by Rebecca Brooks:
The Big Reveal
My mom never talks about sex. I learned what the word meant from my dad. I was a precocious reader and the movie Sex, Lies, and Videotape was lying around (yup, it was the ‘80s). I knew what lies and videotape were, but what about that other thing?
The ensuing chat was a valuable lesson in keeping my mouth shut and consulting the dictionary instead.
There was one time in college when I think my mom might have been advising me to stay in a relationship with two people at once so as not to hurt anyone’s feelings (seriously, Mom?). But other than that we’ve always stuck to safer ground. Swimming, kayaking, cooking, dancing, circulating every cute animal video the Internet has ever coughed up.
My mom is my usual go-to editor. She read all of my English papers from seventh grade up to graduate school. Some people are afraid of the red pen. I love it. It tells me what I need to work on and how to make my work the best it can be. I credit my mother for that.
And yet when I started writing my first romance novel, Above All, there was no way I was letting her anywhere near that manuscript. I could picture the comments on the early drafts. You can’t have him going down on her yet, he hasn’t taken off her pants! Where did that condom magically come from? How can he reach up to her breasts if he’s coming at her from behind?
Thanks but no thanks. I’ll work out those scenes on my own.
In fact, I didn’t breathe a word to anyone in my family about my new undertaking. I wasn’t writing sweet, sappy, fall in love and go into the sunset together romance. I was writing erotic romance. My characters find their HEA by coming to terms with themselves and their demons as they build the lives and relationships they truly desire. Throughout their journey together, the door stays open so we can enjoy every toe curling, spine tingling, filthy little scream.
It was strange not to tell my mom what I was working on. My mom has been feeding me books for as long as I can remember. Historical fiction, women’s fiction, lots of poetry. We read King Lear aloud together when I was eleven and for that reason alone it remains my all-time favorite Shakespeare play. Mine is a family that is always reading, always talking about what we’re reading, always looking for new things to read.
I was home alone one evening when I got the news that Ellora’s Cave wanted to publish Above All. My husband is notoriously bad at leaving his phone on and I had to tell someone. I was jumping up and down when I called a dear friend who had helped me with earlier drafts. She was so excited, and then asked what my parents had said.
– I haven’t told them yet.
– What? Get off the phone with me and call them!
– You don’t understand. I haven’t told them at all. They don’t even know I wrote the book.
– Of course, you’re absolutely right not to tell them. Writing erotic romance is exactly the kind of thing no one ever wants their mothers to know. You were should definitely keep this quiet. Don’t tell anyone in your family or it’ll be weird.
Okay, she didn’t say that last part. Instead she commanded me to get off the phone and call my mother. My parents would be proud of me, she said. They’d want to share in my accomplishment and joy.
I hemmed and hawed and finally caved.
And you know what? I’m so glad I did.
My dad hopped on the Ellora’s Cave website (Wow, it’s really red!). And my mom was thrilled. She couldn’t believe I hadn’t told her what I was writing and exacted a promise that I’d never keep things from her again (yeah, right). Of course she couldn’t stay long on the phone—she had to tell everyone in three states the good news. My secret was secret no more.
And I’m getting over it. Because one of the greatest rewards of this whole publishing adventure has been to experience the incredible outpouring of support. There are the people I expected it from, like my friends and my husband. But there are many more people who have surprised me with their genuine enthusiasm. My ninety-two year old grandmother is convinced Above All is going to rock the worlds of the over-eighty crowd, which, she alleges, wants something spicy to read before bed. My mother has e-mailed the cover to all her friends.
No one I’ve told about my novel has expressed any of the embarrassment or confusion I was afraid of. The realization has made me confront my own fears and ask myself why I was the one so uncomfortable talking about it. I’ve come to believe it’s not just the sex that kept me from telling my mom sooner. My book isn’t personal—it isn’t about me or anything I’ve done. But I am a part of everything I write. I pour my time and care into every word. There’s something vital at stake when we show ourselves to our families and share the things we’re working on and working toward.
The characters in Above All struggle with their parents. Casey’s mother begs her to leave the small town and artist’s life that she’s come to adore. Ben’s father pressures him to get a prestigious job at a restaurant instead of opening the café of his dreams. What if my mother didn’t understand my desire to write romance? What if she wanted another life for me instead? It’s hard to share something exciting only to find that excitement isn’t shared.
The relief of that phone call with my parents was more than the relief of a secret unburdened. It was the delight of being seen and understood. My mom is no longer my number one editor, but talking about Above All, she’s proven herself to still be my number one fan.
Who knows? I might even let her read it someday.
Meet Rebecca Brooks:
Rebecca Brooks lives in New York City in an apartment filled with books. She received a PhD in English but decided it was more fun to write books than write about them. She has backpacked alone through India and Brazil, traveled by cargo boat down the Amazon River, climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro, explored ice caves in Peru, trekked to the source of the Ganges, and sunbathed in Burma, but she always likes coming home to a cold beer and her hot husband in the Bronx. Her books are about independent women who leave their old lives behind in order to try something new—and find the passion, excitement, and purpose they didn’t even know they’d been missing.
Rebecca Brooks’ Web Tracks:
Rebecca Brooks on All The Things Inbetween:
Hashtag: #ICouldGiveMore – Saying No to More by Rebecca Brooks
Hashtag: #FriendsandFoes – Don’t Support Me: The Case for Honesty Among Friends by Rebecca Brooks
Hashtag: #SummerMemories – What Summer Should Be by Rebecca Brooks
Rebecca Brooks’ Books:
Above All Synopsis:
Reeling from a sudden breakup, Casey Webb leaves Brooklyn, drives north and settles in a sleepy mountain town in upstate New York. She’s convinced she’s happy being alone—until she reads the acknowledgments in her ex-boyfriend’s hit debut novel, thanking his new girlfriend “above all”.
Good thing Ben Mailer is in town. The hot, young Brooklyn-bound chef offers the perfect distraction, and soon Casey is having the best sex of her life—on a mountain, in the lake, all over her cozy cabin. But as their weekend fling turns into something more, the demands of Ben’s family and budding career make moving to her idyllic town impossible. Now Casey must decide what she can’t live without—her life in the mountains or the man she wants as hers. Smart, sweet and blisteringly hot, Above All is about getting lost…and finding yourself right where you belong. (Released July 18, 2014)
Purchase Above All:
Above All Excerpt:
One of Casey’s additions to the office had been to put up a bookshelf to house the collection of used paperbacks Geller had accumulated as campers came in to take a book or leave one behind. It wasn’t the greatest library ever amassed, but it kept Casey’s book collection rotating more than if she’d been stuck driving forty minutes to the nearest bookstore any time she wanted something new.
Trash was probably the precise term Nick would have used to describe the murder mystery she was engrossed in with her muddy boots hanging over the edge of the desk. Lucky for both of them, Nick wasn’t up there to share his opinions on taste.
When she heard tires crunching over the dirt, Casey looked up with a start. The office clock said just past nine. She’d had no idea of the time. She’d have to check this group in quickly and then get home.
A dark-brown head poked into the office, accompanied by the sounds of car doors opening and closing and staccato bursts of laughter punctuating the night.
“Come in,” Casey called, cracking the spine to rest the book across the desk. “Quickly, you’re letting the moths in.”
The screen door slammed shut.
Casey was so busy scanning the lines of the ledger Geller kept by hand to check in arrived that she didn’t look up until the man had crossed the office and was standing directly in front of the desk.
“I’m Ben,” he said. “I spoke to a gentleman on the phone?”
Casey looked up.
And tried not to fall back in her chair. He was boyish, with straight dark hair long enough to stray into his eyes and a dimpled grin that carved two apostrophes into his cheeks and another in the center of his chin when he smiled. He was tall and even under his black North Face fleece she could tell how lean and muscular he was. He had soft brown eyes and thin lips with a look like a puppy dog that had cultivated its sweet expression just to make you want to hug it.
“Sure,” Casey said, rooting unnecessarily around the papers on the desk to give herself something to do besides stare. She was flustered by how good-looking Ben was, and even more flustered that she’d been so disarmed. “That was Mr. Geller. He said you’d be coming in. You’re eight?”
Ben Mailer, who definitely wasn’t a beefy ex-football player, confirmed.
“I hope it wasn’t too last minute, but he said there was plenty of space.”
Casey nodded, still distracted. He may not have been back in college but he sure looked as if he could be. She felt like a cradle-robber just looking at him. But it was impossible to pull her eyes away.
She heard his friends outside, laughing about some joke they’d shared in the car. A guy with dark hair buzzed close to his temples and matching thick stubble across his face came in and Casey’s first, totally unprofessional thought was that at least he looked older than Ben—late twenties, maybe, with lines under his eyes that said he was no stranger to late nights. Maybe they were actually the same age and Ben only looked younger. The idea made her feel slightly better about the way his eyes were sending something icy and hot shooting through her veins.
But no matter how old he was, it was still unnerving to realize that she couldn’t stop wondering what he must look like without that trim fleece jacket.
“Hey man,” the guy with the stubble sauntered over to the desk. “Know where we’re going to be?”
Ben turned to Casey. “We have four tents,” he explained, “but we can arrange them however you want.”
Ah. Well, that answered that. Four couples, Casey reasoned, marking down the numbers. It looked like lucky Ben had one very lucky girlfriend. That at least ought to make her stop thinking things that definitely shouldn’t have been running through her mind.
“How many vehicles?” She tried to keep her voice steady, even though she couldn’t make herself look up and meet his dark, luminous eyes. Especially not with his friend there, who was probably wondering what was wrong with the lady behind the desk.
“Two. I’m so sorry we’re so late. We got a little lost in the turn off from 87 in the dark. I hope you’re not staying open longer just to check us in.”
Casey assured him it was fine, a little unnerved by how polite he was. Somehow it wasn’t what she expected from kids up for a reunion, even though, she reminded herself, she obviously had no idea what Ben was like.
And had no intention of finding out, a stern voice in her head warned.
Casey blinked furiously and tried to stay on track. She wrote down the license plates to their two SUVs, went through the rules of the campsite and showed on a map where to walk to their sites. Counting out the change to Ben’s deposit—while eyeing his long, slender fingers resting on the desk—she couldn’t help wondering who his girlfriend was waiting outside.
“So where’d you guys come in from?” She made her voice casual as Ben passed the maps to his friend.
“All over. Boston, New York.” He gestured vaguely. “We all went to Vassar and stayed here once, right before we graduated. So, you know, we thought it’d be fun to get together again.”
The man with the stubble clapped Ben on the shoulder. “This guy is way too modest. He’s studying at the Culinary Institute of America and we’re here to give him a well-deserved weekend off. He’s been working like a dog.”
“Have not,” Ben said good-naturedly, but somehow his smile didn’t quite reach his dark eyes.
His friend, though, hardly noticed Ben’s sudden unease. “We’re hoping he remembers us so that when he opens up the best restaurant in New York City, we’ll be comped free meals since we won’t be able to afford a single slice of bread.”
Ben winced, but as soon as Casey told him, she hoped he’d enjoy his time off, a lopsided grin spread across his face. This time, it lit up his eyes.
“Make sure you have flashlights,” she said quickly to cover up the way her pulse escalated when he caught her eye and brushed back a rogue strand of hair. “Be careful of roots and rocks, that sort of thing.”
Ben nodded, but as his friend went out to find the campsite, he hung back, looking around. Casey told herself it had nothing to do with her, but even so, some small spark fluttered inside as his eyes lingered.
“What’re you reading?” Ben asked as he looked over the bookshelf.
“High-quality material.” Casey lifted up the cover and explained the system she’d set up.
“Pretty ingenious—maybe I’ll bring you something.”
“Sure,” she said, trying to keep her mouth in a straight line. For some reason, the edges kept wanting to pop up.
Someone called from outside, asking Ben for the keys, and at last he turned to go. On his way out, he wished Casey a good night and then reached up to tap the back of the doorframe before swinging the door shut behind him.
She really, really wished he hadn’t.
Because lifting his arms to the doorframe made his jacket rise up enough to expose the top of his low-slung jeans. As well as the thin green line of his boxers hugging his hips underneath. It didn’t take X-ray vision to know that just above that patch of skin, hidden by his white undershirt and whatever else he had on under his black North Face fleece, were two long dimples carved into his lower back, matching the dimples on his face.
Officially the sexiest part of any man’s body and the one thing Casey dreamed about on those rare nights when she did, in fact, allow herself to dream.
But this was not going to be one of those images she replayed in her mind’s eye. She was already berating herself for noticing. Not only had she turned to putty simply because he slid the hair out of his eyes as if he didn’t know the gesture would make every girl within a ten-mile radius want to extend her hand to his cheek. But she, Cassandra Webb, competent, capable, got dumped on her ass but still got back up again, thirty-four-year-old independent woman, had checked out his twenty-something-year-old butt.
She made herself swear she wouldn’t give him a second thought. She wasn’t interested. Period. She’d come to the woods to be alone and she fully planned to stay that way. She was going to read a little more until she was sufficiently distracted and then head back to her cabin, warm some cookies in the microwave, and go to sleep. Geller would take over registration in the morning and she would never see this group again.
Casey reached for her book, but she couldn’t stop her hand from hovering over the ledger. Before she knew what she was doing, she allowed herself a quick peek at the records and groaned.
Geller’s handwriting was unmistakable. They were staying for four days, three nights. There was no way she wouldn’t find herself looking at those dimples again.
[copyright Rebecca Brooks, 2014. All Rights Reserved Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.]
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