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Monday, May 31, 2021

Blog Tour- IN THE SHADOW OF CITIES by @LaurelS0708 With An Excerpt & #Giveaway! @RockstarBkTours

 

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the IN THE SHADOWS OF THE CITIES by Laurel Solorzano Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

 

About The Book:

Title: IN THE SHADOWS OF THE CITIES

Author: Laurel Solorzano

Pub. Date: July 13, 2021

Publisher: Morgan James Fiction

Pages: 260

Formats: Paperback 7/13/21, eBook available now!

Find it: Goodreads, Amazon, Kindle, B&N, Kobo, TBD, Bookshop.org

Scarlett would never kill her best friend, perhaps a Citizen if the situation called for it, but never Rhys. There are quite a few rules in the training center, but a few are the kind that are never broken.

1. Greens are not sent into Cities without officially being promoted to Blue.

2. Blues don’t kill each other.

So why is Scarlett being sent into a City without the proper training? And why does a bizarre, elderly male say Scarlett will kill Rhys? In the Shadow of the Cities details Scarlett’s life in the training center before she is pulled unexpectedly into City life. Without the proper training, she is confused about these things called “families” and why the Citizens aren’t grateful that she is keeping them safe.

In this dystopian novel, In the Shadow of the Cities, the story is told not from a Citizen’s point of view but from a Guard’s. Why do the guards seem to tirelessly obey the government? How can they gun down Citizens mercilessly? Find out as you follow Scarlett on her journey into the Cities.

 Book Trailer:

Excerpt

Chapter 1

Scarlett stared out the window of her history class. 

The Blue droned on at the front of the room, but Scarlett hated the story of the Government, not that she would dare say as much aloud. Blah, blah, blah. Citizens couldn’t be trusted to share. Blah, blah, blah. They had been organized according to abilities and were allowed to live their best lives as long as they followed the rules. Blah, blah, blah.

Scarlett had never seen one of these Citizens, but she had been shown many pictures. They looked just like her, except for the fact they weren’t as intelligent. But that wasn’t always something you could see. 

Scarlett shifted to a more comfortable position in her chair and dared a glance over her shoulder at Jaylin. Jaylin was staring intently at the Blue as though they hadn’t been told this same story before, as though she might absorb some detail that she had missed during another account. 

Scarlett sighed softly as her mind turned to what she would do when she was finished with her classes for the day. She had exactly two hours of free time before dinner. Free time was the only chance she would have to see Rhys because males and females weren’t often allowed to mingle. 

A piece of paper landed on her desk, and Scarlett’s eyes flew up. The Blue was already moving on to the next desk. A quiz? On what? They hadn’t learned anything ew. Scarlett waited for the signal to turn her paper over and quickly scanned the questions. Then, rolling her eyes at the quick bout of anxiety, she raced through the quiz, circling the correct answers. 

All of her other classes moved on to new material after a week or two. But his- tory class—it was always the same. At least she was guaranteed a good grade. What Scarlett couldn’t wait for was the “Life in the Cities” class. But she wouldn’t be able to take that one until she was a Blue, and who knew when that would be. She had been a Green for three years, but she could continue to be a Green for an- other five if she wasn’t able to meet the right goals. She could potentially remain a Green forever, but she knew that wasn’t a real possibility, not with her dedication to the training. 

A grating beep signaled the end of class, and Scarlett placed her book carefully into her satchel. Everyone remained silent until they exited the classroom, then Jaylin grabbed Scarlett’s arm. 

“Female! You have got to come with me. Miya and I are planning on partic- ipating in the Optional Fitness Program, and you have to join us.” 

Scarlett nodded, trying to match Jaylin’s enthusiasm for the program. Scarlett enjoyed working out, and she often spent time exercising during her free hours. But there was something about having another program in lieu of choosing her own exercises that made Scarlett wary of joining. 

“Thanks, Jaylin, but Rhys and I are going to practice in the shooting range today.” 

“You can practice tomorrow. The program is only four days a week.” 

Scarlett and Jaylin were old friends. They had been promoted to Green on the same day and had nervously learned to navigate the new waters together. Scarlett knew her friend wouldn’t be hurt if she turned her down.

“I think I need more aim training than ab training,” Scarlett said. They had reached the end of the hall. “I’ll see you at dinner time.” 

Jaylin shrugged, making a pouty face that Scarlett knew was exaggerated. “Fine, female, abandon me then. Miya and I will talk bad about you behind your back.” 

Scarlett laughed. “Just don’t wear out your lips from using them too much.” 

Scarlett hurried toward the front door, which led to the gate that separated the males’ and females’ training centers. There was only one way to pass from one to the other, and you had to be approved by the Blue guarding it. It was a fair process. Scarlett had never been denied entry. 

She stepped up to the guard and presented her badge to be scanned. The guard nodded as the time flashed up on the board along with Scarlett’s information. She entered the males’ training compound, heading around the building rather than through it. Scarlett found most males maintained a horrendous odor, and it was best to avoid them in concentrated numbers when possible. 

Scarlett entered the males’ shooting range, scanning the pods for the familiar dark curls. Pod 3. The pod where they had met. 

Scarlett checked out a longer rifle and headed toward the pod, adjusting her safety gear. She waited for Rhys to lower his pistol and bob his head slightly to let her know he knew she was waiting to enter. 

Carefully, Scarlett slipped the sound-proof glass door open then closed. She stood beside Rhys, taking her position on the other shooter’s mark. Rhys didn’t hogwash her with boring questions of how her classes were. He already knew. He took the same classes, just in the males’ training center. 

“Five shots?” Rhys asked instead. 

Scarlett raised her rifle. “I don’t have my gun of choice. I thought I would go with something I hadn’t practiced with for a while.”

“All the better,” Rhys responded, aiming and firing five shots in quick succes- sion. Four hit the middle of the target. The other one missed by two centimeters. 

“Why? Because you’re assured of a win? Is that why you want to compete? Be- cause you can’t normally provide a challenge for me?” 

Rhys smiled as he waited for her to take her turn. Scarlett hesitated, but she wasn’t one to back down from a challenge. She turned toward the target and took her time aiming, the bulky weapon unfamiliar in her grip. Finally, she took her shots, pausing between each one. 

“Two,” Rhys declared bluntly. 

“Yes, two. Thank you. My eyes are working very well.” 

Rhys laughed a little as he lifted his safety goggles and propped them on the top of his head. “Hey, I couldn’t be sure after those shots. Besides, you agreed to it. I didn’t force you into anything.”

“Sure,” Scarlett said, copying his move with the goggles. “The ‘peer pressure’ came on pretty strong.” Scarlett looked toward the booth where she had checked out the rifle, wondering what had made her grab it. She hated being beaten. 

Rhys laughed and turned toward the target once more. They had various competitions and “trick shots” they could try, but Scarlett had something else on her mind. She gazed through the pod toward the east. She couldn’t see the Mound from here. The dorm’s tall frame was too close, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t on her mind. 

“Your turn,” Rhys responded impatiently. 

Scarlett shook her head “I have a better idea,” she said, even as her stomach twisted into knots. “I’m ready to get over my fear.” 

“Of heights?” Rhys knew her well. He followed her gaze, then laughed, rubbing his coffee-colored hands together in enjoyment. “What are you going to do? Scale the dorm?” 

Scarlett laughed. “Uh . . . no.” 

“Then what? There’s nothing else taller than that, so if you don’t scale the dorm building, then you’re letting me down.” 

“There’s the Mound,” Scarlett said, referring to the large thing that lurked just outside the fence, just outside the area they were allowed to go. No one quite knew what it was made of, but it looked possible to scale. 

Rhys gave her an incredulous look. “You’re not serious. When?” 

Scarlett shrugged, the nervousness making her feel weak. She turned to the tar- get and took a few shots to calm her nerves. They were near the bullseye, close enough with the unfamiliar weapon that she felt assured again. 

“Tonight.” 

“After lights out?”

Scarlett nodded. “Yes. The only question is . . . are you coming with me?” 

Rhys cocked an eyebrow. “I never miss out on an adventure, but . . . I also don’t break the rules. The rules are there for a reason.” 

The corner of Scarlett’s mouth curved up just a bit. “What rule would we be breaking?” 

Rhys shook his head. “I don’t know. How about never leaving the training cen- ter walls? Or the one about staying in bed between lights out and morning wake up? Do you want me to go on?” 

Scarlett sighed. “Those are Level 1 infractions; it’s not like you’ve never broken the rules before.” 

“Yeah, but two Level 1 infractions?” Rhys sighed and inspected the pistol care- fully. “I’ll do it. I mean, for you. But I know I’m close to being promoted. I know I’m going to be a Blue soon, and when that happens, none of this. I can’t risk being stuck at the training center for the rest of my career. I want to be in a City.” 

Scarlett nodded. “Okay, tonight. I’ll see you an hour after lights out where the fences meet.” 

Rhys considered her idea for a minute. “Okay, I’ll be there.” The seriousness of their plan weighed on them as they continued shooting. 

Scarlett couldn’t back down. She had been considering the idea for weeks, and now seemed like the time to do it. After all, Mrs. said you should conquer all fears before entering a City. And that meant facing them. Now that the plan was in place, Scarlett felt nervous, like maybe she shouldn’t have suggested it, like maybe they would be better waiting one more night. She glanced askew at Rhys. She didn’t dare say anything to him now. He would never let her live it down. So, tonight it would be.

 

 

About Laurel Solorzano:

Laurel Solorzano has enjoyed writing since she was in middle school, exchanging manuscripts for years with her best friend. After traveling the globe for a time, Laurel set her goal to become a published author. As she works teaching English and  Spanish,  she  writes stories  in  her  free  time.  Laurel  currently  lives  in  Raleigh,  North  Carolina  with her husband, Yader.


Website | Twitter |Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon

 

Giveaway Details:

3 winners will receive an eBook of IN THE SHADOWS OF THE CITIES (gifted via amazon), International.

a Rafflecopter giveaway

Tour Schedule:

5/31/2021

Two Chicks on Books

Excerpt

5/31/2021

Jaimerockstarbooktours

Instagram Post

6/1/2021

Lady Hawkeye

Excerpt

6/1/2021

@kellyatx

Instagram Post

6/2/2021

YA Books Central

Excerpt

6/2/2021

Jazzy Book Reviews

Excerpt

6/3/2021

Reading Under the Covers

Review

6/3/2021

Jotted by Jena

Excerpt

6/4/2021

FrayedBooks

Review

6/4/2021

FrayedBooks

Instagram Post

6/5/2021

Rajiv's Reviews

Review

6/5/2021

Rajiv's Reviews

Instagram Post

6/6/2021

@pagesofyellow

Review/Instagram Post

6/6/2021

The Keysmash Blog

Review

6/6/2021

barbs_bookland

Review/Instagram Post


Tuesday, May 25, 2021

Blog Tour- ON THE WAY TO BIRDLAND by @frankmoewriter With An Excerpt & #Giveaway! @fowbooks @RockstarBkTours 

 

I am thrilled to be hosting a spot on the ON THE WAY TO BIRDLAND by Frank Morelli Blog Tour hosted by Rockstar Book Tours. Check out my post and make sure to enter the giveaway!

 

About the Book:

Title: ON THE WAY TO BIRDLAND

Author: Frank Morelli

Pub. Date: June 8, 2021

Publisher: Fish Out of Water Books

Formats: Paperback, eBook

Pages: 300

Find it: GoodreadsAmazon, B&N, TBD, Bookshop.org

Self-proclaimed teenage philosopher Cordell Wheaton lives in a sleepy, southern town where nothing ever happens; not since his hero, jazz musician John Coltrane, left some seventy years earlier to “follow the sound.” Cordy’s life has been unraveling since the night his father and his brother, Travis, exploded on each other. The night Travis’s addiction transformed him from budding musician into something entirely different. The night Travis took his saxophone and disappeared. When Cordy’s father falls ill, the sixteen-year-old vows to reunite the Wheaton family. He embarks on a modern-day odyssey with forty bucks in his pocket and a dream to find his brother and convince him to be Travis again—by taking him to a show at Birdland Jazz Club in New York City, and reminding him of the common bonds they share with their legendary hero. Cordy’s journey is soon haunted by ghostly visions, traumatic dreams, and disembodied voices that echo through his mind. He starts to wonder if the voices are those of the fates, guiding him toward his destiny—or if he’s losing his grip on reality.

Praise for ON THE WAY TO BIRDLAND:
“Engrossing story and sympathetic characters. Morelli…makes it worth the trip.”—Booklist

“With a haunting secret, a brave journey and fascinating characters, On the Way to Birdland will remind readers that when you take a giant step into the unfamiliar, you might just find yourself.” —Joelle Charbonneau, New York Times Best Selling author of VERIFY and DISCLOSE

On the Way to Birdland is a work of tremendous heart.  It sings with the joys and pains of family, hope, and impossible dreams.  A must read for everyone trying to find their way back to what matters most.”—Adrienne Kisner, Author of DEAR RACHEL MADDOW, THE CONFUSION OF LAUREL GRAHAM, and SIX ANGRY GIRLS

“Listening to and believing in our fears keeps away from a life we wish for. On the Way to Birdland shows us what’s possible when we listen to something else.”—Angelo Surmelis, author of THE DANGEROUS ART OF BLENDING IN

“With balance, beats, and rhythm, this heartfelt coming-of-age story is bridged together like a Coltrane riff under Frank Morelli’s skillful hand. ON THE WAY TO BIRDLAND and its cast of diverse, fully fleshed-out characters are now included among My Favorite Things.” Brenda Rufener, Author of SINCE WE LAST SPOKE and WHERE I LIVE

“A classic tale of choice and chance, with more twists than a Virginia mountain road, On the Way to Birdland is a guide to finding your true self by accepting that you are ‘completely destructible…desperate not to get destroyed.'” —Valerie Nieman, author of TO THE BONES and BACKWATER (Fitzroy, 2022)

Book Trailer:



Excerpt from On the Way to Birdland (Morelli p. 16-17)

 

I grip the ragged laces of a baseball that’s been sitting on the desk  so long it has its own dust imprint. I remember tossing it for the first  time with Travis and his friends at the wide-open lot on the corner of Brookside Drive. Not too far from John Coltrane’s old house. Some don’t  know, but John Coltrane grew up right here in High Point. Travis and  I used to think it was the most exciting piece of news we’d ever heard.  I still do. When Dad delivered this news to Travis one morning at the  breakfast table, my brother saw it as an omen. He saw it as a miracle. He  saw it as God speaking directly to him. That he could take his musical  talents, because my brother was a musician—and I hope he still is—to  the top, even if the starting point was High Point, North Carolina. If John  Coltrane from Underhill Street could do it, why couldn’t Travis Wheaton? 

Some folks around here say Coltrane was the greatest saxophonist  who ever lived. Travis said he was more than that. He liked to use one  specific word to describe his hero, and he’d use it all the time. To Travis,  the words “John” and “Coltrane” were synonymous with the word  “visionary.” To Travis, they were one and the same. This was how Travis  turned me onto another of my great passions in life—Greek philosophy.  I doubt he’d ever remember it, because it’s not like learning philosophical  teachings were Travis’s thing. But he told me something once, about  Coltrane and his vision. About how the ancient philosopher, Plato,  believed the rhythm of music should follow the rhythms of a life that  is orderly and brave. Travis believed Coltrane was living out the purest  form of humanity in his music and that he’d dug deep down into the past  to find it and blow it out in sweet notes from the mouth of his sax. 

Travis believed that was what it meant to be a visionary, and that  always stuck with me. It made me hungry for more, so I became obsessed  with Greek philosophers, because I figured they had a better chance of  explaining Travis and Coltrane to me than anyone else. After all, it was  Plato who also said a musician is someone who is “temporarily engaged  in works of peace.” I like that. It’s how I like to see my brother, Travis. Not  like the way my father sees him. As a failure.


About Frank Morelli:

Frank Morelli is the author of the young adult novel, No Sad Songs (2018), a YALSA Quick Picks for Reluctant Readers nominee and winner of an American Fiction Award for best coming of age story. The first book in his debut middle grade series, Please Return To: Norbert M. Finkelstein (2019) is a Book Excellence Award finalist and provides young readers with a roadmap to end bullying. His fiction and essays have been featured in various publications including The Saturday Evening Post, Cobalt Review, Philadelphia Stories, and Highlights Magazine.

A Philadelphia native, Morelli now resides in High Point, NC with a brilliant illustrator and his fur babies. Connect with him on Twitter @frankmoewriter and on Instagram @frankmorelliauthor.


Website | Twitter | Facebook | Instagram | Goodreads | Amazon

Giveaway Details:

3 winners will receive a finished copy of ON THE WAY TO BIRDLAND, US Only.


Tour Schedule:

Week One:

5/24/2021

Rockstar Book Tours

Kickoff Post

5/25/2021

Two Chicks on Books

Excerpt

5/26/2021

Jaime's World

Excerpt

5/27/2021

Jaimerockstarbooktours

Instagram Post

5/28/2021

YA Books Central

Guest Post

Week Two:

5/31/2021

Fire and Ice

Review 

6/1/2021

Living in a Bookworld

Guest Post

6/2/2021

Rajiv's Reviews

Review 

6/3/2021

@pagesofyellow

Review 

6/4/2021

@barbs_bookland

Review 

Week Three:

6/7/2021

Sj_bookshelf

Review 

6/8/2021

The Keysmash Blog

Review 

6/9/2021

Dorky Girl and Skeletor

Excerpt

6/10/2021

The Obsessed Reader

Excerpt

6/11/2021

Lady Hawkeye

Excerpt

Week Four:

6/14/2021

I'm Shelfish

Excerpt

6/15/2021

A Dream Within A Dream

Excerpt

6/16/2021

Satisfaction for Insatiable Readers

Guest Post

6/17/2021

For the Love of KidLit

Excerpt

6/18/2021

The Momma Spot

Excerpt


Book Blitz- WELCOME TO PLANET LARA by @eliza_gordon With An Excerpt & #Giveaway!

 

I am so excited that WELCOME TO PLANET LARA by Eliza Gordon is available now and that I get to share the news!

If you haven’t yet heard about this wonderful book, be sure to check out all the details below.

This blitz also includes a giveaway for a signed finished copy of WELCOME TO PLANET LARA and a couple eBooks courtesy of Eliza and Rockstar Book Tours. So if you’d like a chance to win, enter in the Rafflecopter at the bottom of this post.

 

About The Book:

Title: WELCOME TO PLANET LARA

Author: Eliza Gordon

Pub. Date: April 8, 2021

Publisher: SGA Books

Pages: 412

Formats: Paperback, eBook

Find it: Goodreads, AmazonKindleB&N, iBooks, KoboTBD, Bookshop.org 

“There are … stipulations on your inheritance, Ms. Clarke.”

Lara J. Clarke is used to getting her own way. Motherless at ten and raised by her oft-absent eco-warrior/philanthropist grandfather, she lives the high life afforded by her seemingly bottomless trust fund.

That is, until Grandfather Archibald sheds his mortal coil in a very public manner, and Lara’s privileged life is set adrift, headed for a collision course with the gorgeous, private Thalia Island off the coast of British Columbia. According to the will, Lara will step into the role of Project Administrator, wherein she has one year to fulfill her late grandfather’s dream of a self-sustaining, eco-friendly, family-centered utopia.

The stakes are real: fail, and lose access to the family fortune—forever.

Convinced Thalia Island will be an extension of the heiress lifestyle she’s long led, Lara is surprised to find her new coworkers—and neighbors—aren’t as pliable as the underlings of her former life. Even with the hunky lead engineer Finan Rowleigh showing her the ropes, Lara quickly learns just how unprepared she is to trade her Louboutins for steel-toed Timberlands.

When a series of calamities reveals a sinister element undermining the security of the island and her residents, Lara and Finan must reach beyond their job descriptions to protect Archibald’s precious utopia from those who would do her harm.

And while keeping her late grandfather’s flame alight, Lara finds her own flame burning hot for a charming, kind man who wants nothing from her but her heart.

Praise For WELCOME TO PLANET LARA:

"Eliza Gordon delivers a unique premise, delicious romance, and plenty of intrigue. I loved it and can't wait for more from Planet Lara!" -- Samantha Young, NYT and USA Today bestselling author

"Smart, hilarious, and completely unpredictable, Welcome to Planet Lara is your next must-read. West Coast Canada Schitt's Creek meets grown-up Nancy Drew for a riches-to-rags adventure filled with murder, romance, mystery, and a heroine you love to hate--until the moment you realize you just love her."-- Suzy Krause, author of Sorry I Missed You and Valencia & Valentine

"I absolutely loved Welcome to Planet Lara! It made me feel all the feels ... what a crazy ride! Eliza, once again, brings her characters to life with humour, heart and realness. I loved every minute of it and did not want it to end! Cannot wait to find out what Eliza has in store for Lara."-- Brandee Bublé, children's author (O'Shae the Octopus and Jayde the Jaybird)

"I love it, and I CAN'T WAIT TO READ THE NEXT ONE. The concept is amazing, and the eco-message is so timely and very dear to my heart. [Eliza] has tackled so much, and done it with her usual spunk and zest."-- Stephania Schwartz, author and editor

 

Excerpt:

Chapter One

DEARLY BELOVED

I don’t know why they have pickles on this table. My mom hates pickles. Hated. Past tense. I heard Rupert correct my grandfather when he mentioned my mother the other day—they were talking in Grandfather’s huge office lined with bookshelves and Louis XV Savonnerie carpets and giant windows the housekeepers complain about cleaning when they don’t know anyone’s listening, and Rupert referred to my mother in past tense. I wasn’t supposed to hear their conversation—that’s why the outside door was closed. When it’s closed, I’m not allowed in. But I’m very good at hearing things I’m not supposed to hear because, like that kid in my class who always smells like wet dog says, I’m so scrawny, he could stuff me into his rolling backpack and throw me into the ocean and no one would ever miss me.

I’d like to think that someone would miss me. Only now that we’re speaking of my mother in past tense, I guess that’s one less person who would wonder if I’m floating out to sea, trapped in a rolling backpack covered in dog hair. Also, I’d like to think my English teacher, Mrs. Buck, would be proud of me for understanding the difference between present and past tense, even if her nylons on her beefy thighs scrape together when she walks between our desks and the sound makes me shiver.

Like I was saying, I’m scrawny, so two days ago, I snuck into my grandfather’s office and tucked myself into the antique liquor cabinet—he doesn’t drink so the cabinet is empty and the perfect place for me to hide when I don’t want his bossy housekeeper to find me because her job is to vacuum and change sheets and make Grandfather’s special food but now she keeps trying to hug me and pet my hair and her boobs squish my face and I can’t breathe, so she thinks I’m crying about my dead mom, my mom who’s only alive in the past tense now, but I’m not crying about my dead mom. I haven’t cried yet. I think that makes me the worst kid ever.

Yeah—I mean, yes, since Rupert won’t allow me to say yeah—so I was in the cabinet and I heard Rupert say we needed to refer to my mother, Cordelia Josephine Clarke, in the past tense. “It will be easier for Lara if we don’t give her hope that her mother will be returning.” Rupert—I call him Number Two, like that character in Austin Powers, a movie I wasn’t supposed to watch but did anyway because one of the housekeepers invited me to her daughter Madi’s ninth-birthday sleepover because she felt bad for me that I never get to go to sleepovers. So I went, and Madi is basically my best friend now, but the housekeeper and her husband drink a lot of wine that comes in a box and they play their country music really loud. The biggest difference from the Number Two in the movie and Rupert Bishop is that Rupert doesn’t have an eye patch and he hardly ever laughs or smiles and even if he does smile, he’s like a hundred feet tall so I can’t even see up to his unsmiling face most of the time.

“They didn’t find a body, Rupert. They found the wrecked plane, but no Cordelia. What if she made it? What if someone in that god-awful jungle has her?”

Through the slats in the square cupboard door, I saw Number Two shake his head and look down at his shiny brown loafers. One of these days, I’m going to take a black marker and color the tops of his shoes so he can’t shine them anymore. I’m also going to cut off those stupid tassels and use them as fishing lures.

“Sir, this is the best course. Do not cancel the memorial. Plant the tree, give Lara some closure. Let her move on. She’s only ten. Still young enough to have a satisfactory life wherein her memories will fade, even in the face of this tragedy. It’s not as though she’s spent a lot of time with her mother anyway.”

My grandfather’s face hardened for a minute, that look he gives when he’s about to blow his top, his chin jutting and eyes narrowed.

“Pardon me, sir. I overstepped.” Rupert folded his hands behind his back. He’s not wrong, though. My mother hasn’t been around for a long time. She works a lot, or so she says. When she’s home, it’s all fun, fun, fun, like she’s trying to make up for the next time she leaves a note on my nightstand covered with Xs and Os and smiley faces and promises of trips to zoos and museums and amusement parks and my favorite ice cream shop when she gets home.

Rupert told me once that my mother’s first love was her airplane. And even though she named it Lara, after me, I have always known that Lara the plane was more important to my mom than Lara the human kid.

My grandfather, unlike me, has cried a lot since the men in black suits showed up a week ago and asked for a place to talk privately. Rupert’s comment has made my grandfather cry again. Maybe I will forget coloring his shoes and just drop them all—his entire collection of fancy, tasseled loafers—into the pond in the back with the koi.

Cordelia was my grandfather’s only daughter. His only child, actually.

I am his only granddaughter.

Archibald Magnus Clarke the First, and only, was almost an old man when Cordelia was born. Her mother left her behind, just like Cordelia left me behind.

I haven’t cried yet. Maybe I will later.

But there are pickles on this big stupid table, and Cordelia hated pickles. And everyone in the room—all these faces I’ve never seen before—are looking at me like they’re expecting me to burst into tears at any moment.

Instead, I pick up the plate of pickles of all varieties and whistle once with my fingers tucked into my lips like Madi taught me. Once I’m sure I’ve got the room’s undivided attention, I launch the plate overhand, anticipating the satisfaction that will come when the glass hits the de Gournay papered wall and shatters into a thousand pieces and stinky pickle juice seeps across the bamboo floor and into the fibers of the eighteenth-century Persian rug we’re not supposed to wear our shoes on.

Except at the same moment, this tall, lanky kid steps into the plate’s trajectory and the heavy crystal hits him instead with a dull crack!

Everyone in the spacious, light-filled room gasps. The kid, stunned, looks in my direction, big brown eyes wide, not quite sure what just happened. And then blood spills down the side of his head and he slumps to the floor into the pile of pickles and juice, followed by grown-ups freaking out and the big-boobed housekeeper barking orders at some other member of the house staff to get the first-aid kit and then Rupert’s bony but well-manicured hand is around my arm and he’s pulling me out of the solarium and forcing me down onto the soft, carpeted steps in the main foyer.

“What on earth possessed you to do that, young lady?”

I look up at him and am surprised when tears sting my eyeballs. I didn’t mean to hit that kid.

“My mother hates pickles. If any of you guys even knew her, you’d know she hates pickles.”

Past tense, Lara. Your mother hated pickles.

Rupert kneels, his joints cracking even though he’s not even that old.

A commotion behind us draws our attention. Two parents huddle around the tall boy who is again on his feet. They pause just long enough for me to look at the kid, a bloody cloth pressed against the left side of his head and face.

“Sorry,” I whisper.

He nods once, and they leave.

Then I start crying, and I don’t stop for a year.

Chapter Two

CUT THE RIBBON ALREADY

The cacophony pouring from the hastily constructed, oversized gazebo is the opposite of music. Maybe no one explained to Grandfather what marching bands are best at: marching. Instead, forty-odd adolescents, sweating under the hot lights in their full blue-and-white regalia, must rush out their Born to Run and Uptown Funk before they’re pushed off the stage, to be replaced with the real reason all these people are crowded into this shoreline park in their finest attire, their Jimmy Choos sinking into the sand, in front of a modest structure that promises the future is just inside its double glass doors.

A giant pair of silver scissors, cast from recycled car parts, sits on an equally giant velvet, bamboo-stuffed pillow atop a 3D-printed, biodegradable table made of cornstarch and wildflower seeds that will be left out in the inevitable spring rain to melt and blossom once the ceremony ends. The bold red ribbon stretched across the structure facade trembles at its proximity to the sharpened blades.

A trumpet misfires. The audio system roars with feedback. The impressive crowd groans and flinches. Dainty, bejeweled hands not holding champagne flutes cover delicate ears against the assault.

Thankfully, the song ends. Lukewarm applause plays the marching band off the gazebo, their noise replaced by the ambient serenade of whale song and falling rain pumped through the surround-sound speakers. It makes me need to pee.

“Canapé? It’s fresh, smoked wild Pacific salmon on artisan rye and topped with dill, all ingredients grown in one of Dr. Clarke’s self-sustaining vertical farms.”

“He grew the fish in one of his skyscrapers?”

The redheaded server looks confused. This information wasn’t included in the script his boss fed him before sending him out with a tray.

“I think the salmon came from the ocean?” His Adam’s apple bobs nervously. I should feel bad. Probably just a college kid trying to make tuition for next semester. Some people have to do that. He has no idea who I am. Or maybe he does, and that’s why he’s sweating.

“Allergic to salmon,” I lie. “But I will take more bubbly.” He nods and hurries away, forgetting to hand out his canapés to the buffed-and-polished deep pockets around me.

“Do not treat the staff like they’re below you, Lara. You never know how quickly life can change. You might need the charity of others someday.”

Grandfather’s voice in my head worsens the martini headache that’s already trying to push my eyeballs out of their sockets. I wish Canapé Boy would hurry up with that champagne.

I’m supposed to be backstage with Grandfather’s entourage to wave at his adoring crowd and field the accolades that his years of scientific achievement and dedication to the environment and sustainability have birthed. Just waiting for Rupert’s hail, at which time I will slide in behind the crowd. I tried to decline—Dr. Archibald M. Clarke I is a big boy. He doesn’t need me standing up there with him faking a smile while his offering plate is passed around. But Grandfather did say he thinks this will be his last public shindig, so I will obey, like a good little cyclone is supposed to.

My phone buzzes in my black clutch. It could be Connor texting to find me in the throng, although he wasn’t sure if he’d be wrapped in time to make it. Too bad. The Pacific Ocean looks beautiful from this very expensive patch of real estate. We could sneak off and get sand in our undies and hope that someone records it.

It’s not Connor.

Please join us. Rupert, a.k.a. Number Two, Grandfather’s steward, valet, assistant, his right-hand man in all things. Tall, pinched, British, and annoying.

Yes, sir.

He doesn’t respond. Rupert tolerates me only because he is paid to do so. The feeling is mutual.

I weave through the crowd, eyes seeing through everyone so no one stops me to ask for anything. Someone is always asking the Clarkes for something. And as I’m here solo tonight—my assistant, Olivia, had some other engagement, and Connor, well, who knows—I have no one to run interference.

The sky purples as the sun dips a toe behind the horizon. While it’s unseasonably warm for April in Vancouver, the breeze coming off the water will soon see bare-shouldered partygoers pulling on wraps and accepting tuxedo jackets from their dates.

Canapé Boy passes with a tray of champagne, and I slow my momentum to lighten his load by two flutes. The pampered, overdone blond next to me tries, and fails, to furrow her brow. “Do you need both of those?” she asks. She looks like she French-kissed a beehive.

I drink the first glass in one long pull, and then the second, never taking my eyes off her.

“Aaaahhhhh, Moët. Refreshing,” I say, handing the emptied glasses back to the sweating server.

“Bitch,” she growls.

I eye her augmented cleavage, one brow hiked dismissively. “Did you know the world’s oceans will have more plastic than fish by 2050?” I move on.

With the last body out of my way, I manage the four metal stairs, minding the hem of my dangerously short dress and hoping my calves look gorgeous in these Louboutin stilettos, to squeeze in behind the heavy green, rough-cotton drapery surrounding the stage. Grandfather stands in the center of his small crowd, like the nucleus of a comet, the source of all this light. I don’t like many people, but I adore my grandfather. And he knows it.

“Rupert,” I say, pushing in beside him.

“My Lara Jo is here,” Grandfather says, handing Rupert his custom, hand-carved cane so he can wrap his arms around me. The only hint that Archibald Clarke is ninety-four comes from his bent spine—and it’s only bent because he took a spill on his solar-powered bike in Toulouse on his eighty-eighth birthday, and the spine doc couldn’t do any better than the fusion that gave him the slight hunch. His brain is still sharp as a razor, his eyes as clear as a Caribbean lagoon.

Though there is the little issue of the dodgy pacemaker …

“Hey, old man, how are you tonight?”

He kisses the back of my hand and pinches my cheek. Same thing he’s done every day of my life. We remain with hands clasped—even though his is smaller and thinner than years past, I still feel safest when Archibald Clarke anchors me to shore—as Rupert and the stage manager whisper and nod about getting the next phase underway.

Number Two nods at us both, pats Grandfather’s shoulder, and steps out into the spotlight. The applause rolls over the audience, growing louder, punctuated with whoops and hollers.

“Showtime,” I mutter to Grandfather. He winks, winds my arm through his, and retakes his cane from one of the stage assistants. His face is a mask of friendly calm, and although I am used to eyes on me, this sort of occasion does make me nervous. I’m sure someone will find something to pick apart about my outfit or hair in time for WickedStepsister’s press deadline.

Rupert, center stage, unhooks and grasps the microphone like he’s going to bust into some Michael Bublé. I’m surprised Bublé isn’t here. He lives, like, a half hour away, the only person in the city who might be more famous and beloved than my grandfather.

With a raised, long-fingered hand most suited to piano scales and reprimands, Rupert calms the gathering. A few of his female admirers catcall from the area closest to the stage, followed by laughs. Joke’s on them. Rupert doesn’t have time for love and other nonsense, “and if I did, it wouldn’t involve vagina.”

His words, not mine, and only after an evening of Macallan “borrowed” from my teetotaler grandfather’s collection of gifts he’s never touched. It was one of three occasions in my life I remember Number Two behaving in a manner more akin to a real-live human than obedient robot.

“Welcome, everyone, to this glorious evening of celebration,” he starts. For approximately a million minutes, he extols the many virtues of my grandfather’s esteemed scientific career, his dedication to the people of Earth, his passion for sustainability, even when people have laughed him out of boardrooms for his crazy ideas, how he was Elon Musk before Elon was even a twinkle in his mother’s perfectly lined eye.

“But no one is laughing now, now that we stand on the brink of an unprecedented era, on the precipice of an irreversible tipping point. In answer, Dr. Clarke has gifted us with an invigorating new way to live sustainably and in harmony with Mother Nature and our fellow earthly cohabitants. Searching the stars for new homes is a fool’s errand, not when we have a beautiful home right here, crying for our help.”

I roll my eyes at Rupert’s melodrama and instantly regret it as a renewed surge of pain pings inside my dehydrated skull. I again promise myself I will never drink another martini as long as I live.

“You remember what I told you?” Grandfather leans over and asks under his minty breath.

“About what?”

“Everything.” He winks again. I kiss his cheek. I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I don’t have time to ask for clarification.

“And now, without further ado, I would be so very honored if you would join me in welcoming everyone’s favorite eco-warrior, the son of Gaia herself, Dr. Archibald Magnus Clarke!”

More applause, more whoops. As we walk to center stage, I spy a woman in the front row with tears streaming down her face.

Archibald M. Clarke is happy to take the tall stool Rupert slides behind him. I help him onto it, holding his cane. Under the lights, he looks tired—I know he’s been working around the clock to maintain his myriad projects and make sure they’re all ready to be managed by his crack crew of experts once he “abandons this mortal coil.” He’s tried to rope me into helping, but I won’t hear of him leaving me, so no, Grandfather, leave me out of it and get back to work.

His speech continues on where Rupert’s left off. I stand next to him, his hand still clasped in mine, my obedient, grateful Clarke smile in place as he introduces me to his “friends.” I nod at the appropriate times, even if I’m mostly just scanning for the nearest champagne fountain. The crowd slurps up Grandfather’s words like that fresh, wild Pacific salmon still making its rounds.

“Enough about me,” Grandfather finally says, the onlookers oohing and aahing and clapping again. “Let us cut this ribbon and welcome our generous visitors to the presentation center for the Nature Tower, Vancouver’s first eco-cooperative, self-sustaining, family-friendly, mixed-use high-rise community!”

The Nature Tower. One of many ongoing Archibald Clarke projects—I cannot possibly keep them all straight, despite long discussions over our last-Sunday-of-the-month family dinners. And by family, I mean Grandfather, me, and Number Two. That’s it. We’re all that’s left of the Clarke clan, a dynasty started in Europe via textile manufacturing and railways during the early days of the Industrial Revolution and moved to America in the late 1800s to finance inventors and thinkers. The Clarkes are excellent with business, not so excellent with reproduction to secure the family’s lineage. Too busy thinking to make babies.

And Rupert isn’t even a blood relative. He’s just been with Archibald for so long, he’s become a remora, suction-cupped to my grandfather’s flank as they navigate the tempestuous waters of science and discovery.

Either way, I’m usually three sheets to the wind by the time they get heated about the number of hipsters and free-range chickens their high-rises will house.

Rupert steps in with the giant, shiny shears as my grandfather finally releases my sweaty hand. Archibald takes the scissors; the red ribbon before us has stilled. It has accepted its fate.

We begin the count. “Three! Two! One—”

The scissors plunk noisily to the stage floor, followed immediately by my grandfather keeling face-first onto the red-carpet-covered plywood.

Everyone freezes, me included, the only sound the subtle recording of keening whales and steady rain floating from the speakers.

Followed in short order by shouts and yells that aren’t quite screams but probably could be. I drop to Grandfather’s side, turn him over, grab his hand, and pat his cheeks. “Open your eyes, Archie. Let me see you in there,” I demand.

He obliges, his blue eyes bright as the sunrise. “Take this,” he says, pointing to the sole piece of jewelry I’ve ever seen him wear. “My little cyclone.” He struggles to remove his thick white-gold-and-stone ring as the crowd crushes closer to the stage to see what the hell has just happened.

“Grandfather, keep your ring on. We’re going to get you some help.”

“I love you,” he says, and then his hands flop to his chest and his eyes fixate on something overhead, the light draining from them like an incandescent bulb whose filament has just flamed out.

“Grandfather … Archie!” I yell, patting his face harder, shaking his shoulders. “Wake up! Please wake up!”

Panicked assistants converge from offstage. Rupert pushes me aside to make way for the audience member who has rushed up the gazebo stairs and is initiating CPR …

I lean back on my haunches in my too-short evening dress and watch Rupert and this stranger bounce on my grandfather’s rib cage to attempt to restart the heart I know has finally given up. Memories of my mother’s wake flood into my head, what later became known as The Pickle Incident. Whatever happened to that kid … one of the few things I’ve done that I actually feel guilty about.

I wish I had something to throw right now.

“Lara, move!” Rupert barks as Grandfather is hoisted onto a stretcher. I hop back, numb, legs tingling from crouching, as my last remaining relative is carried behind that heavy green curtain, away from public view. He’s surrounded by so many people, I only catch a brief glimpse of his smiling but bluish face, glazed eyes staring into nothingness.

Another assistant appears next to me, her hand on my arm, her headset making her look like an alien or maybe an astronaut. “Ms. Clarke, Ms. Clarke, do you want to go in the ambulance?”

I look at her, see her mouth moving, but I’m underwater.

The red ribbon dances before us, happily untouched by those menacing, giant silver scissors now left forgotten on the stage.

Inches from the pointy toe of my shoe sits Grandfather’s ring. I bend to pick it up.

Slide it on my middle finger. The dark red stone stares up at me, confused.

It’s still warm.

 

About Eliza Gordon:

A native of Portland, Oregon, Eliza Gordon (a.k.a. Jennifer Sommersby) has lived up and down the West Coast of the United States. Since 2002, home has been a suburb of Vancouver, British Columbia. When not lost in a writing project, Eliza is a copy editor, mom, wife, bibliophile, Superman freak, and the proud parent of two very spoiled tuxedo cats.

Eliza writes stories to help you believe in the Happily Ever After; Jennifer Sommersby writes young adult fiction. Her debut, Sleight, was published in 2018 by HarperCollins Canada, Sky Pony (US), and Prószyński i S-ka (Poland). The sequel, Scheme (called The Undoing in Canada), is out now!

Follow Eliza on social media or go to her website at www.elizagordon.com and sign up for her newsletter.

 

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Giveaway Details: International

1 winner will receive a signed finished copy of WELCOME TO PLANET LARA, International.

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