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CBS News
22-04-2025
- Entertainment
- CBS News
Readers vote "Didn't You Used To Be Queenie B?" as the new book for Club Calvi!
Please consider joining our Facebook group by CLICKING HERE . Find out more about the books below. Club Calvi has a new book! You voted "Didn't You Used To Be Queenie B?" by Terri-Lynne DeFino as the Readers' Choice. In a video to readers, DeFino described her book as a recipe for redemption. "Take a celebrity chef hiding out in New Haven, Connecticut," she said. "Add a talented line cook struggling with addiction. Fold in a pinch of regret, a generous dash of penance, and a tablespoon of hope. Then whisk it all together into a cooking competition offering them both a second chance." You can read an excerpt below, and get your copy of the book to read along with Club Calvi over the next four weeks. Please join our Facebook group to participate in our discussions. The CBS New York Book Club focuses on books connected to the Tri-State Area in their plots and/or authors. The books may contain adult themes. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________ From the publisher: Regina Benuzzi is Queenie B—a culinary goddess with Michelin Star restaurants, a bestselling cookbook empire, and multimillion-dollar TV deals. It doesn't hurt that she's gorgeous and curvaceous, with cascading black hair and signature red lips. She had it all. Until she didn't. After an epic fall from grace, Queenie B vanishes from the public eye, giving up everything: her husband, her son, and the fame that she'd fought to achieve. Her shows are in rerun, her restaurants still popular, but her disappearance remains a mystery to her legions of fans. Local line cook Gale Carmichael also knows a thing or two about disaster. Newly sober and struggling, Gale's future dreams don't hold space for culinary stardom; only earning enough to get by. Broke at the end of the week, he finds himself at a local soup kitchen in one of the roughest parts of New Haven, Connecticut. But Gale quickly realizes that the food coming out of the kitchen is not your standard free meal—it is delicious and prepared with gourmet flair. Gale doesn't recognize Regina, the soup kitchen's cranky proprietor, whose famous black mane is now streaked with gray. It's been more than ten years since Queenie B vanished into her careful new existence. But she sees Gale's talent and recognizes a brokenness in him that she knows all too well. The culinary genius in hiding takes him under her wing. Teaching Gale, Regina's passion to create is reignited, and they both glimpse a shot at the redemption that had always seemed out of reach. When Gale is chosen to compete on the hit cooking show, Cut!, i t's a turning point for them both. It's Gale's time to shine. And that means Queenie B might just have to come out of hiding… Terri-Lynne DeFino lives in Connecticut. "Didn't You Used To Be Queenie B?" by Terri-Lynne DeFino (ThriftBooks) $23 Osvaldo is an a******. She's done as he asked; not a drink or a snort or a pill all week. This week, of all weeks! Just so he and Julian would be at her side in her triumph. Didn't that count for anything? It was only three shots. Maybe four. If he can't cut her a small break, then f*** him. How the hell is she supposed to cope when every moment, from opening ceremony to the awards, rides on her shoulders. She has to be witty and sage and beautiful, all at the same time. Everyone wants a piece of her, and she has to give it to them or fade away like every other has-been in this business. This festival is everything. Everything! A new, more dignified stage of her career. The great Queenie B is back on her game. With the success of the festival, after last year's horror, she can slow down, maybe even let go of one of her shows. PBS has been trying to make changes she is unhappy with, anyway. Co-host? No way. Osvaldo doesn't have to take Julian and go, her beautiful boy crying, arms outstretched, right there in front of everyone. But he does, just to spite her. To punish her. Their friends, colleagues, all those wannabees pretending to be thrilled at seeing the two of them together again are now snickering as she stands on the steps of the stage. Waiting for her cue. No Oz. No Julian. Just Queenie B. She doesn't make a scene. Queenie blows a kiss, as if Osvaldo is only taking their over-tired, special needs child out of a stressful situation. He'll go along with the story, once he hears it. He doesn't want the bad publicity any more than she does. But he won't let her see Julian again, damn him. As if he has the right to keep her from her child. Which he does, according to the court orders. "Queenie?" She shakes herself out of it, shoulders back and chin up. Her heels are high, the steps are wobbly, and she's not exactly sober, but she nods to the kid wearing the headset and holding the clipboard. He points to the woman on the stage. Linda? No, Lydia. The woman PBS wants as her co-host. Lydia steps closer to the microphone. "Few of us in the culinary world are recognized outside of it. We are big fish in small ponds, but!" She raises a finger. "Our pond is getting bigger." Laughter. A few whoops. Applause. Lydia waits. She knows how to work an audience, Queenie will give her that. "We all owe a huge debt to our keynote speaker. Not only a brilliant chef, but a charismatic woman who has been instrumental in elevating our art to celebrity status. The two-thousands will usher in amazing things for the culinary world, for all of us. And we owe it in great part to our own, our magnificent, Queenie B!" The applause. It is dizzying. Queenie climbs the steps, the headset-kid giving her a hand. She looks amazing in her Zac Posen gown; her long hair drapes like an accessory. Her signature smile, the one made into a logo for both her shows, on cookbooks, menus, and personal stationary, sparkles in the spotlights more brilliantly than diamonds. It feeds her, this adulation. It proves them all wrong. Every relative and foster family who gave her back. Every smack and kick and curse aimed to break her. This moment validates everything. Almost everything. Queenie takes her place center stage, waiting. Basking. A pair of attractive, young men approach from the left. Unfolding the crisp, black chef coat they carry between them, they wait on either side of her. To slip her arms into the sleeves. To cover the designer gown with the one item of clothing worn by every chef, from the prep cooks to Queenie B herself. Arms raised over her head, she listens to the roar. Then she lowers her arms, lowers her head, and takes the bow they're all waiting for. The bow she has f****** earned. From DIDN'T YOU USE TO BE QUEENIE B? by Terri-Lynne DeFino. Copyright © 2025 by Terri-Lynne DeFino. Reprinted by permission of William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Return to top of page
CBS News
15-04-2025
- Entertainment
- CBS News
Vote now to decide which Top 3 FicPick will be the next book for Club Calvi!
Please consider joining our Facebook group by CLICKING HERE . Find out more about the books below. Club Calvi needs a new book and it's asking you to vote on which Top 3 FicPick should be the Readers' Choice. "Didn't You Used To Be Queenie B?" by Terri-Lynne DeFino is a story of second chances for a disgraced celebrity chef and a young cook who meet in a soup kitchen. "Zeal" by Morgan Jerkins explores how the power of love unites star-crossed lovers during slavery in the south to a young couple in modern-day New York. "The Griffin Sisters' Greatest Hits" by Jennifer Weiner is about pop-star sisters, the secret that drove them apart, and how the separation affects their family decades later. You can read excerpts and buy the books below. Voting closes Sunday, April 20th at 6 p.m. CLICK HERE to cast your vote. The CBS New York Book Club focuses on books connected to the Tri-State Area in their plots and/or authors. The books may contain adult themes. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________ From the publisher: Regina Benuzzi is Queenie B—a culinary goddess with Michelin Star restaurants, a bestselling cookbook empire, and multimillion-dollar TV deals. It doesn't hurt that she's gorgeous and curvaceous, with cascading black hair and signature red lips. She had it all. Until she didn't. After an epic fall from grace, Queenie B vanishes from the public eye, giving up everything: her husband, her son, and the fame that she'd fought to achieve. Her shows are in rerun, her restaurants still popular, but her disappearance remains a mystery to her legions of fans. Local line cook Gale Carmichael also knows a thing or two about disaster. Newly sober and struggling, Gale's future dreams don't hold space for culinary stardom; only earning enough to get by. Broke at the end of the week, he finds himself at a local soup kitchen in one of the roughest parts of New Haven, Connecticut. But Gale quickly realizes that the food coming out of the kitchen is not your standard free meal—it is delicious and prepared with gourmet flair. Gale doesn't recognize Regina, the soup kitchen's cranky proprietor, whose famous black mane is now streaked with gray. It's been more than ten years since Queenie B vanished into her careful new existence. But she sees Gale's talent and recognizes a brokenness in him that she knows all too well. The culinary genius in hiding takes him under her wing. Teaching Gale, Regina's passion to create is reignited, and they both glimpse a shot at the redemption that had always seemed out of reach. When Gale is chosen to compete on the hit cooking show, Cut!, i t's a turning point for them both. It's Gale's time to shine. And that means Queenie B might just have to come out of hiding… Terri-Lynne DeFino lives in Connecticut. "Didn't You Used To Be Queenie B?" by Terri-Lynne DeFino (ThriftBooks) $23 From the publisher: Harlem, 2019. Ardelia and Oliver are hosting their engagement party. As the guests get ready to leave, he hands her a love letter on a yellowing, crumbling piece of paper . . . Natchez, 1865. Discharged from the Union Army as a free man after the war's end, Harrison returns to Mississippi to reunite with the woman he loves, Tirzah. Upon his arrival at the Freedmen's Bureau, though, he catches the eye of a woman working there, who's determined to thwart his efforts to find his beloved. After tragedy strikes, Harrison resigns himself to a life with her. Meanwhile in Louisiana, the newly free Tirzah is teaching at a freedmen's school, and discovers an advertisement in the local paper looking for her. Though she knows Harrison must have placed it, and longs to find him, the risks of fleeing are too great, and Tirzah chooses the life of seeming security right in front of her. Spanning over a hundred and fifty years, Morgan Jerkins's extraordinary novel intertwines the stories of these star-crossed lovers and their descendants. As Tirzah's family moves across the country during the Great Migration, they challenge authority with devastating consequences, while of the legacy of heartbreak and loss continues on in the lives of Harrison's progeny. When Ardelia meets Oliver, she finds his family's history is as full of secrets and omissions as her own. Could their connection be a cosmic reconciliation satisfying the unfulfilled desires of their ancestors, or will the weight of the past, present and future tear them apart? Morgan Jerkins lives in Brooklyn. CLICK HERE to read an excerpt "Zeal" By Morgan Jerkins (ThriftBooks) $23 From the publisher: Cassie and Zoe Grossberg were thrust into the spotlight as The Griffin Sisters, a pop duo that defined the aughts. Together, they skyrocketed to the top, gracing MTV, SNL, and the cover of Rolling Stone . Cassie, a musical genius who never felt at ease in her own skin, preferred to stay in the shadows. Zoe, full of confidence and craving fame, lived for the stage. But fame has a price, and after one turbulent year, the band abruptly broke up. Now, two decades later, the sisters couldn't be further apart. Zoe is a suburban mom warning her daughter Cherry to avoid the spotlight, while Cassie has disappeared from public life entirely. But when Cherry begins unearthing the truth behind their breathtaking rise and infamous breakup, long-buried secrets surface, forcing all three women to confront their choices, their desires, and their complicated bonds. Jennifer Weiner lives in Philadelphia. "The Griffin Sisters' Greatest Hits" by Jennifer Weiner (ThriftBooks) $23 Osvaldo is an a******. She's done as he asked; not a drink or a snort or a pill all week. This week, of all weeks! Just so he and Julian would be at her side in her triumph. Didn't that count for anything? It was only three shots. Maybe four. If he can't cut her a small break, then f*** him. How the hell is she supposed to cope when every moment, from opening ceremony to the awards, rides on her shoulders. She has to be witty and sage and beautiful, all at the same time. Everyone wants a piece of her, and she has to give it to them or fade away like every other has-been in this business. This festival is everything. Everything! A new, more dignified stage of her career. The great Queenie B is back on her game. With the success of the festival, after last year's horror, she can slow down, maybe even let go of one of her shows. PBS has been trying to make changes she is unhappy with, anyway. Co-host? No way. Osvaldo doesn't have to take Julian and go, her beautiful boy crying, arms outstretched, right there in front of everyone. But he does, just to spite her. To punish her. Their friends, colleagues, all those wannabees pretending to be thrilled at seeing the two of them together again are now snickering as she stands on the steps of the stage. Waiting for her cue. No Oz. No Julian. Just Queenie B. She doesn't make a scene. Queenie blows a kiss, as if Osvaldo is only taking their over-tired, special needs child out of a stressful situation. He'll go along with the story, once he hears it. He doesn't want the bad publicity any more than she does. But he won't let her see Julian again, damn him. As if he has the right to keep her from her child. Which he does, according to the court orders. "Queenie?" She shakes herself out of it, shoulders back and chin up. Her heels are high, the steps are wobbly, and she's not exactly sober, but she nods to the kid wearing the headset and holding the clipboard. He points to the woman on the stage. Linda? No, Lydia. The woman PBS wants as her co-host. Lydia steps closer to the microphone. "Few of us in the culinary world are recognized outside of it. We are big fish in small ponds, but!" She raises a finger. "Our pond is getting bigger." Laughter. A few whoops. Applause. Lydia waits. She knows how to work an audience, Queenie will give her that. "We all owe a huge debt to our keynote speaker. Not only a brilliant chef, but a charismatic woman who has been instrumental in elevating our art to celebrity status. The two-thousands will usher in amazing things for the culinary world, for all of us. And we owe it in great part to our own, our magnificent, Queenie B!" The applause. It is dizzying. Queenie climbs the steps, the headset-kid giving her a hand. She looks amazing in her Zac Posen gown; her long hair drapes like an accessory. Her signature smile, the one made into a logo for both her shows, on cookbooks, menus, and personal stationary, sparkles in the spotlights more brilliantly than diamonds. It feeds her, this adulation. It proves them all wrong. Every relative and foster family who gave her back. Every smack and kick and curse aimed to break her. This moment validates everything. Almost everything. Queenie takes her place center stage, waiting. Basking. A pair of attractive, young men approach from the left. Unfolding the crisp, black chef coat they carry between them, they wait on either side of her. To slip her arms into the sleeves. To cover the designer gown with the one item of clothing worn by every chef, from the prep cooks to Queenie B herself. Arms raised over her head, she listens to the roar. Then she lowers her arms, lowers her head, and takes the bow they're all waiting for. The bow she has f****** earned. From DIDN'T YOU USE TO BE QUEENIE B? by Terri-Lynne DeFino. Copyright © 2025 by Terri-Lynne DeFino. Reprinted by permission of William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Return to top of page She was gone. Harrison returned to Natchez after the war, and she was gone, breaking her promise. Tirzah, the love of his life and the ember in the dark nights of his soul. Two years and twelve days before, Harrison and his beloved had stood within a grove of magnolia trees on the grounds of the Phoenician Estate to say their goodbyes. She was crying so hard that Harrison had to hold her waist so she wouldn't collapse. And he, sweaty with a dirt-caked face, had asked her to wait for him until the war was over. No matter if they were free people or still slaves, he would be coming back for her. She shook her head until her curls flopped over her face and wondered aloud why he wanted to fight a battle they would never win. Before he could answer, one of the Union officers called for him to get moving and Harrison had to let her go. He had never felt a pain so deeply wedged in his chest as in the moment he left the Phoenician. But he had to get away. He hated being who he was now that he was in love. He hated how he could not defend his beloved from the danger of being in the main house under the lustful eye of their owner's son, Spencer. Going off to war, he resolved, he would defend her, himself, and all slaves, and come back to Natchez with pride. But the Natchez he left, with all its stunning wealth, was not the same one to which he returned. As he and his fellow soldiers rode their horses on a trail alongside the Mississippi approaching the city, they saw that all the levees had been destroyed. With each step closer to their destination, the smell of festering animal carcasses became stronger. Weeds and swampland had swallowed up fields upon fields of cotton. When his regiment arrived at the area underneath the bluffs, they found it eerily still. They passed by a well-known wood mill and a large plantation and garden—the only one of its kind below the hill. Before he'd left, at least a half dozen negroes would be tending to the property at a given time, and now there were none. Hardly anyone was mixing in the street, besides a few negroes here and there. There were no steamboats. No sound of foghorns or carriage wheels bumping along the principal street. The relative quietness bothered him. Harrison had to fight to smother the thoughts of the absences of many people being a bad omen. "You still thinkin' 'bout dat lady, ain't ya?" a fellow soldier asked, catching Harrison's line of sight to a trail where one could ascend the hill to the city proper. "Still thinkin'," Harrison replied. "I finna take my horse up dere right nah so dat I don' waste anotha second." "You needa give dat horse a rest first. 'N by de way, what makes you think dat she gon' even be dere? Look around you." Harrison made a soft noise of disapproval and steered his horse away from the rest of the group, embarking on his own path. "You needa go 'n get you a nice one to lay up wit for all dat hard work you put in!" another soldier yelled out. Harrison squeezed his thighs around his horse until he couldn't hear his comrades any longer. The horse's trot widened into a full-speed gallop as they scaled the bluffs and made their way to Natchez proper, where all the most spectacular plantations sat high. Cows and pigs decomposed along the trodden path, but Harrison was undeterred by the carnage. He knew his way. The Phoenician was only about three miles west of the town cemetery and a hospital, two structures that were still intact when he passed, but what Harrison saw next made him instruct his horse to slow. The plantation next to the Phoenician had been desecrated. Weeds grew like outstretched hands over columns and window panels. Acres of azaleas, wildflowers, crape myrtles, and roses had wilted, been trampled upon, or shriveled up and died. When he finally arrived at the Phoenician's entrance gates, which appeared to have been broken, he slowly dismounted from his horse and took off his hat when his boots touched soil. He stood in front of the grand expanse of his former home and closed his eyes. A cacophony of noise overtook his mind—overseers barking orders, mournful cries, music, laughter, exhausted panting. He allowed his lids to flutter open, expecting to see what he'd dreamt more than once, tossing in his disease-ridden barracks: Spencer Ambrose kneeling in agony over his lost labor, slaves dropping their cotton to dance, Tirzah running out of the main house and into his arms. But there was no one in sight. Unconvinced that he was truly alone, Harrison walked farther into the property. Flowers that slaves had maintained so beautifully lay limp on the brown patches of grass. The roof that Harrison had worked in the blistering heat to maintain was showing signs of rot, which also explained the faint smells of animal droppings and urine; the Phoenician must be overrun with pests. Everyone really was gone, Harrison thought, because there could be no other reason why the grand estate, once home to more than a hundred slaves at a time, had reached this level of devastation. He stood underneath the main house's now-cracked pillars and inhaled deeply, hoping to detect a whiff of Tirzah's cooking, only to have the smell of gunpowder and blood irritate his nose. He circled around to the slave cabins, where a single chair rocked mysteriously on one of the small porches. Thinking that one of his old friends must still be around, Harrison put his fingers in his mouth and blew a whistle. "Hey! C'mon out dere! Did ya hear de news? We free!" Not a single door swung open. No quick pacing of feet racing to see what was going on. No jubilant cries out to the Lord for finally bringing them out of their Egypt. He made his way back around to the main house, planning another circle. While he was reminding himself that the possibility of seeing Tirzah again was worth returning to the place he had dreamt so often of leaving, he felt something small and smooth underneath his right foot. He lifted his heel to see an oxblood-colored wallet with the letter T emblazoned upon it, and dropped to his knees. Seven and a half by three and a half inches with a bunch of pockets to stow whatever her heart desired. A guttural wail climbed out from the depths of his belly and shook the birds clean from their nests in the trees. The wallet was a gift he had given to Tirzah one Christmas Eve. That T, in a golden garland motif, was the first letter he had learned to write, the first letter he requested that she teach him in their secret nightly meetings. Had he taken too long, or had she given up too soon? Either way, she really was gone. From ZEAL by Morgan Jerkins. Copyright © 2025 by Morgan Jerkins. Excerpted by permission of Harper, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Return to the top of page Prologue DETROIT, 2004 I never should have touched you," Russell D'Angelo says to the empty room. He twists the lock, toes off his cowboy boots, and leans his fore- head against the hotel-room door, against the framed placard. He's too close to read the emergency evacuation routes it details, even if his eyes weren't blurry with tears. He pinches the bridge of his nose, hard. This is an emergency, the worst he's ever been in, and knowing how to exit the building safely won't help. He is thinking about how she looked, about what he'd said. I never meant for this to happen , he'd told her as she'd glared at him from the hallway, her face shocked and pale and heartbroken. He'd kept talking, hating the pleading sound of his voice. I'm sorry. Russell shakes his head to stop the thoughts. Three paces bring him to the bar cart. He unscrews the cap of the whiskey bottle and lifts it to his mouth, welcoming the burn of the liquor. His eyes are closed, but he can still see them both. Two sets of eyes, two faces, turned toward his. Different faces, but with the same shape to their lips, the same slope of their cheeks. Two women, waiting for an answer Russell didn't have. "I'm an idiot," he tells the room. And it's true. He hadn't even no- ticed what was happening until it was too late. It wasn't until he was standing in front of an officiant, thirty of their closest friends, three hundred fellow celebrities, and a photographer from People magazine that he'd looked over his bride's shoulder and caught her sister's eyes, and the knowledge of the mistake that he was making hit him like a punch to the breastbone, rattling his heart. "I do," he'd said. I'm fucked , he'd thought. And from that moment on, a part of him has been wait- ing, counting down toward this place and this night. You have to choose , she'd told him . Except there isn't a choice here. Not really. Not at all. Twenty minutes later, half the whiskey is gone, and Russell's lean- ing heavily against the wall, looking blearily around the room. His eyes move from object to object without seeing. There's the bed, still made. His suitcase, open on the luggage stand, clothes spilling out from its unzipped top—his jeans and tee shirt, the silly leather pants the stylist insists on because he's the lead guitar player in what is, currently, one of the most successful bands in the country, and leather pants are what cute boys in hot bands are required to wear. There might even be a law about it. "I never should have touched you," Russell says again. He hums a handful of notes in a minor key and decides to write the words down. Moving carefully, deliberately in his inebriation, he locates the tiny pad of hotel stationery and a pen, and writes with care, imagining piano chords, a mournful twangy guitar. Maybe the words will be the backbone of a chorus, the way into a song, he thinks. And then remembers what he's done, and how that door is closed. There will be no more songs for him. He bends to collect his boots, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull them on before walking out into the hall. It's the middle of the night. It's quiet, and all the doors are closed. Nobody sees him as he walks through the lobby, bootheels clicking. Nobody sees as he pushes the heavy glass doors open and steps out into the cold and the dark. Excerpted from the book THE GRIFFIN SISTERS GREATEST HITS by Jennifer Weiner. Copyright © 2025 by Jennifer Weiner. From William Morrow books, an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers. Reprinted by permission. Return to top of page
CBS News
04-03-2025
- Entertainment
- CBS News
"Harlem Rhapsody" voted Readers' Choice for CBS New York Book Club
Please consider joining our Facebook group by CLICKING HERE. Club Calvi has a new book: "Harlem Rhapsody" by Victoria Christopher Murray The CBS New York Book Club asked you to vote on which Top 3 FicPick should be its next read: "I Leave It Up To You," by Jinwoo Chong, "Harlem Rhapsody," by Victoria Christopher Murray or "The Girl From Greenwich Street," by Lauren Willig. Club Calvi revealed that "Harlem Rhapsody," a historical novel, was voted the Readers' Choice. In a message to readers, author Victoria Christopher Murray said: "It's the 1920s and literary giants like Langston Hughes and Zora Neale Hurston are rising to fame because of one woman: Jessie Redmon Fauset, the literary editor of The Crisis magazine. She discovered, she published all of the Harlem Renaissance greats before anyone else. But she held a secret that could ruin everything." Fauset was having an affair with the civil rights activist W.E.B Du Bois, who was also her boss. You can read an excerpt below below and get your copy of the book. The CBS New York Book Club focuses on books connected to the Tri-State Area in their plots and/or authors. The books may contain adult themes. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________ "Harlem Rhapsody" by Victoria Christopher Murray From the publisher: In 1919, a high school teacher from Washington, D.C arrives in Harlem excited to realize her lifelong dream. Jessie Redmon Fauset has been named the literary editor of The Crisis. The first Black woman to hold this position at a preeminent Negro magazine, Jessie is poised to achieve literary greatness. But she holds a secret that jeopardizes it all. W. E. B. Du Bois, the founder of The Crisis, is not only Jessie's boss, he's her lover. And neither his wife, nor their fourteen-year-age difference can keep the two apart. Amidst rumors of their tumultuous affair, Jessie is determined to prove herself. She attacks the challenge of discovering young writers with fervor, finding sixteen-year-old Countee Cullen, seventeen-year-old Langston Hughes, and Nella Larsen, who becomes one of her best friends. Under Jessie's leadership, The Crisis African American writer in the country wants their work published there. When her first novel is released to great acclaim, it's clear that Jessie is at the heart of a renaissance in Black music, theater, and the arts. She has shaped a generation of literary legends, but as she strives to preserve her legacy, she'll discover the high cost of her unparalleled success Victoria Christopher Murray was born in Queens and splits her time between Washington, D.C. and Los Angeles. "Harlem Rhapsody" by Victoria Christopher Murray (ThriftBooks) $22 $22 at ThriftBooks Excerpt: "Harlem Rhapsody" by Victoria Christopher Murray (Introduction to the excerpt: Jessie Redmon Fauset and her mother have just moved to Harlem and are about to tour their new apartment when this scene opens.) "You can't compare Philadelphia and Washington, DC, to this. New York is everything. It's music and theater and . . . come on, Maman." Carrying my valise, I rush toward the sienna-brick brownstone. At the first step, I glance over my shoulder. My mother stands in the same spot. In her pale gold overcoat and matching cloche, she is as fashionable as any New Yorker. But her eyes are as wide as mine as she soaks in the city's vivacity. My heart swells for the woman who didn't birth me but who, for the last twenty- five years, has nurtured me with love. "You were born from my heart," she's told me since I was twelve. Over the city's music, I call out, " Allez, Maman!" in the same tone she'd used with me moments before. At the front door, my hand trembles with excitement as I try to steady the key. We step into the vestibule and then through another door before we enter the hallway and I move to the only door on the first floor. But before I insert the key, the door swings open. "Will!" "Welcome to New York!" I study the man I'd first contacted when I was a student at Cornell University, some sixteen years ago. His mustache has been trimmed since I last saw him in August. And there is a bit more silver blending with the jet-black hair of his beard. As always, he's dressed impeccably in one of his brown three- piece, wide- lapel suits. Tonight, though, he wears a more formal bow tie rather than the neckties I know he prefers. The twinkle in his eyes and his wide smile draw me closer. However, just as I reach for him, I remember. My mother. How had I forgotten her so quickly? That is the effect of W. E. B. Du Bois. His mere presence emits a magnetic force that is difficult to deny or resist. This is a reminder that now, living in New York, I must be measured in my actions. This will be different from seeing Will on his occasional stopovers in Washington, DC. I shift so my mother can enter our new apartment, but she doesn't take a single step. She expects an introduction. "Maman, allow me to present Dr. William Du Bois." "Mrs. Fauset, it is my absolute pleasure to finally make your acquaintance." He takes her valise. My mother's smile has vanished. She steps over the threshold and greets Will with a curt "Good afternoon." My mother strolls around the parlor, taking in the regal Victorian-style room decorated in crimson and gold, and runs her hands over the oak edge of the sofa, then the matching damask-upholstered wingback chairs. "This is a nice apartment." I hope my mother agrees. I turn to the bay windows facing Seventh Avenue. "But look at this, Maman. This . . . will be my favorite place." The windows jut out of the brownstone like a pair of owl's eyes keeping watch over the neighborhood. Will says, "This is the largest apartment, the only one in the building that hasn't been split." "What do you mean?" My eyes are once again on my mother as she rounds the room. "With so many people flocking to New York from the South, landlords are reconstructing the spaces, dividing apartments in half, then doubling the rent," Will explains. "I know the owner of this brownstone, so I secured one of the best furnished spaces in Harlem for you." My mother's steps are silent against the Oriental area rug as she saunters toward the back. "Some of the gals from the office prepared the apartment. Then, of course, Helen," he says, referring to my sister. "We wanted to make certain you had everything you'd need until your belongings arrive." My mother pauses where the parlor spills into the kitchen. Even with the icebox, stove, and sink, there is space for a hutch and a small dining table. "Would you like me to show you the two bedrooms and the water closet, Mrs. Fauset?" "No." She waves her hand. "I'm certain those rooms are sufficient." I nod, Will nods, and my mother says nothing as she lowers herself onto the sofa. She sits—back straight, shoulders squared, her coat still buttoned—as if she hasn't determined whether she'll stay. After a moment, I sit in one chair and Will in the other. Maman speaks first: "Dr. Du Bois, thank you for not only finding us this home, but for securing this job with The Crisis magazine for my daughter." "No thanks is necessary. I wanted to make certain you would be comfortable, and Jessie . . . I mean, Miss Fauset has earned this position as the literary editor. I expect that section of The Crisis to thrive under her leadership." "I agree; my daughter will be a credit to your magazine. Jessie has always been a writer, and has been educated well. She's not only a Phi Beta Kappa graduate, but she's proficient in several languages. And in her teaching career, she has already—" "Maman," I interrupt, dismayed. My glance shifts between her and Will. "I'm certain Dr. Du Bois doesn't desire a recapitulation of my credentials." "Yes, I was quite impressed with your daughter when I interviewed her for this position." "Is that when you first became"—she pauses—"impressed?" Another pause. "With my daughter?" If Will hears my mother's derision, he gives no indication. "I was very impressed. Beyond Miss Fauset's writings is her understanding that literature is a venue that must be utilized to display the best of the Negro race." "On that, we can agree, Dr. Du Bois. Literature can be useful in this fight for equality. That's what I tell my daughter. She can change this world with words."
CBS News
25-02-2025
- Entertainment
- CBS News
Club Calvi reveals new Top 3 FicPicks, vote now on which book the club should read next!
Essentials By / Essentials We may receive commissions from some links to products on this page. Promotions are subject to availability and retailer terms. Please consider joining our Facebook group by CLICKING HERE. Help the CBS New York Book Club pick a spring read "I Leave It Up To You," by Jinwoo Chang, "Harlem Rhapsody," by Victoria Christopher Murray, and "The Girl From Greenwich Street" by Lauren Willig - Club Calvi has three new fiction books for you to consider for the Club's next read. Your vote will determine our Readers' Choice. Chang's "I Leave It Up To You" is about a Manhattan man who wakes from a coma to discover his fiancé has left him, his career is over, and he has no place to live. He returns to Fort Lee, New Jersey, to live with his parents who he hadn't seen in years before the coma, and to work in the family's sushi restaurant while he rebuilds his life. Murray's "Harlem Rhapsody" is a historical novel about Jessie Redmond Fauset, who discovered and shaped literary legends of the Harlem Renaissance including Langston Hughes, Countee Cullen, Nella Larsen, and Zora Neale Hurston, while having a tempestuous affair with civil rights activist W.E.B Du Bois. Willig's "The Girl From Greenwich Street" is a historical fiction mystery of a notorious Manhattan murder trial in 1800 that united rivals Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr to save a man from the gallows. The Manhattan Well Murder Case was the first murder trial in America in which the proceedings were recorded in transcripts. You can read excerpts below, vote, and get your copy of the books. ________________________________________________________________________________________________________ "I Leave It Up to You" by Jinwoo Chong From the publisher: A coma can change a man, but the world Jack Jr. awakens to is one he barely recognizes. His advertising job is history, his Manhattan apartment is gone, and the love of his life has left him behind. He's been asleep for two years; with no one to turn to, he realizes it's been ten years since he last saw his family. Lost and disoriented, he makes a reluctant homecoming back to the bustling Korean American enclave of Fort Lee, New Jersey; back into the waiting arms of his parents, who are operating under the illusion that he never left; and back to Joja, their ever-struggling sushi restaurant that he was set to inherit before he ran away from it all. As he steps back into the life he abandoned—learning his Appa's life lessons over crates of tuna on bleary-eyed 4 a.m. fish runs, doling out amberjack behind the omakase counter while his Umma tallies the night's pitiful number of customers, and sparring with his recovering alcoholic brother, James—he embraces new roles, too: that of romantic interest to the nurse who took care of him, and that of sage (but underqualified) uncle to his gangly teenage nephew. There is value in the joyous rhythms of this once-abandoned life. But second chances are an even messier business than running a restaurant, and the lure of a self-determined path might, once again, prove too hard to resist. Lynda Cohen Loigman lives in New York. "I Leave It Up to You" by Jinwoo Chong (ThriftBooks) $22 $22 at ThriftBooks "Harlem Rhapsody" by Victoria Christopher Murray From the publisher: In 1919, a high school teacher from Washington, D.C arrives in Harlem excited to realize her lifelong dream. Jessie Redmon Fauset has been named the literary editor of The Crisis. The first Black woman to hold this position at a preeminent Negro magazine, Jessie is poised to achieve literary greatness. But she holds a secret that jeopardizes it all. W. E. B. Du Bois, the founder of The Crisis, is not only Jessie's boss, he's her lover. And neither his wife, nor their fourteen-year-age difference can keep the two apart. Amidst rumors of their tumultuous affair, Jessie is determined to prove herself. She attacks the challenge of discovering young writers with fervor, finding sixteen-year-old Countee Cullen, seventeen-year-old Langston Hughes, and Nella Larsen, who becomes one of her best friends. Under Jessie's leadership, The Crisis African American writer in the country wants their work published there. When her first novel is released to great acclaim, it's clear that Jessie is at the heart of a renaissance in Black music, theater, and the arts. She has shaped a generation of literary legends, but as she strives to preserve her legacy, she'll discover the high cost of her unparalleled success Victoria Christopher Murray was born in Queens and splits her time between Washington, D.C. and Los Angeles. "Harlem Rhapsody" by Victoria Christopher Murray (ThriftBooks) $22 $22 at ThriftBooks "The Girl From Greenwich Street" by Lauren Willig From the publisher: At the start of a new century, a shocking murder transfixes Manhattan, forcing bitter rivals Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr to work together to save a man from the gallows. Just before Christmas 1799, Elma Sands slips out of her Quaker cousin's boarding house—and doesn't come home. Has she eloped? Run away? No one knows—until her body appears in the Manhattan Well. Her family insists they know who killed her. Handbills circulate around the city accusing a carpenter named Levi Weeks of seducing and murdering Elma. But privately, quietly, Levi's wealthy brother calls in a special favor…. Aaron Burr's legal practice can't finance both his expensive tastes and his ambition to win the 1800 New York elections. To defend Levi Weeks is a double win: a hefty fee plus a chance to grab headlines. Alexander Hamilton has his own political aspirations; he isn't going to let Burr monopolize the public's attention. If Burr is defending Levi Weeks, then Hamilton will too. As the trial and the election draw near, Burr and Hamilton race against time to save a man's life—and destroy each other. Lauren William lives in New York City. "The Girl From Greenwich Street" by Lauren Willig (ThriftBooks) $23 $23 at ThriftBooks What the Actual F***, Man? Waking up is an easy thing to do. To be asleep, then not. To be a mind out there in the dark with no ground underneath, no legs or arms, no chest, no blood pumping in rhythmic bursts up my neck, no body at all, no hands, no hair or eyes, no a** or d***. Yes, sir, just your eyeless, handless, a**less, d***less self just hanging out there in space for forever until suddenly, you're not. Because suddenly is in fact the best word I can think of to describe it. Suddenly, SUDDENLY, with all the absolute cosmic consequence in the universe, a strange and terrifying surprise takes place and a thing that was not ever supposed to happen—happens. So quietly that nothing about it feels extraordinary at all. You wake up. You being me. Me being somebody, just some guy who in a singular moment has found himself all at once awake and sore in the neck. Clenching my fists shut, opening my eyes, two of them on my face exactly where I remembered them to be. Seeing another someone sitting there in front of me, composed of bold lines as though drawn on fresh white printer paper with a king-size Sharpie. Giant blue eyes—two of them—staring back at me. Like a tether, a spark from him to me, into my face, my neck, down my chest and arms, to the bottoms of my toes buried under warm, scratchy fibers. I hear a thought click slowly into place, my first thought in a very, very long time: that in the beginning, there was me, and also him. "Ren?" I didn't hear my own voice but felt my throat vibrate. His eyes were fixed on me and had been all this time. He didn't move. Maybe he hadn't heard me. I tried to arrange my perception of him; parts—the eyes, the shoulders, the chest—were swimming around, jagged and refracted as if underwater. I noticed then that he was covered, head to toe, in crisp blue fabric. A cap over his hair, a surgical mask over his face. There was a cord of neck muscle pushing against his skin. Ren looked upset. I tried to tell him everything was fine, to calm down, since I had a lot to ask him: Where was I? Why did my entire body feel like vibrating air? Like Jell-O? Like it was broken in every conceivable place and hastily put back together again by someone with only a loose understanding of the human body and which of its parts fit into each other? He looked really, really upset, more so by the second. "Ren—" I tried to say again, opening my mouth, making the shape of his name with my lips. I said my husband's name a lot, punctuating my existence with it as though I had a nervous tic. I felt safe when I said his name. He always appeared, full and warm, when I said it, moved ever so slightly in his sleep when I whispered it to him in our bed. I was in the middle of saying it again when I felt my throat strain against something sharp and hard. It occurred to me that there were not—as I'd assumed—just us two things within this new universe I'd woken up in. Among the great many things that were now making their presence known—a harsh overhead light, a dull warmth gathered at the small of my back—was the grip end of a canoe oar or a golf club that, for reasons unknown, I'd been deep-throating in my sleep. I made a soft choking noise, testing it out again—"Ren?"—and felt the canoe oar strain against the right side of my esophagus, scraping soft tissue. I brought my hand up toward my neck, continuing to choke. I tried to stay calm. I didn't want to freak him out. But Ren's eyes had gone as wide as plates. "Oh f***—" he said loudly, in a rough and booming voice that took me a second—two—to realize I did not recognize. "Oh holy mother******* f***!" A pause, while I continued to choke. Then, gathering his breath, the person sitting in front of me, who was not in fact my husband, said this: "This really isn't supposed to happen." I tried to say something along the lines of "What a f****** weird thing to say" but gagged before my lips could form the words. Not-Ren's voice was deep and flat, clear like audio recorded on an expensive podcasting microphone and filtered straight into my ears through noise-canceling headphones. I'd never heard a voice so sharp and high-def in my entire life; his was a knife that had cut away all the fuzz around the world, making it new and whole. He had a wonderful voice. There was a lot to admire about a voice like that, despite its obvious distress, despite its not being my husband's and currently not trying very hard to tell me where my husband even was. The broomstick in my throat was starting to make me tear up. Weakly, I pointed at it, asking him for help. "Jack—" He was suddenly a lot closer than before, one hand steady around my neck. I caught a glimpse of dark, curly hair poking up over the collar of his shirt while he reached for something above my head. "Just stay calm. Can you do that, Jack? It's a breathing tube. You've been intubated—" I remembered that Jack was my name. Jack, plus a big, obnoxious Jr. that has been appended since birth, not only on my birth certificate, but also within normal conversation. Jack Jr., Jack Jr. Hey, look over there, it's Jack Jr. just f****** around minding his own business and being an exemplary citizen and s***. Hey, Jack Jr.! Why's the sky blue, Jack Jr.? Oh, that's easy, it has something to do with the refractory properties of the atmosphere, which scatters blue wavelengths of light more than any other on the spectrum of visible radiation. Happy? Need anything else? Not a thing, Jack Jr., you're a real stand-up guy, Jack Jr. Excerpted from I Leave It Up to You by Jinwoo Chong. Copyright © 2025 by Jinwoo Chong. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher. Excerpt: "Harlem Rhapsody" by Victoria Christopher Murray (Introduction to the excerpt: Jessie Redmon Fauset and her mother have just moved to Harlem and are about to tour their new apartment when this scene opens.) "You can't compare Philadelphia and Washington, DC, to this. New York is everything. It's music and theater and . . . come on, Maman." Carrying my valise, I rush toward the sienna-brick brownstone. At the first step, I glance over my shoulder. My mother stands in the same spot. In her pale gold overcoat and matching cloche, she is as fashionable as any New Yorker. But her eyes are as wide as mine as she soaks in the city's vivacity. My heart swells for the woman who didn't birth me but who, for the last twenty- five years, has nurtured me with love. "You were born from my heart," she's told me since I was twelve. Over the city's music, I call out, " Allez, Maman!" in the same tone she'd used with me moments before. At the front door, my hand trembles with excitement as I try to steady the key. We step into the vestibule and then through another door before we enter the hallway and I move to the only door on the first floor. But before I insert the key, the door swings open. "Welcome to New York!" I study the man I'd first contacted when I was a student at Cornell University, some sixteen years ago. His mustache has been trimmed since I last saw him in August. And there is a bit more silver blending with the jet-black hair of his beard. As always, he's dressed impeccably in one of his brown three- piece, wide- lapel suits. Tonight, though, he wears a more formal bow tie rather than the neckties I know he prefers. The twinkle in his eyes and his wide smile draw me closer. However, just as I reach for him, I remember. My mother. How had I forgotten her so quickly? That is the effect of W. E. B. Du Bois. His mere presence emits a magnetic force that is difficult to deny or resist. This is a reminder that now, living in New York, I must be measured in my actions. This will be different from seeing Will on his occasional stopovers in Washington, DC. I shift so my mother can enter our new apartment, but she doesn't take a single step. She expects an introduction. "Maman, allow me to present Dr. William Du Bois." "Mrs. Fauset, it is my absolute pleasure to finally make your acquaintance." He takes her valise. My mother's smile has vanished. She steps over the threshold and greets Will with a curt "Good afternoon." My mother strolls around the parlor, taking in the regal Victorian-style room decorated in crimson and gold, and runs her hands over the oak edge of the sofa, then the matching damask-upholstered wingback chairs. "This is a nice apartment." I hope my mother agrees. I turn to the bay windows facing Seventh Avenue. "But look at this, Maman. This . . . will be my favorite place." The windows jut out of the brownstone like a pair of owl's eyes keeping watch over the neighborhood. Will says, "This is the largest apartment, the only one in the building that hasn't been split." "What do you mean?" My eyes are once again on my mother as she rounds the room. "With so many people flocking to New York from the South, landlords are reconstructing the spaces, dividing apartments in half, then doubling the rent," Will explains. "I know the owner of this brownstone, so I secured one of the best furnished spaces in Harlem for you." My mother's steps are silent against the Oriental area rug as she saunters toward the back. "Some of the gals from the office prepared the apartment. Then, of course, Helen," he says, referring to my sister. "We wanted to make certain you had everything you'd need until your belongings arrive." My mother pauses where the parlor spills into the kitchen. Even with the icebox, stove, and sink, there is space for a hutch and a small dining table. "Would you like me to show you the two bedrooms and the water closet, Mrs. Fauset?" "No." She waves her hand. "I'm certain those rooms are sufficient." I nod, Will nods, and my mother says nothing as she lowers herself onto the sofa. She sits—back straight, shoulders squared, her coat still buttoned—as if she hasn't determined whether she'll stay. After a moment, I sit in one chair and Will in the other. Maman speaks first: "Dr. Du Bois, thank you for not only finding us this home, but for securing this job with The Crisis magazine for my daughter." "No thanks is necessary. I wanted to make certain you would be comfortable, and Jessie . . . I mean, Miss Fauset has earned this position as the literary editor. I expect that section of The Crisis to thrive under her leadership." "I agree; my daughter will be a credit to your magazine. Jessie has always been a writer, and has been educated well. She's not only a Phi Beta Kappa graduate, but she's proficient in several languages. And in her teaching career, she has already—" "Maman," I interrupt, dismayed. My glance shifts between her and Will. "I'm certain Dr. Du Bois doesn't desire a recapitulation of my credentials." "Yes, I was quite impressed with your daughter when I interviewed her for this position." "Is that when you first became"—she pauses—"impressed?" Another pause. "With my daughter?" If Will hears my mother's derision, he gives no indication. "I was very impressed. Beyond Miss Fauset's writings is her understanding that literature is a venue that must be utilized to display the best of the Negro race." "On that, we can agree, Dr. Du Bois. Literature can be useful in this fight for equality. That's what I tell my daughter. She can change this world with words." Chapter One On Thursday last was found in a well dug by the Manhattan Company, on the north side of the Collect (but which afterwards proved useless) the body of Miss G. E. Sands who had been missing from the evening of Sunday the 22nd. — Greenleaf's New Daily Advertiser, January 8, 1800 New York City January 6, 1800 "I heard they found her muff floating in a drain in Bayard's Lane." "No—not a drain. The Manhattan Well." Greenwich Street heaved with people, shoving, pushing, jostling. Alexander Hamilton slowed, contemplating this unexpected hindrance. His two clerks had been more than usually slow and doltish this morning, his correspondence more than usually irritating, so he had darted out of his office with the object of buying Eliza a coffee biggin. She'd looked so heavy-eyed at the breakfast table, bouncing baby Betsy in one arm while presiding over the coffeepot with the other. The coffee biggin, Gouverneur Morris assured him, produced a superior, stronger quality of coffee. Whether it did or not, Alexander had no idea, but it would be something to offer Eliza, to take that smudged, hollow look from her eyes. Soon, he'd promised her. Soon he'd step away from public life. They'd build an idyll in the countryside, near enough to town that they could enjoy the society of their friends and he could lend his aid as needed to his fellow Federalists, consult on the odd legal matter. . . . Soon. But General Washington had entrusted him with the organization of the new army—never mind how President Adams resented it, how he worked to undermine all of Alexander's plans—and with the general in his grave this past month, Alexander felt more keenly than ever how strongly he needed to press the work forward. Then there was the petty manner of money. Money, always money. Money for the children's schooling; money to build their house in the country. Money to be earned from the legal practice that was suffering sorely as Alexander struggled to build an army that he knew was needed, if only the ignoramuses in Philadelphia could just be brought to see it. Just a bit longer. A bit longer and he'd be able to move Eliza and their brood to the countryside, and live the life of a country squire, going out with his fowling piece to shoot ducks in the morning mist, his Eliza presiding clear-eyed at their own tea table. Soon. Eventually. Someday. But for now, he could buy her a coffee biggin. Or so he'd intended. Greenwich Street was impassable with this inexplicable crowd. Unlike the elegant brick homes lining Broadway, the houses here were of wood, ugly, clumsy structures so newly built that Alexander could practically smell the wood shavings and fresh-mixed plaster. It was a tinderbox of a street, but it wasn't a fire causing this unaccustomed press of people; he would have smelled the smoke before this. Only a block away, the students of his alma mater, King's College—now Columbia—rushed to class in their flapping gowns, but this didn't have the flavor of a student riot; there wasn't enough Latin being spoken. Besides, the students were enclosed behind the high gates of the college, effectively locking them away from the city around them. When Alexander was in college, there'd been much made of the college's proximity to the so-called Holy Ground, where pleasure could be found for a price and brawls sometimes broke out between customers and madams, or madams and enraged moralists. But that was on the other side of the college. This was a street of respectable small tradesmen, running their businesses out of the front rooms of their homes: grocers and tobacconists and, most important, an ironmonger who was reputed to make excellent coffee biggins. Alexander could just make out the wooden sign creaking from one of the awnings, right at what seemed to be the epicenter of the excited crowd. It seemed unlikely that half the city had experienced a simultaneous desire for a coffee biggin. "Alexander!" A hand clapped him on the shoulder, and Alexander looked up into the face of his old friend and colleague Richard Harison, once his partner in law practice, still his partner in politics. "Or should I say Major General?" "Never among friends." Or possibly not at all if that ass Adams had anything to do with it, not to mention Aaron Burr and his Republican rabble, downplaying the threat from France, ignoring the dangers of a Revolutionary regime untrammeled, agitating for the disbandment of Alexander's army. The United States Army, that was, or would be, if Alexander was given the supplies and support he so desperately needed. "How goes the business of the army?" "Busily," Alexander quipped. Even to an ally like Harison, Alexander could never admit the fear that it was all for naught, all his preparations and plans, the punishing pace he had set himself and his clerks. That a** Adams had never wanted the army and he'd certainly never wanted Alexander. Alexander had been forced on him, by the one person with the power to do so. The person who had lain cold and still in his grave these past three weeks. Alexander had marched in General Washington's funeral procession; he'd listened to Gouverneur Morris deliver the funeral oration; but he still couldn't quite entirely believe he was gone, that great man who had loved him as his own father never had. And there was his Eliza with gray in her dark hair, their Philip studying at King's College—not King's anymore, but Columbia—and Harison, who had been in his prime when they had begun their practice together just after the war, now heavy-jowled, the new Brutus hairstyle not hiding the fact that his hair was thinning at the temples, and gray now, entirely gray. How had they come to this? This wasn't what Alexander had thought his middle age would be, scrabbling after pennies, after favor, after political advancement, surrounded by incompetents and opportunists. Alexander cleared his throat. "What ruckus is this? Are the apprentices revolting again?" "The apprentices are always revolting." Harison chuckled at his own tired sally. "You must have heard, surely? About the girl. The girl in the well." The man in front of him had said something about the Manhattan Well, that misbegotten monstrosity. "Ah," said Alexander, as if he knew more than he did. "Are all these people—" "Here to view the corpse." Harison shoved his hands in his waistcoat to warm them. "You haven't come to gawp at the girl in the well, have you?"
CBS News
22-02-2025
- Entertainment
- CBS News
Mary Calvi talks to New Jersey author Pam Jenoff about her latest bestselling book
Please consider joining our Facebook group by CLICKING HERE. Find out more about the books below. The CBS New York Book Club has a new novel for your "to read" list. Author Pem Jenoff has won over fans with historical fiction books set during World War II. Her latest "Last Twilight in Paris" was released earlier this month, and now it's a New York Times Bestseller. "Last Twilight in Paris" is about two women, one in France, the other in England who are linked through a mysterious necklace. "We meet Louise in 1953 Britain," Jenoff explaned, "and Louise is trying to adjust to post-war life after having done some remarkable things with the Red Cross during the war. One day Louise finds a necklace in a thrift store box. It's a half-heart with the words 'watch' and 'me' on the necklace, and she is certain that she has seen this necklace during the war. She saw a prisoner of war hand it to her friend, Franny, hours before Franny was found dead outside the POW camp. Louise believes if she can find the origin of this necklace, she can find out the truth about what really happened to Franny." Louise's search leads her to a store, which Jenoff based on historical fact. At the store in the book, Jenoff says, "Jewish prisoners were held and they were forced to sort and sell the plunder from the Jewish homes to German officers." Jenoff says in real life, the store sold furniture. "What's so striking and true is that it was right in the middle of Paris. This grand store. And, unfathomably, people were forced to live on the fourth floor," she said. Jenoff sheds light on the little-known history of the store through Louise's emotional search for the truth about her friend in "Last Twilight in Paris." The CBS New York Book Club focuses on books connected to the Tri-State Area in their plots and/or authors. The books may contain adult themes. "Last Twilight in Paris" by Pam Jenoff From the publisher: London, 1953. Louise is still adjusting to her postwar role as a housewife when she discovers a necklace in a box at a secondhand shop. The box is marked with the name of a department store in Paris, and she is certain she has seen the necklace before, when she worked with the Red Cross in Nazi-occupied Europe —and that it holds the key to the mysterious death of her friend Franny during the war. Following the trail of clues to Paris, Louise seeks help from her former boss Ian, with whom she shares a romantic history. The necklace leads them to discover the dark history of Lévitan—a once-glamorous department store that served as a Nazi prison, and Helaine, a woman who was imprisoned there, torn apart from her husband when the Germans invaded France. Louise races to find the connection between the necklace, the department store and Franny's death. But nothing is as it seems, and there are forces determined to keep the truth buried forever. Inspired by the true story of Lévitan, Last Twilight in Paris is both a gripping mystery and an unforgettable story about sacrifice, resistance and the power of love to transcend in even the darkest hours. Pam Jenoff lives in New Jersey.. "Last Twilight in Paris" by Pam Jenoff (ThriftBooks) $21 $$21 at ThriftBooks Excerpt: "Last Twilight in Paris" by Pam Jenoff Prologue Helaine Paris, 1943 Darkness. Helaine stumbled forward, unable to see through the black void that surrounded her. She could feel the shoulders of the others jostling on either side. The smell of unwashed bodies rose, mingling with Helaine's own. Her hand brushed against a rough wall, scraping her knuckles. Someone ahead tripped and yelped. Hours earlier, when Helaine had been brought from her underground cell at the police station into the adjacent holding area, she was surprised to see other women waiting. She had not encountered anyone since her arrest. She had studied the women, who looked to be from all walks of life, trying to discern some commonality among their varied ages and classes that had caused them to be here. There was only one: they were Jews. The yellow star they wore, whether soiled and crudely sewn onto a worn, secondhand dress or pressed crisply against the latest Parisian finery, was identical—and it made them all the same. They had stood in the bare holding area, not daring to speak. Helaine was certain that her arrest had been some sort of mistake. She had done nothing wrong. They had to free her. But even as she thought this, she knew that the old world of being a French citizen with rights was long gone. An hour passed, then two. There was nowhere to sit, and a few people dropped to the floor. An elderly woman dozed against the wall, mouth agape. But for the slight rise and fall of her chest, she might have been dead. Hunger gnawed at Helaine and she wished that she still had the baked goods she purchased at the market just before she was taken. The meager breads, which had seemed so pathetic days earlier, now would have been a feast. But her belongings had been confiscated at arrest. Helaine looked upward through the thin slit of window near the ceiling. They were still in Paris. The sour smell from the city street and the sounds of cars and footsteps despite the curfew were familiar, if not comforting. How long they would stay here, she did not know. Helaine was torn. She did not want to remain in this empty room forever. Yet she also dreaded leaving, for wherever they were going would surely be worse. Finally, the door had opened. "Sortir!" a voice ordered them out in native French, reminding Helaine that the policemen, who had brought them here and who were keeping them captive, were not Germans, but their own people. Helaine had filed into the dimly lit corridor with the others. They exited the police station and stepped outside onto the pavement. At the sight of the familiar buildings and the street leading away from the station, Helaine momentarily considered fleeing. She had no idea, though, where she would go. She imagined running to her childhood home, debated whether her estranged mother would take her in or turn her away. But the women were heavily guarded and there was no real possibility of escape. Instead, Helaine breathed the fresh air in great gulps, sensing that she might not be in the open again for quite some time. The women were herded up a ramp toward an awaiting truck. Helaine recoiled. They were being placed in the back part of the vehicle where goods should have been carried, not people. Helaine wanted to protest but did not dare. Smells of stale grain and rotting meat, the truck's previous cargo, assaulted her nose, mixing with her own stench in the warm air. It had been three days since she had bathed or changed and her dress was wrinkled and filthy, her once-luminous black curls dull and matted against her head. When the women were all inside the truck, the back hatch shut with an ominous click. "Where are they taking us?" someone whispered. Silence. No one knew and they were all too afraid to venture a guess. They had heard the stories of the trains headed east to awful places from which no one ever returned. Helaine wondered how long the journey would be. As they bumped along the Paris streets, Helaine's bones, already sore from sleeping on the hard prison cell floor, cried out in pain. Her mouth was dry and her stomach empty. She wanted water and a meal, a hot bath. She wanted home. If home was a place that even existed anymore. Helaine's husband, Gabriel, was missing in Germany, his fate unknown. She had scarcely spoken with her parents since before the war. And Helaine herself had been taken without notice. Nobody knew that she had been arrested or had any idea where she had gone. It was as if she simply no longer existed. To distract herself, Helaine tried to picture the route they were taking outside the windowless truck, down the boulevards she had just days earlier walked freely, past the cafés and shops. The familiar locations should have been some small comfort. But this might well be the last time she ever came this way, Helaine realized, and the thought only worsened her despair. Several minutes later, the truck stopped with a screech. They were at a train station, Helaine guessed. The back hatch to the truck opened and the women peered out into pitch blackness. "Raus!" a voice commanded. That they were under the watch of Germans now seemed to confirm Helaine's worst fears about where they were headed. "Schnell!" Someone let out a cry, a mix of the anguish and uncertainty they all felt. The women clambered from the truck and Helaine stumbled, banging her knee and yelping. "Quiet," a woman's voice beside her cautioned fearfully. A hand reached out and helped her down the ramp with an unexpectedly gentle touch. Outside the truck it was the tiniest bit lighter, and Helaine was just able to make out some sort of loading dock. The group moved forward into a large building. Now Helaine found herself in complete darkness once more. This was how she had come to be in an unfamiliar building, shuffling forward blindly with a group of women she did not know, uncertain of where they were going or the fate that might befall them. She could see nothing, only feel the fear and confusion in the air around her. They seemed to be in some sort of corridor, pressed even more closely together than they had been. Helaine put her hand on the shoulder of the woman in front of her, trying hard not to fall again. They were herded roughly through a doorway, into a room that was also unlit. No one moved or spoke. Helaine had heard rumors of mass executions, groups of people gassed or simply shot. The Germans might do that to them now. Her skin prickled. She thought of those she loved most, Gabriel and, despite everything that had happened, her parents. Helaine wanted their faces, not fear, to be her final thought. Bright lights turned on suddenly, illuminating the space around them. "Mon Dieu!" someone behind her exclaimed softly. Helaine blinked her eyes, scarcely daring to believe what she saw. They were not in a camp or a prison at all. Instead, they were standing in the main showroom of what had once been one of the grandest department stores in Paris.
