2014 Oscar Menu

It’s almost here; the evening when I sit glued to the television ogling glittering gowns while wearing yoga pants and a Cubs’ t-shirt. Yes, the glamour, the glitz, the glory of Matthew McConaughey in a tuxedo (shirtless, please? “It’d be a whole cooler if you did.”)

It can only be … The Oscars.

Each Academy Awards season, I try to concoct a meal based on the Best Picture nominees. This year, I said I wasn’t going to – too busy, scrambling to finish the manuscript for another novel and wiped out from work/kids/the looming threat of a dog everyone in my family keeps lobbying for … I had all the excuses ready and I just said not this year.

I lied. Credit goes to my husband, who despite LOATHING award shows was appalled when I declared 2014 to be the year I didn’t make my Oscar meal. Declaring, “If I’m going to sit through your stupid 3 hour show, we’re not half-assing it,” he then proceeded to download Nebraska from Netflix and proposed his own Oscar menu:

Captain Phillips: Fish sticks from Long John Silvers
Dallas Buyers Club: steak
Nebraska: corn on the cob
Gravity: Pop rocks
Philomena: English biscuits
12 Years a Slave: “cotton” candy
American Hustle: a wig
Her: blowup doll
The Wolf of Wall Street: fried wolf

I had to admire his ingenuity, but Long John Silvers for the Oscars? Not on my watch, pal. Not to mention the difficulty of obtaining fresh wolf meat in Dallas this time of year. Sure, we could probably pick up a blow-up doll and a wig off Central Expressway, but I’m certainly not dining with one. Though it does have a certain Wolf of Wall Street ring of excess. . .

So, having decided against rubber dinner companions or semi-frozen seafood, I had no choice but to come up with my own Oscar menu. Admittedly, it includes a lot more components I don’t actually have to cook – which I feel is a fitting nod to JLaw’s domestic skills in American Hustle.

Without further ado, may I present the 2014 Oscar Menu:

Starters
Champagne (Wolf of Wall Street)
Samosas (Captain Phillips)
Irish cheddar (Philomena)

Entree
Salad with Dorothy Lynch dressing (Nebraska)
Garlic bread (American Hustle)
Pizza (Her)
Llano Estacado TX cabernet (Dallas Buyers Club)

Dessert
Moon pies (Gravity) & blackberries (12 Years a Slave)

Bon appetit - and keep your fingers crossed for good ol' Matthew Sunday night -- because wouldn't it be awesome if 2 years in a row, the Academy Awards went to guys who got their start in Dazed & Confused?

"You just gotta keep livin' man, L-I-V-I-N."

Yesterday morning at 7:53 a.m., I received an email from Ashley Madison.

The subject line read as follows:
Life is short. Have an affair.

Whoa, y’all. Buy a girl some Starbucks first. After I stopped laughing, I did a little research. For those of you who don’t know, Ashley Madison is a website for people who want to have affairs… but I guess, lack the time or the right contacts to make that happen on their own?

Is that a thing now? Are we so lazy and impersonal as a society we can’t even find people in real life to cheat with? Back when Grandma was a girl, they didn’t have websites. They had the milkman.

And who came up with the name? It sounds like a furniture store. Maybe that’s the point – so spouses don’t see those emails and suspect a steamy rendezvous; they just think you’re just buying a new ottoman.

There were so many things about this email that brought up questions I never knew I had, like how did I get on that email list? Usually when you get on the list for something, it’s through something you purchased or signed up for. So that really got me thinking. Was it the lime green personal organizer I recently purchased on Amazon that revealed an as yet-untapped proclivity for looser morals? Or maybe it was the array of summer sausage I recently purchased from Bavaria Smokehouse. (Feel free to insert your own meat joke here). The last thing I signed up for was the homeowner’s association, and I’m pretty sure if our ‘hood was a hotbed of swingers, the dues would be more than $50.

And what’s with the early roll call, Ash Mad? Is 7:53 am the prime time people make the choice to cheat? Like 11:15 is too close to lunch, and after 8pm people are too busy watching Mad Men? Me, I’d need some coffee before entertaining thoughts of adultery.

Then I opened the email. And laughed even more.

How can a company organize an entire site devoted to illicit relationships, yet not figure out how to send emails that actually work? Here’s what I saw: two broken links. That’s it. Can you imagine the letdown from someone who was actually thrilled to get this email, and possibly would have been swayed into a new lifestyle of cheap motel rooms and late night sexting? (Or whatever it is the kids, ahem, grownups, today are doing).

Heads up, Cheaters: Learn HTML.

DISCLAIMER: This has zero to do with my book, New Orleans, flesh-eating scavengers or anything remotely supernatural. This is the result of me sitting through a particularly nonriveting meeting last week at work. But rest assured, there's suspense and a certain degree of horror. Because conference calls? Pretty scary stuff.

The following is a transcript of a monthly team meeting. The team in Texas is gathered in one conference room, speaking via Webex call to the team in Chicago.

Lisa (on the phone): Blah, blah, blah (introduces meeting). So you need to enter the PDR in the GPS Blue and ACA and DOA …and a bunch of other acronyms everyone pretends to understand.

Random lady in orange sweater sitting in the back of the room: PDR? What’s PDR? Who said that?

Laura: (leaning over table to address Random lady in orange): We’re on mute; they can’t hear you.

Random lady in orange: I’m taking notes for someone, I need to know.

Laura: (sighs, unmutes speaker)

Random lady in orange: What’s PDR?

Laura(muttering): they can’t hear you if you are talking from the back of the room. You need to sit near a speaker.

Random lady in orange: (shouting) WHO SAID THAT? WHAT’S PDR?

Someone on the other end of the phone: random shuffling of papers, no one answer RLIO, who furrows brow.

Elisabeth: blah, blah, blah (talks about entering timesheets)

RLIO: HOW DO YOU SPELL YOUR LAST NAME?

Elisabeth: (surprised) Spells name.

RLIO: WAS THAT A ‘U’?

Laura: (shaking her head): Yes. It was a ‘U’.

Mary: Blah, blah, blah (talks about coding time and expenses).

RLIO: WAS THAT A ‘P’ CODE OR A ‘Z’ CODE? Z LIKE ZEBRA?

Mary (wearily): A ‘Z’ code.

RLIO: HOW DO YOU SPELL YOUR LAST NAME?

Mary: (looking across the room at RLIO, who is sitting roughly twenty feet away): B-A-T

RLIO: WAS THAT AN ‘E’ OR A ‘T’?

Half the people in the room: try not to make eye contact so as to not laugh and incur wrath of RLIO.

RLIO: I’M TAKING NOTES FOR SOMEONE. I NEED TO KNOW

Laura: (gritting teeth) E. It’s an ‘E.’

Mary: So when you enter a P code, please don’t forget your Z code, blah, blah, blah

RLIO: WAS THAT ‘P’ OR ‘Z’? I’M TAKING NOTES.

Mary: (pretends not to hear, stares at the table)

Lisa: Think it’s time to sign off. Thanks everyone.

RLIO: HOW DO YOU SPELL YOUR NAME?

We never did learn the difference between a P code or a Z code, or the true identity of the mysterious RLIO, but rumor has it she works on the web team.

And her contract just expired.

And it isn’t being renewed.

But if I meet her again, I’d like to express my gratitude for her determination and relentless refusal to let her questions go unanswered, even if it meant yelling in the middle of a meeting no one’s really sure she should have been attending in the first place.

Because thanks to her? I can spell everyone’s name.

In 2014 I will drink more wine

New Year's Eve is almost here, which means it's time for me to make yet another list of resolutions I have no hope of keeping. That's how it usually goes anyway, but this year I've decided to try something different. This year I am actually going to do everything on my list. Some of these resolutions, like finishing 3 books, will be challenging to keep. Others, like drinking wine and writing questionable genre fiction, will not.

Here goes...

1. In 2014 I will drink more wine. Because I am nothing if not committed to flooding my body with antioxidants. Kale, shmale. Cracking open a bottle of Cabernet is much less work. Besides, I tried that recipe where you are supposed to bake little snippets of greens in the oven and fool your children into thinking they are chips ... really? Last time I checked, children weren't stupid. And until the fine folks at Frito Lay can find a way to package kale into a Dorito, I'll stick to the vino.

2. In 2014 I will rewrite two books, I will finish one sequel, and write at least one of my "other" projects. I've neglected the regular writing to crank out a few less-than-appropriate stories as my alter ego. This year, I'll do them all. While somehow not losing my sanity or my day job, because oh yeah, I got one of those. But, glass half full - writing at night will keep me sane while I toil in the cube by day. I'll be kind of like Batman, only without the cool costumes or piles of money.

3. In 2014, I will eat more pecans. Because I like them. Also, they are the state nut of Texas, so it's sort of patriotic. Which would make some kind of bizarre sense if Texas were its own country, but many people here already think it is.

4. In 2014, I will vacuum less. This will be difficult, only because I rarely vacuum now -- but somehow I will manage.

5. In 2014, I will finally figure out how to use punctuation correctly between quotation marks. JUST KIDDING. I will never figure that out. Like my seven-year-old's math homework, it will remain shrouded in mystery.

6. In 2014, I will get my bangs trimmed more often. At least frequently enough that they remain actual bangs and the rest of my hair does not reclaim them - and so that my very nice, but very blunt hair stylist from Aghanistan stops telling me that "without bangs, you look like housewife."

7. In 2014, I will do more push-ups. Because you never know when you're going to get invited to an impromptu arm wrestling contest, and I want to be prepared. Also, because someone has to pick up all the soccer gear, 30,000 stuffed animals and overturned furniture that magically appears every day in our house. And clearly, it won't be anyone I birthed. Or married.

8. In 2014, I will learn what Spotify is - and how to use it. Or at least how to use it properly in a sentence.

9. In 2014, I will find someplace that carries the old Atomic fireball jawbreakers and I will order a big old mess of them. Because they are my favorite non-chocolate candy ever. My first Easter in college, my dad and stepmother-at-the-time sent me a shoebox full of fireballs and Black Mountain Breakdown by Lee Smith. To this day, whenever I smell cinnamon I think of Southern literary fiction. But I haven't had an Atomic fireball in years - and what if I got hit by a car and never, ever got to have one again? Life is too short, I will buy fireballs.

10. In 2014, I will not let silly things like full-time jobs or fear of failure keep me from writing and I will remember every single rejection because it will only make me stronger. Either that, or I'm just Forrest Gumping it and praying that life really is like a box of chocolates. I just hope it's a box of sea salt chocolates.

11. In 2014, I will buy more lipstick. Because ... why not?


Happy New Year!

Do you remember your first dance?

The other night I let the boys watch Mamma Mia. They like a good musical and sequined jumpsuits as much as anybody, and for days afterward, I could hear their voices humming butchered ABBA lyrics.  I had to smile. Not because I love to hear my children singing Swedish disco hits from the 70s, which of course I do – but because for me, ABBA doesn’t conjure up Broadway or Meryl Streep. When I hear ABBA, I think of a night long ago, when a gallant older man made me feel like the prettiest girl in the room. When I hear ABBA, I think of my first dance. 

Many first things, dances included, don’t really measure up to our expectations. And if they don’t, we romanticize them in memory, and let ourselves pretend that the first time was magnificent, not mediocre. But sometimes, those firsts really are better than the fantasy. Sometimes, a first time is so perfect that the rest pale by comparison. 

It was 1981, in the People’s Republic of China, and I was eleven years old. My father had taken a sabbatical from his job teaching English at a small liberal arts college in Kentucky to travel to Wuhan University, where officials had hired a team of American and French professors to boost their graduate program. I would have preferred Paris, New York, or at least someplace with a McDonald’s. But nobody consulted me, so I spent a year in China, where both my parents spent most of their weekdays in classrooms, leaving me and my younger brother Will to fend for ourselves. 

The days spent unsupervised led to adventures, like the time we captured a baby bat or tiptoed along the tiled roofline of a nearby building. Our freedom wasn’t quite so thrilling the day we spied over the hill and witnessed a pig butchering. I’m not sure who screamed louder; me or the pig.

The two French boys Gilles and Christian, who lived next door, were in the same plight. Out of boredom, we routinely staged wars – all three boys against me, or when my brother remembered a little family loyalty, a Franco-American battle royale involving pseudo karate kicks, tree-climbing, and plenty of middle school insults.

We’d run out of the schoolwork imported from home months ago, and my only diversion was a daily French lesson. At first, those lessons had been conducted by Joelle, a glamorous hairdresser from Lille with long blonde hair and red lipstick. She would giggle and fuss over me as I learned new vocabulary words. That hour every day was my escape-- from the boys, from our dreary apartment, from the mounting tension between my mother and father.  For that hour, I basked in the compliments she lavishly bestowed and the girl talk we cobbled together in broken English.

But after Christmas, she’d gone home to France, and left my lessons to her husband Bernard, a biology professor. Bernard had a deep, crusty laugh like a Gallic Santa, but he was less into giggles and lipstick, and more into verb conjugation. French lessons were still a welcome distraction, but I missed the perfume and silliness. 

The Chinese government, which had brought my parents and a smattering of other foreigners to this university, discouraged mingling with the locals. So our makeshift neighborhood hunkered down in a grim apartment complex. A cafeteria prepared our food, a bus took us into town, and most weekends, we had a party.

I guess the parties were the school’s way of making sure we didn’t wander into town on a Saturday night and accidentally spread democracy – enough records and rice wine, and even grown-ups could be kept under control. But regardless of the reason, those parties made the long, dull weeks seem tolerable.

The dances were held in the recreation room of one of the apartment buildings. Jacques, a twenty-one-year-old math teacher who looked like a short Christopher Reeves, spun records as the adults danced and smoked. 

Jacques and I had a sort of older brother-cynical younger sister relationship; he joked and I scowled. He teased me during our weekly Saturday bus trips to town and I glared in return, both embarrassed and wonderfully flattered by the attention. But he was cute, he knew how to pick a tune, and whenever I requested a song, he’d make sure it was the next one played. Once he took me for a ride on the back of his motorcycle – sending my mother’s blood pressure sky-high. I didn’t care – I was still reeling from the secret thrill of wrapping my arms around his back as we careened down a narrow, dusty road with no guardrail.

Every Saturday, he brought out his vast record collection, transforming the nondescript recreation room into a delightful, tipsy, dance party. The women took extra care with their clothes, the men laughed too loudly over cocktails, and everyone danced, regardless of ability or sense of rhythm. Everyone danced. The drinks flowed freely – sometimes too freely, as I downed a couple of glasses of rice wine one night before my parents caught on, much to the delight of all the French who thought I was a charming, if young drunk. My mother wasn’t nearly as amused, but in my defense, I wasn’t allowed to drink the water and there wasn’t any milk or juice, which left tea, coffee, or an occasional contraband Coca-cola. Really, my mother should have expected nothing less than for me to turn to booze.

One warm spring Saturday, the apartment complex buzzed with excitement. The school year was almost over, which meant everyone would be going home soon and leaving the artificial confines of our little enclave. That evening’s party would be my last, and I meant to make it a good one. 

At my request, my mother braided my hair into scores of tiny, thin plaits early in the day. When she took them out that evening, my long brown hair was a flowing, wavy mass that, I was sure, would have made even Donna Summer proud. I chose my outfit carefully that night; a peach, pinch-pleat skirt with enough polyester and glitter thread to suit any budding disco queen. The skirt had a blouse to match, but the short puffed sleeves looked too babyish. A peach-colored swimsuit with a ruffled halter neckline matched perfectly -- and when I looked at myself in the mirror, I was impressed. The ruffles hid my total lack of anything yet resembling breasts, and the peach shade transformed my freckles into a tan. My mother raised her eyebrow at the ensemble, but I ignored her.

When we arrived at the party, Sondra, the sophisticated Yale graduate who during our stint in Wuhan, had committed the impossibly romantic sin of dumping her fiancé in a Dear John letter for a darkly handsome Zou-Zou, complimented my get-up, and I knew I’d hit fashion gold. I felt like I was floating as I drifted across the dance floor to trade barbs with Gilles and Christian. The music started, the beer and cigarettes came out, and my mother left me alone. Glaring at my brother as I angled for another conversation with Sondra, I barely noticed the tap on my shoulder. But Sondra did, and she nodded behind me.I turned around.  

Jacques stood in front of me and held out his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

I nodded and followed him to the middle of the floor as the static of the record needle dropping onto vinyl pierced the silence. I was conscious of everyone watching us, the adults all wearing identical expressions that said “Aw, isn’t that cute?” But it didn’t matter. My favorite song, “Fernando” by ABBA began to play and Jacques put his hand around my waist, and gave me one of his crooked smiles. 

As he propelled me around the room, I stood taller, willing my feet to follow his. Luckily for both of us, his lack of height meant we could actually move together without listing from side to side. I glanced at his face, and then embarrassed by his grin, I looked away.   The windows were open and the scent of dogwoods wafted in through the smoke, a sweet-smelling breeze mussing the heavy curtain of hair falling down my back.  I listened to the song, to the words that sang about how there was something in the air that night, Fernando. 

We talked, I don’t remember about what, but I remember his eyes and the way he smiled at me. Not patronizing, or indulgent – but like we were equals. Like he asked me to dance, not because it was the nice thing to do, but because he actually wanted to. Even I knew that wasn’t probable, but his ease and unrelenting charm let me believe it, even if only for a few short moments.

When the song ended, he bowed, and returned to the records. I headed back to the boys, who were already making faces at me, ready to tease me for the unforgivable transgression of trying to act grown-up. Rolling my eyes, I pretended a casualness I didn’t feel. What I felt was alive, a spark running through my body as the wind picked up outside, and Jacques switched the record to something faster.  I traded glances with Sondra, who looked suitably impressed, and I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face as I walked over to the window, letting the air cool my warm cheeks even as my hips twitched to the beat of the music. I turned around to face the dance floor, a crowd beckoning me to join the adult chaos that suddenly seemed like a place I belonged. Behind a table, Jacques slid another record from its sleeve and, catching my eye, he winked.

A few weeks later, my family left China. After we drove away from the university, I never saw Jacques again. But I still remember him and that dance. Probably, I always will. Because life is full of less than perfect moments. Moments that shake my confidence, and make me forget that I used to be a fearless eleven-year-old girl with dreams of a disco dress and an ABBA song. On that night, in that moment, I felt beautiful and sure of myself, and like anything I wanted in life just might happen. 

One spring night, I danced with a Frenchman in China. 

And it was magical.

So I saw The World's End this week . . . Best. Soundtrack. Ever.  The movie's great, too - obviously, anything with Simon Pegg and Nick Frost is going to be kickass. But the music - all I can say, is that hearing the Sisters of Mercy again for the first time in possibly two decades made this soccer mom very, very happy. Remember when you wore black not for its amazing abilities to hide juice box stains, but to look cool and mysterious?  Ha ha ha ha...

On another note, here's a couple quickie reads for Labor Day weekend. The first is an excerpt from The Getaway Girls: A New Orleans Tale of Monsters, Mayhem and Moms. The second is an excerpt from the sequel, which I'm working on right now.  Enjoy!

(The Getaway Girls - From Chapter 3)

Hey, girl.” Audrey nearly jumped as a tall, skinny blonde man wearing obscenely tight jeans and a tattered Madonna t-shirt appeared out of the fog with an unlit cigarette in his hand.Audrey could see the shadowy figures of Declan and Beth just beyond the mist. They had already exited the alley into Jackson Square.

The skinny man put his hand on his chest, saying, “Oh, honey, did I scare you? Y’all, I am so sorry.  I was just lookin’ for a light.  Do y’all have one?”

Audrey took a deep breath and nodded.  “Uh, sure.”  She fumbled with her purse, looking for her lighter.  Then she remembered.  “Oh, crap, I lost my lighter.” She looked up at the man to apologize.

The tall, thin blonde man was gone. 

Carl was standing in his place.  He stared down at her with intense, black eyes and spoke in his chocolate-rich British accent. “No need to apologize.  I believe you left your lighter with me.  Now,” he said, coming in closer as Audrey tried to shrink back against the window, “where did we leave off the last time we met?”

Audrey’s breathing sped up and out of the corner of her eye she tried to see Declan, but she couldn’t see a thing in the cool, damp gloom.

“Oh, yes, I remember.” Carl’s finely chiseled face loomed over Audrey as his eyes traced the curve of her neck down the plunging line of her purple dress. His nostrils flared as though he’d just smelled freshly baked cookies.

Audrey’s throat tightened, suffocating the scream she wanted to let loose. She prayed that Carl hadn’t seen Syd, who had backed up behind the restaurant sign.  Audrey tried to feel inside her purse for something, anything to use as a weapon but her fingers were clumsy.  All she could feel was a half-empty chewing gum package. 

Carl’s lip curled as she flailed around in her purse. “I think you’re out of lighters, Audrey.”  A curious look flickered in his dark eyes.  “I see someone has cleaned up your face,” he noted. “I do hate to hit a woman, but you left me with little choice.  You really ought not to bite a man’s ear when he’s trying to kill you.”

Audrey began to sweat as Carl stared at her.  “Lift up your hair,” he ordered.

Because she didn’t know what else to do, she complied, twisting her brown hair around her finger and holding it at the crown.  “Why?” she pleaded.

Carl cocked his head. “You have a very supple neck, Audrey.” He stroked his lower lip. “I’m trying to decide from which angle to break it.”

Audrey’s chest burned, shooting acid up through her throat and she screamed, “Declan!”

Carl looked quickly over his shoulder and then turned back to Audrey and shook his finger, saying, “I don’t think so, Audrey; I’m not into threesomes.”  He inched forward and wedged his muscular thigh in between her legs. “Now shut up and fuck me.”

“No. Fuck YOU!” Syd jumped up from behind the sign holding a can of hair spray, and she pushed down the nozzle as hard as she could.  “That’s real aerosol, motherfucker, you better run!”

Carl stepped back as the fumes filled his mouth and eyes.  “You’re going to regret that,” he growled.

 “Get away from her, Carl!”  Declan snarled as he leapt in front of the women, yanked up the wooden placard and swung it at Carl’s face, keeping a healthy distance as Syd and Audrey scooted further down the alley.

“She’s mine.  This isn’t your business,”  Carl said, wiping his eyes and looking at Declan with mild annoyance. 

Declan shoved the women behind him as he swung the sign again, but Carl sneered at him and merely swatted at the makeshift weapon. “You know you can’t save her, Declan,” Carl said, walking toward him.  “Just give her to me, and I’ll leave the rest of them alone.”

 Suddenly the gleam of red and orange flames swirled through the alley, flashing through the mist.   A long, thin stick lit on both ends sailed through the air, the smell of sizzling fire sharp and close.

Audrey gasped as a young Hispanic man back-flipped in front of her, snatching the fiery stick just before it reached her face.  She looked beyond him into Jackson Square, where street performers waylaid straggling tourists on their way out of the Quarter. A nearby crowd watched the man, oohing and aahing as he tossed the stick up in the air again and caught it with a quick flick of the wrist.

The man came closer, juggling his flame near Carl, who hissed, “I’ll find you again, Audrey,” before melting away into the mist.  The man winked at Audrey, before turning his stick upside down and swallowing the flame first on one end and then the other.  The crowd cheered, he blew Audrey a kiss and then flipped back to his audience.

(Getaway Girls Sequel - as yet untitled.... Warning: this is 1st draft stuff, so yes, there will be typos)

Jean-Paul grabbed her waist and swung her so that she straddled him. She could feel one very unvampire-like part of him hard against her bikini bottom. Her very flimsy, easily ripped off bikini bottoms.  She pulled away. “What am I doing? What are you doing?”

Jean-Paul grinned. “I’m about to make love. But if you want to pretend we’re doing something else, I can role play.”

Beth opened her mouth, a retort on her lips, when a loud BOOM startled her.

Jean-Paul looked to the window and yelled, “DOWN!”  He shoved Beth off his lap, and crouched over her body.

CRASH! Bullets disintegrated the window, sending deadly splinters everywhere, missing Beth by inches as Jean-Paul rolled her to the side, pushing her out of the way. He jumped to his feet and punched keys on a small black panel mounted to the wall.

Another window shattered and Beth felt the cool slice of glass against her thigh. She began crawling toward Jean-Paul as the panel flashed a green light and opened, revealing a long, barrel-shaped weapon. Jean-Paul heaved it easily over his shoulder, putting his finger to his lips as he directed Beth to the opposite corner.  He pulled a trigger and a compact ball of flame shot through the gaping remains of the window and Beth heard a loud explosion outside.

Another bullet pierced glass, this one lodging in Jean-Paul’s bicep with a loud, wet thud. Beth gasped as Jean-Paul squinted into the scope of his weapon, aimed, and sent another fiery missile toward the unseen shooter.  And another. And another.

Finally, after lobbing what seemed like an endless barrage of explosions outside his windows, Jean-Paul backed up and reached down with one fluid movement and plucked Beth from the floor. “Come. Now.” He grabbed her hand, and pushed buttons on the panel again.  This time, instead of revealing a hidden compartment, the wall itself slid open and Jean-Paul tugged Beth inside.

The door slammed neatly shut behind them and Beth looked quickly around. They were in what appeared to be a safe room, walled in marble threaded with streaks of grey and gold. The air was cool and stale, but from somewhere within the house, Beth heard a pump kick on, and a small vent in the ceiling began dispersing an almost invisible mist.

“What is that?”Beth demanded, panicked that somehow biological weapons were now involved.

“Oh, that’s just humidity.  It gets very dry in this room if you’re in for any amount of time,” Jean-Paul answered almost absently, as he picked at the bullet in his arm.

Beth let that information sink in, picturing Audrey and Evie sitting safely with cocktails by the pool. If she just hadn’t taken up Jean-Paul on his invitation to tour the gardens, she’d be with them, enjoying a Bloody Mary that she could certainly use right now. Goddamn flowers.

Then she turned back to Jean-Paul, who frowned as he tried to pry the bullet out of his arm with a pair of tweezers. His large fingers fumbled over the slim tines, and the tweezers slipped from his grasp.

“Here,” Beth picked up the tweezers and started to hand them back to Jean-Paul. “Do you want me to try?”

Jean-Paul sighed, “Please. I can usually do this myself, but today I seem to be clumsy.”

Beth stepped closer, her head bending over his arm as she slowly lowered the tweezers to the pulpy red wound. She was conscious of the smell of him; the spiciness of his cologne and the bitter scent of his blood, as she maneuvered the delicate tongs around his flesh. But decades of eyebrow maintenance had given her an edge over Jean-Paul in the tweezing department, and eventually she wormed the bullet out.

“Thank you,” Jean-Paul murmured as he slapped a sanitized wipe over the hole in his arm, which already appeared to be healing, and then sat down on the floor, looking tired.

“Who was shooting at you?” Beth asked.

“That’s the problem I need your help with – an unfriendly neighbor, you might call him.”

“Scavenger.” The name rolled off Beth’s tongue and she shuddered.

“Yes, a scavenger – well, his human guards, probably.” Jean-Paul shook his head. “They have the worst timing.”

“But why would a scavenger’s guards try to shoot you?  They do know you’re a vampire, right?”

Jean-Paul stretched. “Yes, of course, but they weren’t trying to shoot me, Beth.”

“Then . . .” Beth found it hard to finish her question.

Jean-Paul looked up at her. “They were They were aiming for you.”

“But,” Beth paused, “you shot him first. You saved my life, kind of.”

Jean-Paul continued his even, dark stare into Beth’s eyes. “What kind of host would I be if I brought you here and left you unprotected?”

As soon as the words left his lips, what sounded like a heavy hailstorm rocked the walls. A video monitor inside the room showed a dark figure jumping through the window with an automatic weapon.

Beth began to shake.

Jean-Paul put his finger to his lips. “It’s okay,” he whispered. Then he reached into a built-in metal drawer, pulled out a long, sharp machete and turned back to Beth. “Just a minute,” he said. Pushing the keypad, he slid the safe room door open just enough to lob the knife out into the living room, aiming straight for the dark figure, who slumped to the ground.

Jean-Paul quickly slammed the door shut again. He leaned against the cool metal for a moment, and then his eyes met Beth’s again. She didn’t look away. He strode over to where she stood, stopping inches away from her. He seemed to hesitate for just a moment until Beth licked her lips. Then he kissed her again. This time, Beth didn’t pull away. She didn’t think about her husband or her friends. She didn’t think about anything. She just kissed him back and she didn’t stop.

The Getaway Girls New Orleans Top Five Best Things I've Eaten This Summer

It's hot here in Dallas and there is nothing summery left to do. Picnics in the park stopped being fun in June, unless you're into fried egg a la sidewalk or instant food poisoning. And you can forget the pool. That water's been baking for the past two months and now that it's 102, it's like a super chlorinated, non-bubbly jacuzzi. With little kids. So I'm making a list of the best things I've eaten this summer because I'm too hot to cook, and I've run out of things to daydream about to distract myself while at the gym. Food fantasies may not be the smartest option while on the treadmill, but a little Cuban food goes a long way.

I usually like to tie a Top Five list in with my book, i.e. Top Five Reasons Not to Take a Flesh-Eating Scavenger to the North Texas IrishFest - but a top five list of foods for something that eats flesh would be pretty pointless. So here's my list - feel free to comment with your fave foods of the summer...

1. Tacos y pollo at Taqueria San Julian in Naples, Florida.  Best tacos ever. I live in Texas so I probably shouldn't be saying this about a Florida taqueria - but it ain't treason if it's true. No beans and rice, or fancy add-ons, just really fresh-tasting tacos with three kinds of salsa - and the spiciest one is the kind that makes your mouth tingle but you just can't stop putting more on your taco anyway. I prefer the chicken, but they've got it all - beef, pork, chorizo, tongue. Guess which one I didn't try?

2.  Bratwurst and German potato salad from Pepper's Deli in Naples. I've always been a Johnsonville Brats kind of girl - and I thought that was the best I could do. But then I had the bratwurst from a real German deli and I'm a changed woman. Give me sausage or give me death! (But, please, also give me the fancy mustard. I forgot the name but it's ruined me for French's. Forever)

3. Dark chocolate sea salt caramels, the dark chocolate sea salt cashews and the peanut butter and chocolate ice cream from Sweet Firefly in Richardson, Texas. Here's how this works: I distract the kids with ice cream, buy the candy, stick in my purse and tell them I will share with them later.  I lie. I will hide those salty chocolate jewels in my sock drawer if I have to, but they are mine.  All mine.  As for the ice cream - it's like the Dos Equis commercial: I don't always eat ice cream, but when I do, it's peanut butter and chocolate from Sweet Firefly.

4.  Macaroni and cheese from the Holy Grail Pub in Plano, Texas.  I fix the kind of macaroni and cheese that comes in a box at least once a week, so I'm a little jaded when it comes to this dish. But when it's done right, I remember. There will always be a special place in my heart for the Friday macaroni and cheese from Cambridge House in Chicago, served with a peach on top. I don't know why - maybe the canned fruit was intended to counteract the massive fat infusion from the cheese sauce? But it worked. And it was the best.

Until I had Stanley's, also in Chicago - and maybe it was eating it on my bachelorette party weekend that made it taste so unbelievable, but I swear there was magic in that mac.  I've tried other "gourmet" versions, but nothing's ever measured up to Stanley's or Cambridge House. Jasper's in Plano, Texas is supposed to be incredible, but gouda? Girl, please.

So when the server raved about the macaroni at the Holy Grail last weekend, I thought yeah, right. But my husband ordered some and I took a bite. Lots of cheese, with a snappy bite - none of this smoked Dutch silliness, just really good, sharp flavors. And gooey.

5.  Roger sandwich and black beans and rice from Fernandez the Bull Cuban restaurant in Naples. If my last meal was Cuban food, I'd die happy. The Roger sandwich -  chorizo, cheese, these weird little potato pieces, and hot sauce - all on fresh Cuban bread, was the Best Thing I Have Eaten All Summer. Possibly all year. Garlicky chorizo, vinegary hot sauce...it was divine.  And could someone please tell me the secret to making black beans like that?  It does not matter how many recipes I try, mine will never even think about tasting that good. Also, the sangria was fabulous. And the chocolate cake. And the Cuban sandwich. And probably everything else, we just didn't get through enough of the menu. We didn't have time. Maybe next year...


So . . . what's the best thing you've eaten this summer?