Tour stop: 50 Acts of Kindness by Ellyn Oaksmith

Please welcome a Play list for Fifty Acts of Kindness 

by Ellyn Oaksmith

Much of my writing and music listening is done in cars. Don’t worry, I’m not typing as I drive, I’m composing scenes, coming up with dialogue and fixing plot problems.

Coldplay is a constant for me. Ghost Stories came out last spring and although there’s nothing overly happy about most of the songs because they are about a separation (oh wait, excuse me, Conscious Uncoupling) Sky Full of Stars certainly captures how Chet feels about Kylie. To him, Kylie is larger than life, full of energy and intelligence and mostly, she surprises him with her love. Also,

Magic is a perfect tribute to how love feels. Listening to these two songs helped me frame Kylie and Chet’s love story. And even the sad songs on this album helped me think about the nature of love.

Evergreen by Ed Sheeran perfectly captures what Chet and Kylie are looking for. They both want the real deal, until they’re seventy. Which is why Chet isn’t willing to have a fling with Kylie while she’s visiting from New York. He wants all or nothing, which truly annoys her. She’s not used to men who want more. Also, Thinking Out Loud is another of his songs I love. It’s about finding lasting love.

You and I Forever, by Jesse Ware is another great song that inspired me.

It’s a Beautiful Day by U2 sums up how Kylie’s mom wants her daughter to see the world. It’s not about success or money and it’s not about where you are at the top or bottom of the heap. It’s about this moment, right now and how you treat people.

Let’s Dance by Benny Goodman is Margaret’s groove. She’s an old lady and the best time of her life, when she was falling in love as a young girl, was accompanied by Benny Goodman’s band. Of course much has happened that could make her feel bitter about this memory but I like to think of Margaret hearing Benny Goodman on an oldies station and reliving some nice memories.

I Need You by Tim McGraw (and Faith Hill) would be Chet’s jam. He’s a country boy with his pick up and dog so this is the kind of song and singer he’d love. Also, he really needs a woman who is comfortable in her own skin, unafraid to show her emotions and will appreciate him without wanting change. After his first marriage he feels vulnerable.  This is why he holds Kylie at a distance and demands so much right off the bat. He’s ready for love. And he’s knows with Kylie, it’s going to be all or nothing.

Sugar by Maroon Five, after I saw the video, captured what I love about comedic romances. That unexpected twist in the video – a huge name band shows up at LA weddings to surprise the couples

with a song during their reception. It made me tear up and laugh, which is what the best of this genre hopes to accomplish. I certainly hope people feel this way about Fifty Acts of Kindness.

Pompeii by Bastille is what Kylie thinks about at night, after she’s been fired. The lyrics “How am I gonna to be an optimist about this?”  is exactly the way she would think because she’s used to turning anything bad into something else – spinning it to make herself look good.

Boom Clap by Charlie XCX is how Chet and Kylie feel at the end of the book. “You take me over, you’re magic in my veins,” pretty much sums everything up quite nicely.

Enjoy your summer. I hope you have lots of time for music and reading.

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50 Acts of Kindness

Ellyn Oaksmith

Romantic Comedy/90k

Being overly kind isn't in Kylie Harrow's nature. This has never been more evident than when Kylie vents her frustrations to an innocent employee—and the whole scene is posted online, tanking her career and earning her the dubious distinction of "World's Worst Boss." But when she flees home to the South, Kylie finds her childhood home has changed. The high school quarterback is now the hot and handsome sheriff. Her mother has turned her home into a nudist colony. And worst of all, having heard about her daughter's exploits, her mother won't let her in the door until Kylie completes fifty kind acts in fifty days.

The task seems easy enough at first—and may even help repair her media image—but it quickly turns into a hilarious quest that leads Kylie down a bumpy road filled with new challenges. What started as a gimmick to save her career evolves into a mission to save a spunky old woman and her little dog from homelessness. As Kylie learns about the nature of kindness, she finds the path to happiness and, for the first time ever, maybe even love. 

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Excerpt:

"We are a technology marketing company. People don't want to see our underwear or ultrasounds or try to run a meeting while you jump up to pee."

"I'm due in two weeks."

Her whine was still grating on my nerves, but my recorded words sliced like knives. Was I the equivalent of that rooster my mom had that pecked at the hens? One morning mom found him dead, pecked to death. I thought, "Please do not let this be my barnyard reckoning," even though things were clearly sliding in that direction.

On screen I plowed forward. "I cannot do your job and mine. It's killing me. I need you on the ground running. Oh no wait, you can't run. Which is why you missed the flight to Miami where you got 'dehydrated.'" I did air quotes around "dehydrated."

Holy cow. I was so angry it blinded me to very fact she was recording.

"I was dehydrated."

We were both so very tired. "Which is why you ended up lounging in Miami while I ran yet another meeting solo. I stayed up until three a.m. doing the PowerPoint you'd forgotten."

"I ended up in the hospital."

"And missed the flight back to New York and yet another day of work. If you are dehydrated, drink water. It's not rocket science!"

I remembered this day clearly. Sleep-deprived from a red eye, I'd left Betsy in New York, begging her to prep for a meeting the following day. When I got back, the slides weren't ready. She'd gone home. I'd miss another night's sleep to finish them.

It was the perfect storm, and she'd caught it.

I leaned forward to downsize the screen. "2.7 million views?" She'd titled it "World's Worst Boss?!" There were lots of comments, many expletives, and a passionate, nine exclamation points in a row.

Bob dug a crust from his eye. "It's not something to be proud of."

My mind raced. How to spin this before he threw something out? I managed a casual shrug. "I'm in marketing. I can't help it."

"This makes us look so bad."

It was crunch time. There was no room for complaints or excuses. "Does it though? Does it? What I see is that we expect a certain professionalism and energy from our employees, a requirement that, pregnant or not, they perform to the best of their abilities." My delivery was very rough, but it was a message she needed to hear." He wasn't buying. I grabbed for a straw. "Isn't posting this on YouTube a violation of my privacy?"

"I don't know," Bob said wearily. "That's 2.7 million negative hits with MLJK's name attached."

My heart clenched. I needed a cigarette. Now. "Whatever happened to 'any publicity is good publicity'?"

He ignored my lame joke. "She's threatening to file suit. I checked with legal. We can tie her up in court, but the claim is legit."

I inhaled sharply, forgetting, in my growing panic, to exhale.

"Breathe, Kylie."

"S-s-suing us?" Great, now I was stuttering.

"You called her fat. She says you created an unhealthy work environment."

My jaw dropped. This was not the time to point out that, as a former chubette, I never, ever use the F-word. "The operative word here is work. I was running on vapors."

Bob got up and looked out the window at his fabulous view. "Stella, by the way, corroborates everything you've said." My eyebrows shot up in alarm. "Yes, I've talked to her. I've talked to a few people, but the point is that sooner or later we all have to deal with this. Pregnant women deserve…" He stared off into the silver buildings and cloudless sky. When I'd entered, the view had felt empowering. Now it was an invitation to jump. "Latitude. We are a family-friendly company."

I snickered bitterly. MLJK years were dog years. Most of the senior partners were divorced. "And what about women who aren't ever going to have children? We just put up and shut up?" I knew this sounded whiney, but I couldn't help myself. I felt like a tightrope walker studying the tiny figures below, waiting for me to fall. Then it struck me. I felt like this most of the time.

He gazed at me, his eyes weary. "Come on. You're what, not even thirty? You don't know that." Bob was still in his marriage of origin.

"Look at me Bob. My relationships have the longevity of a fruit fly. I have nothing left at the end of the day." I have nothing left right now.

"Maybe it's time to branch out."

Clearly he pitied Betsy. It was time to grab the controls. "I can fix this. I can smooth things out. Get my assistant her own assistant. At least until she's had it."

"Her baby is not an it," he snapped.

"Did I say 'it'?" I'd been talking so quickly. It? Good move Kylie.

"Yes," Bob said quietly, losing his starch. Crossing his arms he glanced at a framed photo: a gap-toothed, pig-tailed toddler on a swing, pushed by his beaming, very pregnant wife. "You're going to have to leave until this dies down."

For a second I felt nothing but a weight pressing on the top of my head, a dull ringing in my ears. "This isn't Survivor. You can't let random strangers on YouTube vote me off because I lost my temper."

"They're not. Lance is."

The CEO? I was in a tippy canoe, and by golly, there went my paddle.

I made a tiny bubble of an objection as I sank. "She wasn't doing her job."

"Effective immediately," he said. I knew what preceded those two words. Terminated.

This wasn't a break.

This was permanent.

About the Author:

Ellyn Oaksmith is an award-winning writer who began her career as a screenwriter in Los Angeles. Her first book, Adventures with Max and Louise, was published in 2012. Fifty Acts of Kindness is her third book. She's currently at work on her first YA novel, Chasing Nirvana. The best part of her work day is spent watching vintage YouTube footage of Nirvana concerts and calling it research.

Ellyn is part of the Girlfriends Book Club which has been featured in The New York Times and USA Today. She lives in Seattle with her family, a rescue dog and a rather rotund cat.

http://www.ellynoaksmith.com/

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Spicing Up Trouble with Mary Jo Burke & a #giveaway

Spicing Up Trouble

Mary Jo Burke

Contemporary Romance/Romantic Comedy

Gemma Halliday Publishing, 332 pages

Alexia Hale works as a test kitchen writer for the Chicago News. But she gets her big break toward reporting "real" news when she's given the opportunity to interview the world renowned artist, Benjamin Nance Cobb.

The catch: to get it, Alexia has to pose as a nude model for Ben. What begins as an awkward assignment quickly turns into a real friendship...and possibly more. But when a photograph of Alexia is leaked to the press, their private life suddenly becomes very public. Ben's father isn't pleased, Alexia's sisters are shocked, and now she's being hounded by the press.

Dating a celebrity has its challenges and rewards. The only question is, which one will outweigh the other?

 

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Excerpt:

The Internet offered few details about Benjamin Nance Cobb's work. I needed to visit Chicago's Art Institute to do some research.

In the morning, out in front of the museum, I rubbed the paw of one of the lions. "Wish me luck," I whispered to the stoic predator and hurried up the stairs.

Once inside, I cheated and asked a docent to direct me to the Contemporary Art section. He pointed at a tour group, and I followed them. We entered a large foyer. The guide began to speak, and I saw my chance to escape.

Farther down the hall and to the left, two canvases took up an entire wall. First, a nude woman reclined on her back. Her lush black hair splayed on the pillow beneath her, her right hand laid in the tangles—eyes half closed, her lush lips pursed, her left hand limp against her side, her knees pulled together and slightly bent. Her whole body sated. She just had great sex. The plaque beside it read, "Satisfied by Benjamin Nance Cobb."

No doubt.

Next, a woman sitting on a bed, her back positioned toward the artist, the sway of her hip revealed the top of her butt, her arms and legs crossed in front of her, a hint of right breast showed, her face in profile, her eyes glanced over her shoulder, and her blonde hair mussed. I read the plaque, "Anticipation by Benjamin Nance Cobb."

How about Striptease for Benjamin Nance Cobb?

The paintings carried the same message: goddesses with an attitude. Power radiated from them. They owned the men who sought to possess them. Confident in their appearance and sexuality, the viewer of the portrait felt like an intruder, stumbling into the intimate setting. The discomfort was for the outsider looking in. I imagined being free not to care about others' opinions, living by one's own rules. Easier said than done.

A small blurb about the artist hung on the wall. I didn't get much passed his age, thirty-five, because next to it a photograph almost stopped my heart. The man himself glared at the camera. Not a posed shot, one stolen on the street by paparazzi. Black hair, ice blue eyes, nose and chin chiseled like a bust of a Roman god.

I stumbled away a little shaken by the portrait of the reaper of women.

Would I be released by my editor from this assignment? No. Would I gain the self-confidence required for public nudity in two days? Double no. Would my sisters ever let me forget I chickened out? Triple-dog no.

Not only my likeness would be captured, Cobb might prove capable of reaching down and finding my true self, ready to be exposed. Could this opportunity remake me into one of those women proudly displaying their attributes to the world? Was I willing to risk all for a taste of confidence like my sisters wore every day?

The new expressive me lay trapped inside the old mousy me. Where there was a will, there was a way, but no graceful way out.

I dodged my sisters' phone calls and focused all good karma on Wednesday. I arrived early for my exhibition; I mean appointment to a nondescript building with no sign or address, no names on the mailboxes. Subtle message, if you weren't invited, you shouldn't be here. I pressed the doorbell, heard footsteps coming to the door, and prayed I wouldn't faint.

The imposing oak door swung in, and the grail of my quest stood before me. The men of my dreams were book boyfriends. Men conjured up from another woman's imagination who yielded to her will. All were tall, muscular, ruggedly handsome, and smelled wonderful. Like them, this guy was all those myths come to life. Now I'd add a few revisions to include sparkling blue eyes enticing me to jump into those pools for a slow swim, full lips, and thighs like tree trunks. Forget breeders' hips, the sight of Benjamin Nance Cobb made my ovaries explode. He assessed me up and down then smiled. A slight dimple formed on his unshaven cheek. A kiss would fit perfectly on that indentation.

"I'm," he hesitated and stared at me.

He knew I was a fraud. Who would believe I was a model?

 "I'm sorry, I'm Ben Cobb," he said, pushing the door all the way open to the wall. "You must be from the agency."

"Yes, I'm the model."

Of what, I didn't know.

"You look familiar. Have you posed for print ads?" His cordial tone sounded as if he had just parked my car.

"No."

What if he asked to see some credentials or my portfolio? I should have taken Eleanor's crazy advice about head shots or shots to the head. Right now, I was a bit confused as my fear and flight impulses beat against my brain. As a result, I stayed put and proceeded in. I didn't dare speak again, my voice hid under the covers, waiting for me to come to my senses.

"The changing room is to the right, I mean your left. There's a robe in there on the wall. On a hook on the wall. No, it's on the door," he said as he scratched the back of his head. "I apologize. I'm sure you're a professional and can figure it out."

Professional fraud at the moment.

"No problem, I'll find it." I strolled down a hallway.

Was he upset or nervous? Did I scare him? He probably thought, "How am I supposed to work with her?" Should I apologize in advance?

 I found an open pink door. It was more of a renovated closet with a full-length mirror, an embroidered chair, and an ornate hook on the back of the door with a flimsy yellow robe attached.

I bit my lower lip as I began to undress. I tried to focus on why I put myself in this situation: a career boost and a chance to get in good with the new bosses. I forgot about impressing my sisters, they would be questioning my sanity about now.

Getting him to talk presented the ultimate challenge.

"So why do you paint nudes?"

"Do you pay them or do they pay you?"

"I'm a fan of your mom's work."

Helen Nance Cobb's books were special to me. They reminded me of my childhood before my parents died. Adele's Armoire, Benjamin's Bike, Celeste's Closet, and Daniel's Dugout were the first four books I could read by myself. Prose and illustrations represented all twenty-six letters.

A soft knock at the door brought me back to the present. I gripped the back of the chair.

"Is everything all right in there?" he asked.

"I'm coming."

If I shook anymore, I could make a smoothie. Yesterday I waxed, exfoliated, moisturized, and steamed myself. I wished I could pump up my courage too. Exhaling slowly, I opened the door to meet my new outlook on life or die trying.

The floor creaked as I ambled toward the easel where he stood, cleaning brushes.

"Where do you want me?" I asked as my fist clutched the robe shut.

He stared at me again. I must be the most hideous specimen to ever pose for him.

"When you're ready, take off the robe, and lay on your stomach on the pillows," he said, offering a slight smile.

I cautiously strolled over and sat on the floor with my back to the wall.

If a guy jumped out with a camera and yelled "Smile," I wouldn't be surprised. Being caught at the most embarrassing moment of my life made perfect sense right now.

 "How long have you been a model, Miss?" he asked, shifting the canvas on the easel.

"I'm Alexia Hale. I've been modeling for two years."

Did it sound believable? Should I have used a fake name?

"Only with Perkins?"

"Yes."

Who or what was Perkins?

"I'm surprised they didn't send you earlier. I've asked for a variety of women, especially without endowments. Sorry, I mean a woman with natural beauty."

"My works takes me out of the country."

My nose was about to go Pinocchio on me, and he noticed my breasts. My nipples hardened up and rubbed against the polyester blend. Traitors.

"Where?" he asked.

"Paris, Vienna, Stockholm, and Hawaii."

All the places I would love to visit.

"Busy girl. Photography or painting?"

"Both."

This one didn't count as a lie. I liked taking pictures, and I finger painted in kindergarten.

"Are you ready to start?" he asked.

I let the robe slide off of me and flopped on the pillows. He didn't flinch or move for three full minutes. He absorbed me into those piercing blue eyes.

"Excuse me," he said as he hurried away.

The sight of the nude me made him vomit. I stood, wrapped the robe around my shoulders, and sprinted toward the dressing room. I'd grab my clothes and dress on the sidewalk. He must be calling the agency to complain, and they would out me as a fraud.

He rounded the corner and almost knocked me to the floor. The robe swirled around my legs and landed in a puddle at my feet. My right arm went across my chest and my left hand fanned over my womanhood.

"Beautiful," he said under his breath as he swept my hair back behind my ear.

Me? I shivered from his touch. This was why the women looked enraptured in his paintings. They had sex with him before they posed. That would blow the wind in my sails, definitely a step out of character for me.

"Excuse me, I'm being totally unprofessional," he said as he leaned down, retrieved my robe, and handed it to me. "If you're uncomfortable staying and want to leave, I'll understand."

"No, I'm fine," I said as I fumbled with the robe, trying to put it on.

"Okay, let's get started."

I followed him back to the studio and pretended he didn't stir me up. I couldn't comment on my effect on him as I resettled by the pillows. The robe melted off me this time because I wanted him to see me.

"Please support yourself on your elbows," he said.

I stopped trembling, pushed up, and glanced at him.

"Like this, Mr. Cobb?" My voice squeaked.

"I'm Ben. Mr. Cobb is my worthless father," he swallowed hard, grabbed the back of his neck, and pressed down.

I touched a raw nerve.

"Look at me." he said. I only shifted my eyeballs, afraid to move anything else. "I'm going to tell you when to change your facial expressions like be happy, pensive, sleepy, or sad, understand?"

"Yes."

"Please follow my directions, and don't speak or move."

The artist had arrived and was all business. Time for me to do the same.

About the Author:

Long before DVDs, Mary Jo saw Gone with the Wind in the theater. She was ten. The story never left her. She read the book three times. She saw the movie every time it was re-released. GWTWwill be seventy-five years old this year and is her favorite movie. She would only make a minor change: Leave Ashley to Melanie and hold on tight to Rhett. Her writing sprung from reading, watching, and always wanting to edit.
Mary Jo was born in Chicago and has never strayed far from home. She majored in Accounting and received her MBA in Finance. She worked in the investment and banking businesses. 

Mary Jo is a member of the Romance Writers of America, Chicago North RWA, and Windy City RWA.

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