Excerpt 1:
Dulcina stepped over him and sat, back propped against the wall with legs bent over top of his outstretched legs. Yes, the space was cramped, but physical contact never bothered her, in any form.
Her home didn’t have room for a comfy chair or a breakfast table, so improvisation was a norm. She took the pizza box and set it down to her left, between them.
“Hungry...pet?” Dulcina asked, just barely avoiding the use of his name.
His eyes narrowed on her, then solidly corrected her. “Jake.”
She smiled. So persistent, this man. Dulcina pointed to the box. “It’s all I’ve got.”
“Not a fan of cold pizza,” he said, more of an easy statement than an objection.
“It isn’t exactly cold. Just not hot.” Dulcina shrugged. “Eat or starve. Your call.”
He grabbed a slice, took note of how she'd folded her slice, and did the same. They sat in silence, which gave her time to watch him from the corner of her eye. When he'd finished his slice, he scanned the room thoughtfully, then seeming resolved, grabbed another slice. What had he been looking for? Perhaps a refrigerator. Interesting. He'd rather eat what he didn't care for than waste food.
He was an observant thing. Practical. Another sliver of begrudging respect surfaced, and Dulcina forced herself to admit this man wasn't nearly as irritating as she'd first assumed. Other than the fact that he needed tending.
Dulcina settled a little deeper into her position against the wall, intending to shut off her brain until this show ended. Futile. Every little movement Jake made drew her attention. He glanced at the last slice in the box. Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, practically able to see the war in his mind. Some imagined obligation not to waste food battled with the reality of him being stuffed full, and she could see the signs. Leaning back, he stifled a belch. Why torture himself with more food? Must be a human thing.
Folding the lid on the box closed, she leaned over his legs and tossed it onto the floor. When his questioning gaze met hers, she simply said, “You keep eating and I won't be able to lift your ass at all.”
A grin flashed across his face, and he nodded, unwilling to fight her over something he didn't truly want in the first place. Crossing her arms over her chest, Dulcina stared at the television, avoiding his dashing smile and the things it did to her libido.
For several moments the sound of the TV filled the space between them, and then Jake reached over a rather short distance, and grabbed her foot. Stunned by his impulsive behavior, she met his gaze, subduing the hot flash of wariness at the contact. All he did was grin again.
The heat of his palms wrapping around her chilled foot was a shock to her system, and after the astonishment wore off, she tugged her foot, but the grip of his right hand was far more tenacious than she'd expected. If she'd so desired, she could have easily freed herself from his grip, but she curbed her more violent responses, well aware she could injure him further.
“What are you doing? Let go,” she snapped.
“I haven’t been doing anything for days. I’m finally feeling good enough to move, but I can’t without hurting, and it sucks,” Jake grumbled, flinching slightly as his facial expressions tugged on the scabbed tissue on his lips, the bruises around his eyes. He calmed quickly, lowered his gaze to her foot, and slowly moved his thumb in a circle. “Doing nothing is making me stir crazy. I'm upright, and feeling mostly okay. Just let me have a focus, will ya?”
Dulcina’s jaw nearly dropped at his admission, not to mention the stern scolding. Not because they'd been the most direct words he’d spoken since she’d brought him home, and not at all because he was telling her flat out what he wanted from her, but because she shared those same sentiments. She went positively stir crazy without a focus. Every night. His words resonated with her, and his resolve sparked her interest.
What would he do then, if given free rein to do as he pleased? An experiment seemed in order. Dulcina released the tension in her leg, gave the full weight of it over to his hands.
Jake slowly drew her foot back onto his lap, the positioning more for the benefit of his bruised and cracked ribs than her comfort. Once she adjusted and settled, he pinned her with a ‘pay attention’ gaze and pointed to the TV. Directing her? Interesting. To what end?
Dulcina did as he asked, keeping a sharp eye on him in her peripheral vision. Once he seemed satisfied that she’d obeyed, he set to work on her foot. Jake didn’t watch the TV with her, and he wasn't keen on catching her reaction to his touch. Instead, he truly threw his entire focus into rubbing her foot from ankle to toe.
Sinfully thorough, this man. After he’d taken his time rubbing every inch of her foot with those distracting fingers and drawing bone-melting circles with his thumbs, he cupped his hands around her entire foot with a gentle, firm pressure. The contact was delicious, warming her in a way that had little to do with physical heat.
Jake tapped her shin, and when she looked up, a question on the tip of her tongue, she saw him pointing to the other foot. This was strange. All of it. A man she didn’t know was touching her, taking pains to see to her comfort, while he was still recovering from multiple injuries. This tender, selfless care was something done between mates.
Dulcina flinched. That thought was jarring.
Friday, March 28, 2025
Discussing the Setting- Night Stalker by Jen Colly
Wednesday, March 26, 2025
Interview- Allied Hearts by D. Taylor #HistoricalRomance
Excerpt:
By the time they reached the stables, the rain had turned into a deluge, soaking them to the bone. Adam swung the door shut behind them, breathless, the wet strands of his hair plastered to his forehead. Water streamed from his clothes, his shirt clinging tightly to his chest and arms.
Leah leaned against the wall, trying to catch her breath, her laughter breaking through the steady drum of rain on the roof. “You’d think between the two of us, we’d know when a storm’s coming by now.” she teased, her voice light despite the tension still thrumming between them.
Adam didn’t respond at first. His hands moved to his soaked shirt, and in one fluid motion, he pulled it over his head, tossing it across a beam to dry. Leah’s laughter faltered, her breath catching as she took in the sight of him—bronzed skin glistening from the rain, every line of his muscled chest and arms a testament to years of hard, honest labor. She could see the curve of his collarbone, the way his skin stretched over the strong lines of his shoulders and felt her pulse race.
Leah couldn’t tear her eyes away, her breath catching in her throat as she tried to focus on wringing out her dress. But the sight of him, standing there with the storm raging outside, felt like more than she could bear. There was something unspoken between them now, something that had lingered far too long in the shadows.
“We look a sight,” she said, trying to inject a note of humor, but her heart was racing, not from the run, but from the nearness of him.
His green eyes fell on her form, tracing every line and curve. The way her dress clung to her, molded against her shape, made his pulse quicken, a fire sparking low in his belly. Every inch of her felt like a temptation—her damp curls framing her face, her skin flushed from the run, her eyes bright with the thrill of the storm. The air was thick, charged with everything he’d held back for so long, every glance he’d forced himself to look away from, every touch he’d denied.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, his jaw clenching as he tore his gaze away. The war between what he wanted and what he believed was right had never felt so brutal.
Leah looked up then, catching him staring, her lips parting slightly, her gaze softening as she held his. The vulnerability in her eyes made his heart clench, and he felt his resolve waver. The space between them felt charged, heavy with all the things he could never say aloud. The heat of her gaze, the gentle slope of her shoulders, the way her body moved as she wrung the water from her hair—all of it burned into him, branding him with a need he could scarcely contain.
Wednesday, March 5, 2025
Cover Reveal Doorway to the Sunset by Clemency Crow
Excerpt:
As the creature growled, she was sure its lips curled up into a grin.
Freya managed to find the strength in her feet and dragged herself backwards a step, never taking her eyes from the animal.When she moved, however, the creature leapt the small fence and landed on the other side. Her side of the fence. There was nothing between Freya and it, and it crouched down and crept towards her, as though it was tracking rats.
Freya was sure that, if she turned to run, it would be faster. Her mind was whizzing through every possibility but, in her fear, she couldn’t make out any sensible thought. Walking slowly backwards, Freya hoped that steady movements would show she was not a threat but, as the creature walked at the same speed towards her, she realised it wasn’t going to attack her because she was a threat. It was going to attack her because it wanted to. There was a light in the narrowing of its eyes as it advanced on her that showed the pleasure it felt in the fear Freya knew she was showing.
Realising she couldn’t escape the animal, she cupped her hand in front of her and a blue flame ignited in her palm. She had learned this from the crows, and had been practising in the last four months, in any idle moment when she was safe at home.
The flame warmed her, but didn’t burn her, and it was enough to stop the creature approaching. It kept watching her, seeing if she would make a mistake with the blue light or trip up. The light glinted in the unblinking eyes and Freya found that she couldn’t take her own eyes off them.
Freya’s heart was thumping in her chest so loud that it made her head pound. One careless step could be the end of this staring contest, and she was sure of the outcome of losing.
In her time with the crows, she had never seen a creature like this before, but she felt certain that it used the same magic she was holding in her hand. It certainly wasn’t natural. She was sure she would remember seeing pictures of a creature like the one before her. The closest think in her memory were drawings of sabre-toothed tigers but, while they had been frightening, there was something about this being that spoke of something more than natural. Something, she was sure, that was supernatural. Something that shouldn’t be prowling towards her right now.
Friday, February 14, 2025
Asleep in Coronation Market by Barrington Wright
Excerpt:
The hardships of finding food were only surpassed by where to excrete the little he had eaten. There were no public toilets. The streets were too busy and not dark enough for him to empty his body’s waste on the street. So, one night before the market closed, he walked down Darling Street toward the train station. On the way, a lignum vitae tree beckoned him with its inviting branches. He accepted the invitation and climbed to a place comfortable enough to rest and sleep. Most importantly, he could relieve himself at night without anyone seeing him. It was up to people to watch their steps while walking on Darling Street.
Monday, January 27, 2025
Fast Times, Big City by Shelly Frome #HistoricalFiction
Excerpt from Chapter One
Bud Palmer slipped on his sunglasses and set off in his Ford Sunliner convertible on this balmy subtropical Satur- day morning. All the while he tried to convince himself he could get this meeting over with quickly no matter what his shady uncle Rick was up to.
Then again Bud wished he’d just hung up on him. Not put up with “Can’t tell you over the phone. I need you here in person, soon as possible.” That way he wouldn’t be driving across the MacArthur Causeway. Moreover, if his mother hadn’t asked him to look out for her kid brother while she and his dad were on their Caribbean cruise, he’d never have been reminded of Rick’s schemes such as hanging up a dual Realtor/ PI sign.
He wouldn’t be thinking of Rick Ellis at all.
As he drove on, more disconcerting images came to mind: a wiry little guy clutching a polaroid camera, hiding behind the poinsettias as some floozy snuck into a garish motel with some- one’s husband in tow.
Not that Bud himself was always straightforward. At twenty- nine, while his friends were married with kids he was still easing out of relationships the minute he was asked, “Tell me, Bud, how much does a sportswriter make?” Or, “I hear there’s a new subdivision going up in Miramar, each house with a Lanai. Perfect for raising a family.”
In comparison with Rick, however, Bud was always honest about his intentions whether it be his work or love life. In contrast, when playing tennis for instance, Rick was always looking for an angle. He’d crouch behind the net ready to pounce or cut off an opponent’s serve, always looking to throw the server off his game.
Bud crossed over onto Miami Beach, tooled around, passed the ballfield at Flamingo Park, eased by the pastel sidewalks taking him up to Ocean Drive and the fresh fruit juice stand at 10th Street Beach. He parked by a curb directly in line with the juice stand, got out and crossed the sun-dappled street.
Glancing around, he took in the cool tinge of fall blowing in from the ocean, fusing with the salty scent of the water. The sun’s rays streamed through the fluffy clouds; the waves rippled, beckoning the smattering of sunbathers to take a dip.
Everywhere Bud looked nothing had changed. Which included the sight of middle-aged women across the way in their flowery sun dresses, whiling away the hours on the patios of their pink-stucco efficiency apartments; shuffling mahjong tiles; glancing over at the white sands stretching off into the distance in hopes of spotting some lonely bachelor. It was all predictable. Even his paper, the Miami Herald and source of his livelihood, discarded on the empty green bench, seconded the motion.
There was a photo of President Eisenhower above the fold playing golf nearby at Jackie Gleeson’s country club, and a sidebar noting the U.S. was gaining in the space race with the Soviets.
Whatever Rick was champing at the bit about had to be taken with the proverbial grain of salt.
As if in agreement, a voluptuous blond in a fuchsia bikini came into view, turned on the outdoor shower a few yards away, casually washed off the salt water residue on her shoulders, and winked.
Bud smiled back, checked his watch and gazed beyond the mahjong ladies to a gap in the row of efficiency apartments at the end of the block where the weathered bungalow sat a few yards back. The one with the fading sign fronting the bamboo porch railing that read Walk-ins Welcome: Services Unlimited.
He crossed over, hurried past the row of squat apartments, pivoted by the sign, noted the rear end of the rusty Studebaker sitting in the carport, and nodded. It was all the same-old same- old promising more of the same. He bound up the steps, called out “Hello?” opened the screen door and walked right in.
And, sure enough, there Rick was ready and waiting, sporting that signature Charlie Chaplin mustache, flowered short-sleeved shirt and white linen slacks. The first worrisome signal, however, was his bleary, blood-shot eyes as he over-poured a carafe of steaming black coffee into a mug. He whipped out a handkerchief, plunked the carafe and mug on the edge of the desk in the center of the room, and mopped up the spill. At the same time, Bud took in the rest of the place and saw that it hadn’t changed a bit, starting from the girlie calendars on the walls, milk boxes full of paperbacks on the floor; the cluttered desk topped by a scuffed black rotary phone, notary stamp, and the Smith-Corona typewriter flanked by a hat stand with a random display. To complete the picture, there was the rack of glossy magazines so that Rick could keep up with the latest, plus a wooden perch that once accommodated a talking parrot on the near side of a shaded window and a sun-bleached deck chair.
Everything was the same and not at all the same.
Friday, January 17, 2025
Guest Blog- Banquets and Bootleg Bounty by Lily Barrish Levner #CozyMystery
“This book is such a treat. Banquets and Bootleg Bounty is a fantastically fun romp through the height of the Catskills with spot-on historical accuracy. Author Lily Barrish Levner gives readers a bird’s eye view of the dining rooms at the Concord, with a dash of romance and a side of danger. Grab a bowl of matzo ball soup and enjoy the ride!” ~ Meredith Schorr, author of As Seen on TV
“It’s really great that the golden era of the Catskills is remembered. This book brought back a flood of memories.” ~Steve White, Concord tennis pro/Arthur Winarick’s great-nephew
“Lily Barrish Levner captures the Catskill Mountains of 1944 with love and longing for a by-gone era in this triumphant debut. Banquets and Bootleg Bounty is more delicious than Shabbat dinner at the Concord Hotel.”~ Marilyn Rothstein, author of Crazy to Leave You
“If you want a taste of delicious food the Concord served to its guests while experiencing the thrill of a dining room mystery in the Catskills, it’s time to read Lily Barrish Levner’s debut novel, Banquets & Bootleg Bounty.”~ Patti Posner, author of My View From the Mountains
“Mystery meets History in this engaging debut!” ~ New York Times bestselling author Wendy Corsi Staub
Excerpt - Week 1, Friday
Dotty
“That sure is a fancy ride,” a passerby called and whistled while a black Buick Roadmaster rolled to a stop next to the curb on E. 167th Street.
Dotty fanned herself with one hand and clutched the handle of her large, olive-green bag with the other. She was winded and shvitzing after she schlepped from her family’s third-floor walk-up apartment during a Bronx heat wave.
Cars zipped past, and the elevated Jerome Avenue subway rumbled along the tracks. She said,
“Good riddance” to the concrete and brick buildings she was leaving behind. It was thrilling to escape the city heat for a couple of months.
Just last night, she had been surprised when Papa told her there was a seat available in the taxicab. She planned to take the bus. She waved goodbye to the neighborhood, flashing a sunny smile over her good fortune. A hack was such a decadent way to travel to the mountains.
“The middle seat is open,” said the driver, rearranging luggage in the trunk.
A gentleman stood outside the car so she could crawl into the center of the three-person bench seat. She rested her handbag on her lap and settled in for an adventure. “I can’t believe I’m going to the Concord!”
“Oh, the Concord,” the silver-haired woman sitting to her left said in a dreamy voice. “I’m going to the Heiden Hotel in South Fallsburg.”
“I’m visiting my aunt and uncle at the Hotel Evans in Loch Sheldrake for the weekend,” volunteered the gentleman, who was back inside the car, sitting to her right.
“We’ve got one more stop to fetch a wife staying at Sunny Oaks bungalow colony in South Fallsburg for the next two months. Her husband won’t be in the mountains until next week,” the driver said, speeding off.
“Are we in a vaudeville act?” Dotty asked a few minutes later. She watched the middle-aged woman bringing out suitcases, food, a lamp, an ironing board, dishes, pans, and sheets. It seemed she had packed her entire city apartment.
The driver huffed and puffed as he tied a rope around the roof rack. The lamp wobbled, a casserole dish crashed, and a flock of pigeons hijacked a loaf of bread.
Once everything was loaded and everyone was seated, the driver was chatty. “It’s the first year the Concord has been open year-round.”
“I’ve heard wonderful things about it.” Dotty shimmied her shoulders, gazing at the scenery roll by. “I’m one of the first waitresses under the new maître d’, Irving Cohen.”
The driver removed one hand from the wheel to snap his fingers. “You are going to a happening place. How’d you end up at Arthur Winarick’s masterpiece?”
“My papa said you can make real nice money in the mountains. So, I went to an employment agency down in the Bowery. Since most boys are off at war, they are desperate to hire workers.”
“I’ve stayed at Grossinger’s. Never at the Concord,” said the gentleman heading to Hotel Evans.
“The Grossingers are the reason I have such a thriving business. They attracted the vacationers to the Catskills. People love to stay under Jennie Grossinger’s roof. They don’t call it the ‘Waldorf of the Catskills’ for nothing,” said the driver.
Dozens of people had mentioned Grossinger’s to her after learning she would be waitressing in the mountains. She pictured a stately hotel sitting on sprawling grounds.
The driver snapped his fingers again. “Here’s a little mountain history for you. Grossinger’s was the most lavish resort until your new boss, Arthur Winarick, cropped up with a fortune in hand. One night he couldn’t get a room at the G because the hotel was booked. Right then and there he vowed to build a bigger and better hotel to lure the guests away. After the prior owner of the Ideal House defaulted, he lucked out and acquired it. Renamed it and rebuilt it. That’s how the Concord started. There were thirty guests in the beginning and look at it already—there are three hundred guests now.”
“It’s true. Grossinger’s has the name recognition, but the Concord has the finances,” said the woman heading to Sunny Oaks.
“Every building at the Concord was designed to meet Winarick’s vision of richness,” said the Heiden Hotel guest.
“Bet you didn’t know that Winarick bought concrete and steel structures in their entirety from the 1939 World’s Fair. He also purchased a ferryboat at 125th Street and dismantled it for steel.
He didn’t have to borrow a penny,” the driver said, veering to the left.
“How did he become so wealthy?” Dotty asked.
“Winarick was a barber during Prohibition. He’s one lucky son of a gun. On account of his profession, he had rights to alcohol, and his brother just so happened to be a chemist. They set up a basement barber shop. Sold bootleg liquor on the side and made a killing selling Jeris Hair Tonic—largely consisting of alcohol and perfume.”
“He’s a real clever man,” she said.The driver sang the jingle, “Jeris hits the jackpot for greaseless good grooming and healthier, handsomer hair.”
She had high hopes that her pockets would soon be overflowing with tips and she would be able to buy Papa some of the hair tonic for his birthday.
“It’s hot in here!” shouted the wife in the front, fanning herself with a handkerchief.
“Roll down a window!” shouted the gentleman in the back.
“The wind is blowing on me,” complained the wife.
Dotty raised her hand and caught the silver-haired woman’s pillbox hat before it flew out the window. The woman sighed in relief.
“Have you considered trying out for the Yankees with a catch like that?” asked the driver.
She smiled and leaned her head back. She remembered the one time her family had stayed at the Delano Hotel in Monticello. She loved playing the pinball machine there.
About midway through their trip, coasting on the narrow, two-lane Route 17 highway, the hack turned off and into the crowded parking lot of the Red Apple Rest. Dotty stared at the large red apple that sat on top of the roof as they waited for an overheated car’s engine to spring back to life. Once the parking space opened, she sprinted under the multicolored striped awning.
Astonished by the impressive roadside eatery, she surveyed the wide selection of hot and cold food. Papa had told her the washrooms here were the nicest public ones anywhere. He had also said Reuben Freed, the owner, showed genuine care for his patrons. The outdoor line for frankfurters and ice cream was long, so she settled on a root beer soda pop from inside. She did not have an appetite anyway. The lively waystation made her even more excited to reach her destination.
They drove through Chester and Goshen. In Middletown, the traffic became bottlenecked on the winding streets. From Middletown, they traveled back roads. At the bottom of the Wurtsboro mountain, the hack was so overloaded she feared they would not clear the hill.
AbeRiveted by all the billboards lining the country roads directing guests to the Catskill Mountain resorts, Abe kept his nose pressed to the window. As the black Buick Super wound through towns and villages that made up Sullivan County, he saw bungalow renters unloading their jam-packed vehicles and airing out their summer bungalows. They were his first glimpse of summer vacationers in the mountains.
A rectangular-shaped building painted a buttery shade of yellow with brown trim came into view. The Buick skidded to a halt in front of it, and the driver said, “You can make a real comfortable living here. Arthur Winarick created something special.”
Abe jerked forward and his glasses slid down his face. It was a grand version of the architecture he was used to back in Brighton Beach. He counted the windows on the four-story building that could stretch the length of three Brooklyn blocks as he crawled out of the back seat. He ran his eyes over the lush landscape, inhaling fresh mountain air, already filled with respect for this Arthur Winarick fella. Exquisite gardens and dense trees lined the pristine grounds. Crystal-clear Kiamesha Lake, to the left of the main building, faced the perfectly maintained nine holes of the golf course.
Three entertainers were wedged together in the backseat, surrounded by costumes and props that would not fit into the overstuffed trunk. He retrieved his bag from under wigs, cards, and a top hat. “My pockets might not be full yet, but I’m only returning home once they are overflowing,” he vowed, waving goodbye to the fella behind the wheel who’d given him a lift to the mountains. He spent the entire ride memorizing every piece of advice he received, determined to make a success of himself with the fortuitous opportunities in front of him.
He threw his shoulders back and held his head high. He fit right in. Back in New York City, the lack of men on the streets made him ashamed that people believed he was a malingerer not returning to war. The doors to the hotel were pulling him to something special. He followed the bustling bellhops and energized guests into the lobby.
Luggage began to pile up in front of the doorway while he waited for his room assignment in the staff living quarters. An unassuming man wearing a white shirt, suspenders, and faded pants hurried over to haul the suitcases to a corner, so Abe trooped over to help. He stacked suitcases one on top of another, presuming the man must be an older lobby porter and well-liked since everyone who passed by smiled his way.
After they stacked all the suitcases, the man stuck his hand out. “Thank you. I can already tell you’re a hard worker. I’m Arthur Winarick. Welcome to my hotel.”
His heartbeat doubled its normal rhythm. He expected a sharp-dressed gonsa macher, not just an ordinary fella with thinning hair and lackluster clothing.
Already counting his luck, he received his room assignment and trekked the short distance to the staff living quarters, a separate hotel called the Colonial. It sat behind the main hotel where the guests stayed. The white-painted building reminded him of an oversized bungalow. He let out a low whistle as he pushed into the first-floor room.
A boy with wavy brown hair and a polite smile said, “I’m Leon.”
Introducing himself, he took the bed on the left since Leon had already chosen the one on the right.
“Hello, Abe. Where did you travel from?”
“Brighton Beach. And you?” He inspected the empty drawers of the dresser. He omitted that he had grown up in Philadelphia, only moving to Brooklyn once his mother had reappeared.
“I’m from Warsaw. I escaped at the start of the war.”
Speechless, he unzipped his bag. He knew Poland was thousands of miles away and Leon’s journey must have been dangerous. His childhood in foster care had been no picnic, but Leon’s life in Europe had presented greater challenges. He tossed a pair of socks into the drawer.
Leon continued. “I was working at a luncheonette in Manhattan, struggling to make a living, when I heard they needed help in the hotels. Can you believe I was completely unaware that there were hills north of the city?”
He had previously traveled to upstate New York, so he was familiar with the countryside. He pulled more socks from his bag. “As soon as I heard about the high wages and all the luxuries that came with living in the mountains, I signed up on the spot. I prefer this to being cooped up inside my stepfather’s garment factory all day. I didn’t expect such a dandy space to call home for the summer.”
“How come you aren’t enrolled in the army?”
He shifted his eyes to the single window in the middle of the room. “They discharged me.”
Leon remained quiet. His kind eyes encouraged Abe to say more.
“I was a drill sergeant in Miami until a doctor diagnosed my eyesight as too poor to continue to serve.” He returned from duty, at 19 years old, with his brunette hair a shade more golden, his skin tanned, and his muscles bulging from a year of physical activity under the Florida sun.
“There is no shame in wearing spectacles.”
He tapped the rim of his glasses. “My eyesight isn’t that terrible.”Leon reached for his checkered newsboy hat; his voice was friendly. “Ah, a Jewish doctor who didn’t want to see another Jewish boy come home in a coffin.”
He raked his hands through his hair, swallowing hard. Here he was a young man in perfect health, while both of his brothers were still serving in the U.S Army. He never wanted people to think he was less patriotic. His Ma’s words rang in his ears. “Abe-ala, this means I won’t lose all three of my boys.”
That comment had stung.
“The Concord is lucky to have you.”He snapped back to the present. “I have had the pleasure of meeting the owner already.”
Leon’s eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. “Arthur Winarick? Making a good impression right away is smart.” He pointed to his head. “I made sure to use Jeris Hair Tonic today in case I bumped into him. That’s why my hair is so glossy.”
He scratched his ear, not admitting he did not understand the reference. “How come you speak such fluent English?”
“I had a neighbor back in Poland who was a diplomat and a resistance fighter. He taught English classes.” Leon placed the newsboy cap on top of his head.
Sprawled out on his mattress, stretching his legs and wiggling his toes, Abe knew he had made the right decision. And he was glad he had someone like Leon by his side. “I feel like a king.”
“There’s tremendous potential.”
His smile spread from ear to ear. “I think I can pave my own way up here.”
A whole new chapter was beginning.
DottyDotty tried to read every single one of the hotel billboards cramming the landscape. When they approached the sign that said, “Turn Here to Concord Hotel,” she was jiggling her legs.
The Hotel Evans guest hollered, “Can you drop me off first?”
“I have specific directions. She’s number one on the list.” The driver tilted his head toward the woman en route to the Heiden.
At the first drop-off, Dotty could not take her eyes off the Tudor-style building as the driver announced, “The Concord is the next stop.”
Now she could not sit still.
Minutes later, after zooming up the mountain, the driver said, “We’ve arrived. Good luck.” He handed her olive-green bag over.
“The Bronx has no space that compares to this.” She gawked in awe at the size of the building nestled in rich grounds.
The yellow paint on the exterior reminded her of their kitchen’s wallpaper at home. Oh, she could not wait to tell Ma and Papa about this exquisite place. Her parents, Merke and Isaac, expected her to write to them all summer long. She would send a postcard soon.
She took a moment to smell the sweet floral scent from the colorful flower gardens before she schlepped her bag through the entryway. People crowded the lobby, greeting each other as long-lost friends. Some staff were new hires, like herself. Others were returning for another season in the mountains.
A helpful bellhop tapped her on the shoulder. “I’ll carry your bag to the Colonial, where you’ll be staying.” He led her to another building.
She blinked hard. “I get to live here? It’s an entire hotel!”
“Staff living conditions like this certainly aren’t the norm. Nobody sleeps on a cot in a closet around here. Arthur makes sure we have the best.”
“I’m so lucky the Concord hired me.” She watched two fellas stride into the Colonial.
“It’s coed,” said the bellhop, winking.
She raised her eyebrows, never having stayed in co-ed living quarters. She stepped into her new home. The blue and white floral wallpaper caught her eye. Her papa, who worked as a wallpaper hanger, always made sure to do careful work. He would be pleased with the job done here.
Once she reached her assigned room, she straightened her skirt and blouse. A striking girl with chestnut-colored curls appeared in the doorway. “I heard you thumping down the hallway.
Welcome. I’m Eva. I’m a waitress in the main dining room. Do you play cards? How about poker?”
She plopped her bag onto the ground and sat on the empty bed to catch her breath. “I’m a waitress as well. Yes, I love playing cards.” She ran her hands through her dishwater-blonde hair, wishing it had as much volume as Eva’s.
“I’m organizing a Sunday night game, after we collect our tips, of course.” Eva touched the opal heart-shaped stone hanging on a gold chain she wore around her neck.
“I’ll be at the table,” Dotty promised. She would have to ask Ma for some hints since Ma played cards every day on the Grand Concourse back home in the Bronx.
“Very good. We’ll be working hard, but don’t worry, there’s lots of time for socializing.”
She began unpacking as Eva peppered her with questions. “Do you have experience waiting tables?”
“Oh, yes. I learned everything I know at the Lido Beach Hotel on Long Island. I spent a season there before the Navy turned it into an amphibious base and discharge center. I worked at a resort in Far Rockaway and another one out in Lakewood, New Jersey, after that.”
Eva put her hands on her hips. “How old were you when you started waitressing?”
“14,” she admitted. “I told the man I was 17 and he told me to say 18.” She chuckled at the memory. She had worn high heels and bright red lipstick, clomping down Skid Row to the employment agency in the Bowery. Today she was 18 years old and did not have to fib about her age to work at the Concord.
“You’re an old pro,” Eva said, sweeping her hand through the air.
“How long have you been waitressing?” Dotty, too, had questions.
“After I traveled over from Germany, Arthur Winarick hired me. That was Pesach (Passover) two seasons ago.”
“Are you a refugee?” She placed her hand over her heart.
“Yes. I’m very lucky to be here. My German mom and British dad raised me in Southern
Germany. I’m an English citizen. My parents wanted me out of Europe. They felt it was safest for me to come over to the States. Arthur has a soft spot in his heart for refugees. I landed at the right hotel.”
Glad about that, Dotty rested her head on the pillow, enjoying the comfort of her own bed for the first time. She stretched out her legs and closed her eyes. “I’ve shared the sleeper sofa with my sister and listened to the Jerome Avenue train my entire life.”
“You’ve spent the day traveling; a snooze before Shabbat dinner might set you right.”
She jumped back up and parted the curtains to gaze at the greenery. “I hope Irving Cohen isn’t too strict.”
Eva flung her wrist in the air. “People call him ‘King Cupid.’ How harsh do you think a man with that nickname can be?”
“What if, since it’s his first summer in charge of the dining room, he’s extra tough?” She took a deep breath.
“Bet you didn’t know he was recently married. Consider him still in the honeymoon phase. Act confident and you’ll do fine.”
“I’ve always received compliments from my bosses. I’m not worried.” She bit her bottom lip and watched Eva study her reflection in a handheld mirror.
Eva had a twinkle in her eye. “Stay away from Hershel. He’s my bashert.”
Suddenly, Dotty cared a lot more about her appearance as she slipped into her white waitressing uniform. For breakfast and lunch, the two dairy meals of the day, the required dress code was yellow dresses and white aprons. The meat dinner was served wearing white dresses and white aprons.
Eva wiggled into her uniform. “Don’t forget the trick is to stay ahead of everything and not lose control of your station. What are the three important terms to measure success?”
“‘A breeze’ means the meal ran smoothly, a ‘good meal’ needs no explanation, and a ‘bomb’ means everything went terribly.” She spritzed Chantilly perfume onto her right wrist. The fruity notes of orange blossom mixed with jasmine and other citruses filled their room.
“Very good. What’s the worst thing you can do?”
“Anger the chef. I must wait until several guests ask for things from the kitchen. I want to avoid making too many trips back there.”
“What’s the second-worst thing?”
“I can’t get hung up, or I’ll never meet all the guests’ demands, and I’ll fall behind the kitchen’s schedule.”
“I don’t have to tell you tips depend on how pleasant we are to guests and how quickly we feed them.”
Thankful for all she learned that first summer on Lido Beach, and confident in her food-serving abilities, Dotty swung the door open. The same two fellas she had seen earlier were now exiting their room a couple of doors down. They wore stark white jackets. I have a feeling this is going to be a very good summer.