At the Table in Paris: What Lucy's Writing

 

LUCY BURDETTE: I haven’t been in Key West over the past couple of months—at least not in my mind. Instead, I’ve been determined to write a real draft of my Paris novel before I need to get started on Key West #17. Writing this book has been on my wish list for several years, and I’ve had to make multiple trips to Paris (for research, of course.) You might remember that this is women’s fiction, about the journey of a young woman finding herself while looking for her biological father, a famous French chef. I’m closing in on 30,000 words and it’s been quite an adventure! The main character has changed, the point of view has changed, the opening scene has changed. I’m sure other things will change too, but I’m enjoying the journey, even though it’s hard. With a mystery, another murder always sparks up a sagging middle. With women’s fiction, it has to be all about the character’s odyssey. Here I give you the opening paragraphs, while warning you not to get too attached to these exact words…

Chapter One: The Paris Recipe

Natalie

Outside the arrivals hall at Charles de Gaulle airport, Natalie showed the Café de Floré’s address to the taxi driver who took her duffle. He grunted as swung the bag into his trunk, and they careened away from the curb, speeding along the superhighways that led to the city. Natalie gasped when she spotted the outline of the lacey wrought iron Eiffel Tower in the distance. The distinctive metal structure towered over the city, much taller than the other buildings that surrounded it like a sea of hungry chicks around a mother hen.

“C’est belle, oui?” the driver asked, smiling in the rearview mirror for the first time.

“Mais oui,” she whispered. “She’s gorgeous.” 

The taxi drove from the ring road that encircled the city—the périphérique exterieur, as her iphone told her—and dove through a series of narrow streets, into the harsh cacophony of the city. As they drew closer, she scraped her dark hair into a messy bun and patted a bit of glossy color on her cheeks and her lips. Even after staggering off a red eye, this city made her want to try a little harder.

The cabbie lurched to a stop in front of a large café across the street from a church. “Voilà,” he said, after dragging her duffle bag from the trunk and accepting the five euro tip she offered. “Bonne chance,” he called as he drove away.

During their one very short conversation, Aurelie, the kitchen-manager-plus-who-knows-what-else, had instructed Natalie to take a cab to Chez Cassan at noon. There she’d give her a quick tour of the restaurant along with the key for the place where she’d be staying. At least that’s what Natalie thought she’d said, as it had transpired in rapid French which was totally different than repeating words and phrases into her phone in the Duolingo app.

“C’est tout provisoire,” Aurelie had added, meaning it’s all temporary. Underneath that, probably meaning: We’ll see. I have my doubts. Maybe even, I did not want to hire you.

Natalie had shaken that off. No stiff, unfriendly French woman was going to ruin her dream before it even got started. The Real Natalie in Paris. Ha! Working in what was surely one of the top twenty restaurants in the city. Ha! Or had been anyway, until Chef Cassan’s ship had lost its rudder. Oof!

What’s the best non-mystery novel you’ve read lately, and what did you like most about the story?

Meanwhile, the final edits have been finished on A DELICIOUS DECEPTION (coming July 14,) as well as the paperback version of THE MANGO MURDERS (July 7.) Pre-orders are always appreciated!

Rhys on Writing when Life is Difficult

 RHYS BOWEN:  The last weeks have been a time of extreme ups and downs for me. Not condusive to the serenity of a writer's life. On Valentine's Day my eldest grandson got married. It was a big event with loads of people coming into Phoenix. We had a rehearsal dinner the evening before, then ceremony and fabulous reception, then brunch and barbecue the next day. Everyone happy, everything going without a hitch. Just perfect, in fact, except that my husband John was not well enough to join in most of it.

Then a few days later John had a spectacular fall. He hit his head on the stone floor. The amount of blood looked like a crime scene. We spent six hours in emergency and now have so many follow up doctor visits that its hard to keep track of them all. It's hard to accept that he is gradually failing... he is 92 after all.  He's sleeping a lot and in constant back pain.

All of this makes writing hard. Not just because I'm now housekeeper and care giver but because it's hard to keep worry at bay. I know that Hallie, Julia and Hank have all been through this with their husbands. I am trying to be positive and caring and frankly it's exhausting!

I have a March 1 deadline on my next Royal Spyness book, called TO CROWN IT ALL and luckily I had finished apart from one final read through. I was about to send it off when I realized I hadn't mentioned the dogs throughout the book. Georgie and Darcy have two labs... naughty teenager labs. But I had failed to include them anywhere in the story. Dog loving readers would notice! And I'm sure that Georgie wouldn't be able to ignore them for a couple of weeks. So now I have to go back and see where they can make an appearance without slowing down the story.

This is one of my most plot-driven books so the writing is tight. It takes place around the coronation of King George VI and Queen Elizabeth in 1937. Various people come to stay with Georgie at her lovely house. Georgie finds herself part of the coronation itself and Darcy is more than occupied trying to prevent hostile elements from spoiling the big day. Then there is Mummy who needs help. Lots going on and quite a lot of danger. 

I don't want to give away the most dramatic elements in the plot so I'll include a snippet that isn't too much of a spoiler:

My mother was standing in the middle of the foyer, looking around her with obvious satisfaction, while behind her stood a tall young man, his arms full of bags and cases. As I arrived Phipps staggered in with a large trunk.

                “Mummy!” I called.

                She opened her arms and rushed toward me. “My darling child. How wonderful to hold you in my arms again. You don’t know how much I’ve longed for this moment. Dreamed of it.”

                I found myself wondering if in fact my mother had changed her personality and had turned into a warm, effusive and motherly person.

                “it’s so lovely to see you too,” I said.

                “I’m so glad they let me come ahead of the rest of the delegation,” she said in a breathy voice.  “I pleaded that I had to see you and of course they agreed. And they very kindly sent Herr Grossauer to take care of me and make sure I got here safely.”

                My gaze turned to the man standing there. His expression was so cold, so arrogant, that it was quite clear he wasn’t any kind of servant or assistant.  He had been sent to keep an eye on my mother. She had a minder with her from the German government again, most probably from the secret police.

                “Oh, how nice,” I said. I went over to him and extended my hand. “Welcome, Herr Grossauer. I am Lady Georgiana.”

He put down the various encumberments, clicked his heels and gave a curt little bow. “How do you do,” he said in clipped English.

“It was very kind of you to accompany my mother,’ I went on, hearing myself sounding a little too enthusiastic. “I’m so glad you speak English?  My German is not too good.  If you’d like to say for a meal before you get back to London, you’d be most welcome.”

“Nein. I do not go back to London,” he said. “I am commanded to stay wiz your muzzer. This lady is a special friend of our Fuhrer and a very important person. She deserves to be escorted. I am sure when she was a duchess in your country she went everywhere with servants, nicht?”

I gave a merry little laugh. “But we have servants here and she will be well looked after until we bring her back to London. We don’t need to trouble you. I’m sure you’d be more comfortable at your embassy.’

“I stay wiz her,” he said firmly. “I am commanded to do zis and I obey.”

“Of course. Very commendable,” I replied. “I’m afraid we have rather a large number of visitors ready for the coronation so I don’t quite know where we are going to put you, but I’m sure there’s an extra bedroom in Sir Hubert’s own wing. I have the servants make up a bed for you.”   

He didn’t look exactly thrilled. He clicked his heels again. “I would prefer that my room is close to that of the duchess,” he said. ‘In case she needs me during the night. I am assigned to keep her from harm.”

I frowned at him. “In England we have a wing in the house for unmarried gentlemen, as is only right and proper. I can assure you that no harm will come to my mother in my own house in the middle of the English countryside.”

I turned back to Mummy, taking her hand. “I’ve got your favorite room ready for you. Would you like to come up to see it or would you prefer to come and say hello to everybody?”

“Oh, perhaps see my room first,” she said. “One does need to powder one’s nose after a long and tiresome journey.”

“You go on up,” I said. “You know which room you like.”

As she started up the stairs Herr Grossauer went to follow her. I stopped him. “Please wait here. I’ll ring for my housekeeper.” 

He stood there glaring at me, or to be honest I couldn’t tell if he was glaring because his haughty expression didn’t change. Mrs. Holbrook came hurrying up. “Your ladyship?” she asked, eyeing the strange man in the foyer.

“My mother has arrived, Mrs. Holbrook. Please make sure she is well looked after.” “With pleasure, my lady.” Mrs. Holbrook beamed at my mother and dropped her alittle curtsey.

“And this gentleman has accompanied her from Germany. Can you find a spare

room for him?”

“On the servant’s floor, my lady?” she asked, eyeing him nervously.

“Oh no. Herr Grossauer represents the German government. We should treat him according to his rank. I think the only suitable bedrooms still available are in Sir Hubert’s wing, with the other bachelor?”

“Of course, my lady. I’ll have a room prepared.” Her expression didn’t waver but I could tell she got my meaning. Keep him as far away as possible.

“I’m sure Herr Grossauer would also like to freshen up after his journey. Please take him up and show him a bathroom he can use.”

“Follow me, mein herr,” she said, eyeing him suspiciously.

He glanced back at me. I couldn’t tell if the glance was angry or not, but he went after her.  I ran straight up after Mummy and found her sitting on the bed in her room. “Oh darling.” She held out her arms to me and I hugged her, something we had not done very often in our lives.  “Has he gone?” she whispered.

What We're Writing? Hank is Juggling and Revealing

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:   What am I doing? Juggling. Juggling juggling juggling. First, as I write this on Sunday afternoon, I have just scoured the house for batteries, plugged in every computer and phone in the house to charge, and made sure we have a selection of fully charged flashlights. They are predicting a blizzard, yes, a blizzard, and I am always terrified that the power will go out. Which, they are predicting, it will. I only like suspense in my novels, please, not in life.

In other news, Hooray! Look look look, the gorgeous and fabulous cover of MOTHER DAUGHTER SISTER STRANGER  was revealed in People magazine! I still can't get over it, and I have to admit that I look at the article again and again.

Isn't this great? You can read the whole thing here, but here's the header:

 

They asked me where the idea for the book came from, and I told them it was from my childhood. When my mom used to read me stories, and finally say "the end." And I would never accept that. "What happened after that?" I would prod her to tell me. "They lived happily ever after," mom would say. And I would say Ever ever after? But what happened after that?"

I am also fascinated by the stories families tell about their histories and past. And the pictures we see in albums. Those snapshots have stories behind them too, and how will we ever know what really happened? What those people's lives were really like? Even if they themselves told us, who knows they were protecting or concocting. Anyway, that's MOTHER DAUGHTER SISTER STRANGER.

Here's another picture of the cover.

 

Isn't it fascinating? I love how the Back Bay brownstone is provocatively blue. And the positioning of it is strange, you have to keep looking at it to figure it out. (Very sticky!) I love the figure in the window. I love the unexpected pink and yellow against that stark black. And I love the slashes through the words. Is that a list that someone is crossing off? Is that a description that someone is giving of themselves?  And of course I adore that cover quote from the brilliant Lisa Scottoline. 

And every one of us who is a woman is or has been every single one of those nouns. Mother daughter sister stranger.

Here’s the back cover copy:  

What if your own family history turns out to be a terrifying lie?

Every family has its story, and this one’s deadly. Two sisters. One secret. And a race against time to find the explosive truth in this twisty and captivating thriller by “master of domestic suspense” and instant USA Today bestselling author Hank Phillippi Ryan.

The sole survivors of the fiery plane crash that killed their parents, Eliza Ramsey and her sister Bea share an unbreakable bond. But now, on the eleventh anniversary of the tragedy, Bea fails to retrieve her pre-teen daughter from a sleepover at Eliza’s.

Eliza knows her sister would never leave her precious Piper behind, and fears the worst. But did Bea plan her own disappearance?

The Ramsey’s lives have already crashed and burned once. Now, Eliza discovers she's the only one who can protect her niece from the horrifying legacy of her family’s sinister history. Together, the two must prevent their lives from going up in in flames once again.

A missing mother. Her frightened daughter. And a sister on a desperate search for a happy ending. But someone knows the deadly key to their shared past, and won’t stop until they’ve written a devastating final chapter.  Mother, daughter, sister—stranger. 

 

Also! I am so thrilled that  ALL THIS COULD BE YOURS is a nominee for the Mary Higgins Clark award! I am completely floating about that. I adored Mary Higgins Clark, she was such a role model, and she was the one who taught me to make sure that every one of my signatures in books is readable.

She once said: "A person spent time and money to buy your book, and to come see you. The least you can do is give them a legible signature." So Mary, I try my best. The other nominees in the category are spectacularly talented, but I am floating my way to New York to the award ceremony at the Edgar banquet.

And finally, in this crazy week, what I am doing is waiting. 

I sent three book proposals to my agent, and we will see what happens next. 

You know that Tom Petty/Linda Ronstadt song The Waiting? I am singing that now, top of my lungs: “the waiting is the hardest part.”

So on this pivotal morning, Reds and readers, answer any question you want:  What do you think of the cover? The title?  Do you ever read People magazine?  What do you think of the back cover copy, does it sound intriguing? Or how is the weather in your neck of the woods?

And PS: Happy Pub Day, dear Jenn!