some collagen (not that I ever would) and fat ankles. But I do have my famous mother’s flashing green eyes and killer smile. Not to mention natural D-cups.
My husband used to call me beautiful. That may or may not be true since Ben turned out to be the biggest liar in Boston and probably the entire western hemisphere.
I know, I should have seen it coming. The two of them signing up for the Boston marathon. The training runs five days a week. Ben returning to our apartment with a different kind of sweat. But, I was distracted by morning sickness and house training our new puppy. How was I to know I should have been house training Ben?
For someone with a genius level IQ, I was such an idiot. Stacey was the first friend I’d shared my pregnancy news with the week before. I worked as an analytical chemist in research and development at a multi-national pharmaceutical company. Stacey had wrapped her perfectly toned arms around me and said, “That’s wonderful. I thought you were just gaining more weight. Does this mean you’ll be stopping work?” Then, without missing a beat, “Do you think Crossly will promote me to your job?”
No warning bells went off. “Job? Stacey, I’m barely eight weeks along. I mean, my mother doesn’t even know yet.” I felt queasy from the sulfur dioxide in the lab’s petrie dish, then a tsunami of nausea washed over me. Stacey’s hollow happiness about my pregnancy didn’t help the doubts about my job. I’d liked being a chemist at first. It’s the only job I’ve ever had. I mean a real job. I’d worked summers at a chowder joint in P-town. I knew my future, as a chemist was limited without a graduate degree, so I’d hunkered down in the PhD. program at Harvard while slaving over test tubes at my job.
In the middle of writing my thesis boredom set in. I begun experimenting with making chocolate and a new passion emerged. To me it was the perfect marriage of art and science. Not to mention free, yummy samples. I’d contemplated chucking my job and Harvard for a new career as a chocolatier, but Ben had been less than enthusiastic -- something about it being “a complete waste of your brain, babe.”
Ben left our apartment in a flurry of garment bags with Stacey in tow before the guests arrived for my surprise birthday party. He even took Truffles. I made excuses to the guests, plastered on a smile and ate more than my share of birthday cake. Later that evening, after the guests and caterers left, I stabbed every helium balloon with a fork and crumbled to the floor in a bleeding mess of spasms. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me, happy birthday dear loser…I’d lost everything I loved in one day. How was that even mathematically possible?
A few days later, I dragged myself to work, determined to square off with Stacey. She looked up from her desk and squealed my name like the cheerleader she used to be. “Hi, Tara! Welcome back.” She lowered her voice and bit her lip. “We should talk. Can I take you out for lunch?”
Before I could do something illegal, like incinerating her bleached blonde hair in a Bunsen burner or tossing acid in her face, I choose the sensible route. “Okay, we can have lunch.”
Across the booth in the diner (thanks big spender), I examined her analytically for the first time. She turned heads in a cheap, obvious, fake tan, plastic boobs, hooker-heeled sort of way. I couldn’t understand what Ben saw in her. She lowered her spidery eyelashes and in a whiny baby voice said, “I’m so sorry about everything. You know Ben and I never meant to hurt you.”
Ben and I? I squeezed a squiggle of mustard onto my hotdog and enjoyed watching her squirm. She spewed out a barrage of apologies but none entered my heart. With the veil torn down on our Jekyll and Hyde friendship, the truth revealed that we’d never been more than co-workers who enjoyed sharing lunches, shopping and the occasional cocktail. We might not have been BFFs since the sandbox, but when I invited her to my wedding, I didn’t expect her to fall for the groom.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Stacey asked.
I considered stealing a fry from her untouched meal. For me, thinking and eating went together like ketchup on fries and no tragedy warranted wasting food.
Stacey blithely continued, “I feel awful about you losing your baby, but maybe it’s for the best. I mean it’s hard being a single mom these days.”
Something snapped in that moment and it wasn’t my overstretched waistband. I threw my fork down and spat out, “You cheap, conniving bitch whore on wheels. You can have my job and that asshole Ben. You deserve each other.”
I had plans and I can tell you that they had nothing to do with laboratory spectrofluorophotometers. That was three months, two weeks and five days ago. Not that I’m counting and no, time does not heal all wounds. At least not yet. And Ben was wrong. Chocolate, it turns out, is the perfect brain food
Who would guess that my most precious belonging would be a piece of paper; a piece of paper folded and unfolded until the edges loosen like window shutters off their hinges.
I twist my wedding band around and around my finger. The three diamonds in a row glint in the sunlight. Matt said they symbolize our past, present and future, but I feel cheated by the third stone. Still, I can’t bring myself to remove the ring any more than I can stop reading his words. It’s all I have left of him. I pick apart the sentences like a crazed archeologist hoping for clues, digging for treasure. By stringing up the words, by excavating between the lines, I claw for another piece of him.
From: Matthew Rosa
To: Kate Rosa
Subject: 4 more
March 21, 2009.
Darling Kate,
It’s the first day of spring. Man, it’s getting hot here. It’s nothing like New Jersey. Thanks for the photos.
xo,
Matt
From: Matthew Rosa
To: Kate Rosa
Subject: Foot cream
March 25, 2009
Kate,
Can you pls. send more of that peppermint foot cream? The weight of foot patrol gear in this heat is murder on my feet. Remember how I’d bitch if the air conditioning wasn’t at full blast? I promise when I get back you can have it at any temperature you want. There’s no getting used to this hellish heat with no air conditioning. It must have been 120 today and the showers were a spotty dribble and the port-a-potties at full stench. I’m trying my best to be strong for my guys and for you. But every day the war chips away another piece of me.
Love, Matt
From: Matthew Rosa
To: Kate Rosa
Subject: Prayers needed
March 26, 2009.
Kate, my love…
The last few days have been quiet; I alternate between boredom (Thank God for my iPod) and fear. There is no feeling safe here. At any minute all hell can break out, sniper fire, an IED (improvised explosive device)... I used to feel good about being in uniform, seeing the smiling faces of the Iraqi kids. But, I don’t anymore. These same smiling kids will lob grenades at us for a handful of cash. Pray for me, and all the soldiers that are killed or wounded every day.
xox, Matt
On Matt's last visit home, his parents drive us to the airport. I have a photograph taken by his father (the world’s worst photographer). The photo is poorly framed at a weird angle and our feet are chopped off, but it’s the last photo taken of the three of us. Matt is in the middle in army fatigues, his hulking arms around Josh and me. He dangles his boarding pass from his hand. His wedding band gleams in the bright light. He’s smiling a closed-mouthed smile. His dark eyes (with his beautiful impossibly long eyelashes) look straight into the camera, unsmiling, all knowing. Josh is all teeth, grinning wide, but his eyes look the same as his dad’s. He’s proudly wearing Matt’s cap. It’s much too big on him but it’ll fit perfectly one day. I’m nestled under Matt’s arm. I look tiny compared to his 6’3”, buff 28-year-old body. My arms are crossed in front of me, in a vain attempt at protecting. Not all armor is bulletproof. I wear a frozen ricktus grin that fools no one. My wet eyes hide behind my over-sized sunglasses. It is the first time I cry at the airport. Something feels different this time. I don't want to know what.
At the last moment, he whispers in my ear, “Don’t open this unless something happens to me.” Before I can say anything, he kisses me on my open mouth. I feel him slip something into the pocket of my jacket. I pretend not to notice even after Josh and I return home. Every time I wear that jacket, I slip my hand into the pocket and finger the corners of an envelope. It stays there, along with a couple coins, a half-used tin of mints and a feather Josh found in the park. It sits in my pocket day after day, week after week. An angel of death I can keep at bay, if it stays unopened.
From: Matthew Rosa
To: Kate Rosa
Subject: Yankees
March 28
Kate, you are uppermost on my mind. I try to think of you and Josh, our family, our friends, to stay sane. I have that photo of us at the airport as my screen saver. 62 more days and I’ll be in your arms again. Back where I belong. All in all it was an okay day; no one got hurt, no suicide bombers. I got to shoot a few rounds. Found some IED making materials, a sniper rifle and artillery rounds. I’m going to make you so happy when I get back. I know we didn’t always get along. I can be so impatient but I’ll promise to be the best husband and father ever. How about we have a special 4th of July party we have a special party and celebrate my last deployment? And tell Josh we can go to the Yankees opening game.
Love, love, love, your Matt
From: Matthew Rosa
To: Kate Rosa
Subject: 2 more
April 1 (April Fool’s Day, yeah right)
Kate,
Things are unreal, surreal, you could say. I can’t sleep more than an hour or two. I’m beyond exhausted. I know I might need some counseling when I get back. It’s like sitting on the razor’s edge of sanity. Either way you get cut. We lost 2 men today. I didn’t know them well, but I feel like I’ve lost blood brothers. We used to play jokes on one of them, writing silly things on the inside of the port-o-potty cuz he’d sit there forever. Now he’s gone. For the grace of God, it could have been me. Why not me?
Your loving Matt
From: Matthew Rosa
To: Kate Rosa
Subject:
April 5
Kate,
All I can say is WTF! (Sorry for swearing). I’m not going to get into what happened today. It’s too horrific and depressing. My only goal is to get back to you alive. I’m doing my job the best I can, but maybe not good enough. I feel like it’s all for nothing. Morale is low all around. Pray for all of us.
Your Matt
The military always have personnel arrive at your doorstep with bad news. A solid pair of men, literal pillars of strength. Bad news used to arrive by telegram, but seeing two men in uniform hand you an envelope, makes it more real. They don’t actually need to say anything. One glance at them darkening your doorway is enough. The spouse’s or family’s response is immediate: Crying, screaming or quiet shock. The emotions in free fall or lock down. Nothing in between.
I know the messengers of death arrive before they press the doorbell. A shiver travels to the small of my back and I instinctively glance out the window at the magnolia tree Matt had planted last spring. It's thoughtful of them to arrive before lunchtime so I don't need to puke up my lunch. It gives me time to compose myself before picking Josh up from school. There are errands to run, no time to cry. Josh needs new soccer shoes, I need to bake cupcakes for a friend’s baby shower, return library books, and pick up milk. No time to cry; but time to enjoy the silence before the symphony of cell phones begin ringing. Before I need to wear black. Before I change my identity from wife to widow. There is plenty of time for all that.
I sit down at my kitchen table wearing The Jacket. A cold cup of coffee sits in front of me. I resist the urge to top it up with brandy and sit stone still. Despite the 75-degree warmth, my teeth chatter, my hands burrowed deep into the pockets. Coins jingle in my left hand. My sweaty palmed right hand touches Matt's ‘Just in case’ letter. Leave it to him, Mr. Practical, to write one. He can't even remember my birthday. But every record, account, document are filed in alphabetical order in a metal filing cabinet. I never have to worry whether the insurance on our cars are up to date or when the furnace needs cleaning.
The envelope grows soft and soggy. The corners curl. I shoo away the idea of baking cupcakes. I can buy them, thereby stealing one last hour to be alone with Matt before all hell breaks loose. My body shivers hot and cold. The bright red clock on the wall, the one Matt bought at a flea market, ticked away the seconds. 12:04, 15 seconds, 16 seconds, 17 seconds, 18 seconds. I’d never noticed how loud the tick-tocking is. Matt's voice in my head says, “Do it, it’s okay.”
I squeeze my eyes tight and pull out the ordinary white envelope. It's sealed shut. I turn it over and my heart leaps at the sight of my name written in Matt’s messy scrawl. I grab a bread knife and slice the top open. All four corners sag in dog-eared sadness. For a moment, I wish it was thicker, a War and Peace of letters, something long enough to read for the rest of my life. One thin sheet of paper pokes out. Only half the sheet has words on it. I unfold the paper, flip it over, flip it back and begin to read. It has no date.
My darling Kate,
If you’re reading this, you already know the news. I’m so sorry. I made you and Josh so many promises I won’t be able to fulfill. I know it’s a shock and the most awful thing that’s ever happened to you. But, you will survive. You have to. For Josh and for me. You are as beautiful as you are strong and I know you’ll do a great job raising Josh.
You know I’m not big on sappy romantic crap, but I wanted to give you this last “Valentine” to tell you…you were my first and only love, and I’ll continue to love and watch over you from Heaven. For all the times I didn’t appreciate you and tell you what you wanted to hear, I’m telling you now that…I love you. I’ve always loved you, from the first time we met at the beach. I love everything about you. You’re not just beautiful inside and out but kind, caring, generous, an awesome cook, and best mom in the world. Never forget that. I love you 4 ever.
Your loving Matt.
From Confessions of a Self-help Junkie: One Baby Boomer's Guide to Wisdom from Z to A.
Foreword
I rarely read the foreword of any books. I’m too impatient, preferring to dive into chapter one. If you’re like that, you might want to make an exception and read this one.
In 1971, my fellow classmates thought it oh-so-clever to quote Bob Dylan in our high school yearbook. “For the first ones now will later be last, for the times they are a changin’”. We believed things were changing. After all, weren’t we graduating high school? John Lennon had released “Imagine”. The number one song was “Joy to the World” by Three Dog Night. Carole King came out with her iconic album: Tapestry, crooning about “It’s too late darling…" and Jim Morrison was found dead in a bath tub in Paris. Yes, the times they were a changing.
We interpreted Dylan literally and reversed the alphabetical order of the yearbook from Z to A. Zampolsky was happy to lead the pack for change. I don’t know if Adams minded being relegated to the back of the bus. It didn’t make much difference for me. Alphabetically, I’d always been in the middle of the pack. It turned out to be the only middle-of-the road definition of me.
In the spirit of things coming full circle, I’ve structured this book in segments from Z to A instead of numbering chapters. The story isn’t in chronological order. You can jump around as the spirit moves you or open it at random. Think of it as a spiritual Magic – 8 ball. If you insist on being linear, you can go from A to Z. Who am I tell you what to do? After forty years of spiritual seeking, I no longer think myself as clever but it’s my truth and I’m sticking to it.
Z
Zen and Beginner’s Mind
I liked the sound of the word “Zen” long before I knew what it meant. It fell off my tongue in a peaceful hiss, clean and crisp. In the late 60s, Zen, with or without the Buddhism suffix had the aura of mystery. As a very young spiritual seeker, I wanted to learn more. My parents weren't remotely religious had in their meager but growing library, books on every major religion from Buddhism to Islam. At the time, I didn’t think it odd for an eleven-year old who still played with dolls to want to play in other realms.
In the summer of 1965, I turned eleven. It was the year I still believed green-hatted elves and leprechauns lived in the woods behind our house. I was devastated when the woods were razed to make way for more houses. The loss of my invisible friend’s habitat jarred me in ways I couldn’t understand then. We lived in a new split-level house in a virgin suburb of Montreal. When we first moved there, the roads were unpaved and skeletons of new construction dotted the former farmer’s fields. It was my first real home after living in a series of cramped walk-up apartments in Montreal.
My parents didn’t intentionally set out to create an unstable, gypsy-like early childhood, the classic hardscrabble youth that creates writers. They emigrated from Finland, penniless and without knowing a word of English. Their plan was every immigrant’s plan: to improve their lives and give their children more than they had had. For my parents, that meant a new, slightly better place to live every year. And every year on May first, we moved. Back then it was the traditional moving day in Montreal. Ironically, when my father died, it was on May first.
When we moved to our first real house with our first grassy front and back yard, I thought we would live there forever. I thought nothing would ever change. That summer my beloved woods were destroyed to make way for more homes, and my parents forgot my eleventh birthday.
Having summer birthdays had their pros and cons. School was out but friends were often away on vacation or camp at the end of July. Or, we’d be away in the country or traveling. The good thing about the end of July was the warm weather. It was always hot enough to go swimming or the Dairy Queen to enjoy a vanilla, soft serve ice cream cone.
The summer of 1965 was hot as usual. We had no air-conditioning and the only way to cool down at bedtime was to take cold shower and air dry. I’d wrap ice cubes in a washcloth and place them on my forehead until the melted water tickled my ears.
The morning of July 30th started promising enough with the smell of coffee percolating and bacon frying. I was only slightly taken aback when no one said happy birthday. By dinnertime, I grew more anxious. My father came home as usual, tired from a long day as a factory foreman. He came home empty handed. Puzzled, I figured my birthday gifts were hidden like at Christmas. I popped my head into the kitchen, hoping to smell a birthday cake baking or my favorite pork chops grilling. Nothing. My mother dished out her usual iceberg lettuce salad and meatloaf. I hate meatloaf. “How could you?" I said, my lower lip quivering, "Why did you make meatloaf for my birthday?”
Her expression said it all. Open mouth, wide eyes. It didn’t take a shrink to figure out what shocked surprise looked like. She’d forgotten. It was bad enough that one parent forgot but they both forgot, completely forgot my birthday. Not only that, but my older brother and sister forgot. Little did I know, they’d unwittingly given me my first taste of existential loss. Sure my family rallied and took me out for ice cream and over compensated the following year with a seaside holiday in Maine and the most fabulous bike on the planet, but it didn’t matter; I'd learned the first Noble Truth of Zen Buddhism: Attachment is the cause of all suffering in life.
