Come As You Are

By PS Books Division of Philadelphia Stories, Inc.

Come As You Are is a novel about balancing work, family, and a chick rock band. Margo Bevelacqua is a gorgeous siren with a successful gardening show on The Outdoor Network. Kit Greene is a single mother living back at home with her aging father. Ten years earlier, these thirty-something women were best friends who played in the late 90s Philadelphia girl group, Broad Street. Time and circumstances drove them apart, but when they get an invitation to play the esteemed Women of Rock national tour, they put aside their differences to reform their old band. The women must contend with stalkers, crazy celebrities, married television executives, and eccentric parents to find ways to harmonize the many facets of their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: PS Books Division of Philadelphia Stories, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9780990471578

PS Books Division of Philadelphia Stories, Inc.

PS Books, the books division of Philadelphia Stories, Inc., is a small boutique press that publishes selected fiction collections, poetry, memoirs, and novels.

Book preview

Come As You Are is a bit of an exercise in time-travel. It’s the sequel to Broad Street, which came out in 2008 and takes place in the mid-1990s. Come As You Are, published in 2016, takes place in 2006. Confused? I was, too, so my first thanks go to my editor, Tara Smith, whose thoughtful eagle eye helped me travel back to this odd era in music, 2006, and ensure I wasn’t referencing inaccurate pop culture like the iPhone one year before it was released.

A huge thank-you to Carla Spataro, for all she’s done to support me and so many other writers. I am proud and grateful for the work we’ve done together with the help of our passionate volunteers through our nonprofit, Philadelphia Stories.

I’m also grateful to my musician friends, especially Margo’s muse, Lynette Byrnes, and Elisa Chi Chi Boom Steingruebner. Our adventures in the band Mae Pang inspired many scenes in Broad Street and helped me to create characters that lived large enough in my mind that I wanted to continue to tell their stories.

I also want to thank my fabulous writing group: Julie Odell, Tony Knighton, Jim Zervanos, Kath Hubbard, and Nathan Long. They are all incredibly talented, and our monthly meetings encourage me to keep writing despite the many obstacles thrown in my path.

None of this would be possible without the support of my husband, Rockbottom Rob Giglio, who tolerates my crazy ideas with the perfect encouraging words and humor. We’re also lucky to have one very cool kid, Dexter. Love you guys.

Thanks also to my family and friends who support me in all the many hats I wear. I feel very fortunate to be surrounded by so many smart, creative, and passionate people.

Finally, I want to thank my dad, who understood and shared my passion for writing and was the first person I called whenever I had news to share or needed advice. Pierce Greene is largely inspired by my father’s no-nonsense intelligence, and I miss him every day.

CHAPTER 1

Margo, report to makeup.

The disembodied voice of Margo’s stage manager crackled through the dressing room intercom. Margo glared at the white box on the wall, resenting its hold on her, then glanced in the mirror for one last wardrobe check. Her ass looked good in the tight jeans, and a quick tug on her T-shirt amped up her cleavage. Not bad for a curvy woman in her thirties. She tossed her bottle-red hair over one shoulder and breathed in the sweet earthy air of her dressing room. She’d turned her love of gardening into a successful show on the Contemporary Living Network, her ratings were blooming, and she’d just signed for another season.

So why wasn’t she happy?

Her dressing room was an oasis. Lush palms burst like fountains from the exotic pots she’d brought back from her travels. Colorful orange and yellow nasturtiums, glowing in the streaming white sunlight, dripped from baskets. On her way past the large window, though, she squinted at the scene below: a parade of gas-guzzling SUVs parked on the black macadam that baked in the June sun and suffocated the earth throughout the industrial park. No, this was not exactly the serenity for which she was searching. She took in one last lungful of the fragrant flowers and strode out towards makeup.

Hey, gorgeous, Peter said, as he always did, when Margo entered the room. He was her personal makeup artist and expertly masked her flaws. He was far too handsome to be straight, though he was, and he was on the very short list of her male acquaintances with whom she had not slept.

Thanks for the lies, babe. She plopped into the makeup chair. Just cover that last shot of Tequila and I’ll give you a nice blow job.

Promises, promises. He held her face in his hands and bent down to inspect. He studied her dark green eyes then turned her head to the right and left. Looks like there was a little red wine to go with that Tequila.

Margo smiled. You’re good. Can you fix it, doc?

My powers can vanquish any alcohol. He picked through the rainbow of shadows and lipsticks and blushes on the brightly lit makeup table behind him. Each time he held a color against Margo’s skin he shook his head. Finally, he put an emerald green liner to one side.

Looks like another green day. He smoothed a creamy light beige foundation over her face, then picked up a white shimmering eye shadow and swirled the wand against the pressed powder in tiny circles. Okay, close.

Margo shut her eyes and felt the soft caress of the felt applicator against her eyelid.

Who was the latest victim? Peter asked.

Wouldn’t you like all the nasty details?

Of course. My sheets have been a little too clean lately. I could use some vicarious smut.

Just some summer intern. He goes back to his safe little college bubble next week.

A college boy? Surely you can find a better one-nighter than that. Open.

Margo opened her eyes and blinked against the bright lights. She stared at the shadowy stubble on Peter’s upper lip as he leaned in to inspect his work. He picked up the green liner from the makeup table.

Close.

I don’t need any more complications, she said as Peter tugged the liner against her eyelid. This kid will go back to school, tell people he slept with me, no one will believe him, and he’ll remember me fondly as that sexy older woman. Maybe I’ll make it into his memoir.

Or he’ll start stalking you and you’ll make it onto the evening news.

Thanks.

Open.

I just think you need to be careful, that’s all, he said, picking up a different shade of eye shadow from the table.

If I wanted to get shit, I’d go visit my parents.

Peter shrugged. Close.

Margo returned to darkness, enjoying the touch of the felt shadow applicator again on her skin. She knew Peter cared about her. She wasn’t proud of her behavior, but she wasn’t about to sit home alone either.

I’m going on tour with my old band, she said, her eyes still closed. She could smell Peter’s coffee on his warm breath—and the mint with which he’d tried to disguise it.

Really? How does Warren feel about that?

I haven’t exactly told him yet, she said.

Open.

She squinted in the harsh fluorescent lights. The tour doesn’t start until after we wrap the season next week. I’ll have to juggle a few publicity things, but I’ll tell him it will be great for promoting the show. He should buy that.

Peter twisted around to grab a bottle of rose cream blush. He dotted some on his index finger and gently rubbed it against Margo’s cheekbone.

Warren is not a fan of interference, he said. But from his hottie little garden princess, he might go for it.

I can always dangle the wife card.

I’d save that for a real emergency. Besides, I’ve heard Doris could care less who Warren flirts with as long as he brings home a big paycheck.

He dabbed on mascara and pressed powder, smoothed on a deep red lipstick, and then stepped aside so Margo could admire his artwork. He had done it again. He had transformed her face from hungover to Hollywood.

You’re a genius, she said.

Hey, I didn’t do this for free. I believe there was a wager on the table.

Margo stood and leaned in closer to the mirror. And ruin this work of art? I don’t think so. She smiled. Maybe another time.

Always. He winked.

She laughed. Thanks. It’s nice to have one normal person in my life.

He laughed too. Glad you finally noticed.

Back in the gloom of the hallway she blinked and headed toward the glowing light at the end.

Margo! A deep voice boomed behind her and the ripe Tequila in her gut churned. Her executive producer’s heavy footsteps and his familiar wheeze grew louder as he approached. Warren’s odor—of coffee and cigarettes—was nearly as imposing as his large frame. He’d never have the courtesy to mask his breath with a mint.

What’s this crap about you going on some kind of music tour? he said.

Good morning to you, too, Warren. She smiled coolly.

He skipped a beat when he saw her face, as he always did. He was tall and eternally sweaty, his dark brown hair draping across his head in greasy slivers. He straightened. Well? Carol tells me some guy left a message this morning about your old band going on tour? What’s that about?

Word travels fast down these dank hallways.

You can’t leave. We haven’t wrapped for the season and I still need you to shoot those publicity spots.

We only have two more episodes to shoot. You know I won’t leave you stranded. The tour doesn’t start for two weeks. I’ll make sure everything is set here before I go, and I’ll do nothing but promote the show while I’m on the road.

He crossed his arms. How do you plan to work gardening into a rock concert?

You’d be surprised. I’ll only miss a few promo events. It’ll be fine. She touched him gently on his shoulder. I promise.

You drive me crazy, you know that? he said.

But you’ve never seen ratings like the ones I bring you, right?

Don’t be so sure of yourself, Margo. You might give one the impression of immodesty.

I think they’re waiting for me on the set.

I did not say yes, he said.

We’ll talk about it later. She walked toward the outdoor set, feeling his eyes on her ass.

It was going to be so great to play with Broad Street again. There was just one small hitch—the rest of the band didn’t know about it yet.

CHAPTER 2

Kit sat cross-legged, her back against the rough bark of the enormous maple tree and her old acoustic guitar propped in the crook of her leg. The umbrella of leaves broke the late morning sun into shadows, and she inhaled the sweet aroma of fresh-cut grass. Her ten-month-old daughter Elinor sat on the blanket next to her. Elinor turned her big dark eyes to her mother and waved her arms, pointing to the guitar. Kit smiled and nodded and began to strum. She wondered if Elinor would care, when she was old enough to notice, that her mother, with her tattoos and magenta-tinted hair, didn’t look like the other well-dressed mommies at the park.

As she played, Kit drew the usual stares from the moneyed mothers and nannies. She didn’t care. She missed the old days, playing bass guitar with her band, Broad Street. The name had been inspired by the busy street that slices through Center City Philadelphia but also by the irony of three broads contradicting the definition by rocking their original music. Her life hadn’t evolved the way she’d expected it to since the band broke up eight years ago, but her daughter’s smile always made things easier.

She started crooning an old Liz Phair song that always made her think of Margo, bulldozing her way through life to get what she wanted, Kit usually in her path. In the early years of the band Margo had taken charge as Kit tagged along. But as their friendship deepened the hierarchy had leveled, and at one point Kit even considered Margo her best friend.

Until it all fell apart.

Elinor bounced happily as Kit sang the familiar lyrics about not firing a loaded gun, the other person in the relationship taking back the power, … And then accused me of trying to fuck it up …

Elinor clapped and wriggled in delight. Kit leaned over to kiss her chubby cheek, grateful for at least one remaining fan. She sat back again and closed her eyes, strumming softly until she found a slower song, one she’d written after the band broke up.

A shrill voice broke through her reverie. Excuse me?

Kit shaded her eyes with one hand and looked up. A blond in a designer tracksuit and heavy makeup, manicured hands on her hips, glared down at her.

May I help you? Kit asked.

Do you really think that music is appropriate for children?

Probably not, Kit said.

The woman raised her perfectly plucked eyebrows. Well. We’re trying to enjoy a pleasant afternoon with our kids. We’d appreciate it if you played that somewhere else.

Kit glanced over at the huddle of moms and nannies glaring in her direction as the children, laughing and squealing, continued sliding, swinging, and digging. The kids don’t seem to mind, she said.

That’s because they don’t know any better, the woman said. She looked down at Elinor. It’s up to us to teach them what’s appropriate and what’s not.

Wow, Kit said. That’s a mighty Puritanical point of view for 2004.

The woman smiled icily. I’m just expressing the opinions of our playgroup. Nothing personal.

Kit tilted her head and stared up at the woman. She was probably in her early thirties as well. And she was a mom. How could they be so different? Kit wanted the best for her daughter too. She couldn’t believe that sharing the power of music with Elinor was harmful. But she didn’t have the energy to fight.

She pulled her case over, put the guitar inside, and zipped it shut. You’re lucky, she said. It’s getting close to my daughter’s naptime anyway.

The woman smiled. Thank you. We appreciate it. She walked victoriously back to her posse.

Kit sighed. Would it kill them to invite her to join them? And what, she wondered, will happen when Elinor’s older and wants to play with their children? She packed her daughter into the stroller with her diaper bag, swung her soft guitar case over her shoulder, and started walking back toward her house which, technically, was her dad’s house. After enjoying moderate success with Broad Street and years of financial independence while working as a proofreader, her world had fallen apart when her mother died. She left the proofreading job to move back home to take care of her aging father, and then discovered she was pregnant. She took a low-paying job at the American Society of Musicians and Performers thinking that would satisfy her love of music, but she was basically a coffee-fetching intern. She had become a single, motherless mom. Not the road she had planned at all.

She rounded the corner onto her street and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw her father’s car wasn’t in the driveway. She hurried inside, anxious to get Elinor down for a nap and maybe take one herself.

As she sat with Elinor in the old wooden rocking chair in the corner of the nursery, her daughter’s eyes began to close and a familiar rush of emotion pulsed through her. How could her daughter, who meant so much to her, have been the result of an event that meant so little? It had been just another night of excess—too much to drink following too many empty nights.

Kittimany! Her father called from downstairs. Where did you put the Times Book Review?

Kit sighed. Try the kitchen table! she called. Elinor squirmed. Shhh… Kit whispered, willing her father to stay quiet so she and Elinor could nap.

What? he called back. Kit heard footsteps on the stairs, a dramatic cough accenting every other one.

Please don’t come in, she thought. But the nursery door opened and Elinor startled and began to wail. Her father paused to take in the scene before him then turned and reached for the colorful mobile hanging over Elinor’s crib.

You should take this down, he said. She can reach it now—she might choke on the strings.

Kit lifted Elinor to her shoulder, shushing in her ear and patting her back as she rocked. Dad, can we have a minute? I’ll help you look for the Book Review when I’m done.

After her mother died, Kit had become her father’s sole companion. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Her mother had been healthy, much younger than her father.

Elinor’s cries quieted as Kit continued to rock and rub her back. Her father opened his mouth to speak.

Dad, please, she said. I’ll be down in a few minutes.

He reached over the crib and snapped the mobile from its base. I was just worried about Elinor, that’s all, he said. He placed the mobile on the floor with a groan and walked out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Kit cradled Elinor in her arms, grateful to see her eyes once again drifting toward sleep, and hummed the chorus of an old Broad Street song. It was definitely time for a change.

CHAPTER 3

Margo found the usual chaos on the outdoor set. Twentysomethings clad in jeans and T-shirts toiled like hungry ants to create the illusion of a peaceful garden scene in a field of cameras, microphones, dollys, and lights. There was nothing in this garden that calmed Margo, so she reached into her purse for a cigarette.

Jimmy, bring that box of purple flowers over here! Amy, a young blond producer, shouted to an attractive, stubble-faced intern. Margo watched Jimmy glance around the set then reach down for a box of potted flowers.

Not those, moron, Margo called. The next box over!

He looked back at her, flushed, and grabbed the right box. Margo smiled. They had been naked together in her bed just nine hours earlier.

Margo walked over to a silver-haired man standing behind a large camera shrouded by black metallic blinders. He was leaning over a script and making angry marks with a red pen.

Hey, Gary, she said.

He jumped. Jesus, Margo, he said. Are you trying to kill me?

Impossible. Why are you trashing my script?

Because once again you’ve ignored my request for simplicity. This is television, sweetie, not a classroom.

I’m sorry. Is it wrong to expect my viewers to have a few brain cells?

Yes. Men watch your show because they want to sleep with you. Women watch because they want to be you.

A few may also want to sleep with me.

Probably. Gary returned his attention to slashing long words from Margo’s script.

What about my mail? I actually get some semi-literate e-mail.

Consider it foreplay.

Margo sighed and lifted her cigarette to her lips. The truth was, she didn’t care about educating her viewers anymore. Few people understood what gardening meant to her. Certainly not her parents, who had been B-celebrities in the 1970s when their band Parallel’s song, Can’t Fake that Smile, became a hit. Not her young lovers, who only saw her garden at night and after consuming too much alcohol. She thought Kit’s mother Dana would have understood. She’d appreciated the escape a garden could offer.

She pushed the thought of Dana away and forced herself back to the moment. Jimmy was lifting tulips out of a cardboard flat and placing them wherever Julie pointed her finger.

One more there, Julie commanded. Oh, shit. Maybe that’s too much. Margo! Can you come here for a second?

Margo walked over to witness the disaster. Julie, who had come to the show—as most of them did—with a keen desire to be on camera and absolutely no experience, had mixed seasons and zones into a horrid horticultural orgy.

What do you think? Julie asked. More red?

It depends, Margo said, inhaling. Are you trying to create a murder scene or a postmodern ode to ruby?

Julie ran her fingers through her long blond hair. Is it that bad?

Margo tapped her ash on the ground. Yes. She turned and called to Jimmy, who sauntered over with a guilty smirk.

Go grab those flats of yellow and white flowers over there and the one next to it with the purple flowers, Margo ordered.

What’s the holdup? Gary bellowed from behind the camera.

We can spare a few minutes for accuracy, Margo said.

Gary scowled and returned to the script.

When Jimmy returned with the plants Margo handed her cigarette to Julie and distributed pineapple flowers artfully among the sea of pink-purple Delosperma cooperi, creating a perfect balance of yellow and lavender. Julie stood watching the transformation, holding the burning cigarette like it was an M-80 that might explode at any moment.

Can we start now, please? Gary yelled. The light is shifting.

Margo stood, hands on hips, surveying the improved backdrop. Yes, Gary, she said. Now we can start.

Okay! Gary shouted. Everyone in position! Light Three, watch the shadows there on Margo’s artwork. The yellow flowers are too hot. Two, you’re going to need to check your white balance again.

As Gary continued to bark his commands, men and women scattered out of view of the cameras, leaving Margo alone in the center. As her eyes adjusted to the bright lights, she was slightly blinded to her surroundings. The commotion faded into a white noise of calm, and for a moment she could almost imagine serenity. A smile slipped onto her lips and a shadowy figure emerged from the light.

Just have to cover a little shine, Peter said, waving a makeup brush in her direction. He dusted her cheek and the soft bristles tickled her skin. There, he said. Perfect.

Margo smiled, and he was gone.

All right, Margo. Gary’s voice boomed over the set. Ready?

Margo squinted toward Gary and the cameras and the scene took shape as her eyes adjusted. Yep. Let’s roll.

Okay, Gary said. This is Scene One for Episode Twelve. Everyone quiet!

Margo watched Gary raise four fingers. Four, he shouted, three, two, and … He mouthed the one silently and pointed to Margo.

Good morning, everyone. She smiled, imagining the thousands of viewers on the other side of that black window. Her eyes danced across the teleprompter. Welcome back to Guerilla Gardening, where our goal is to eliminate urban blight one plant at a time.

I’m very excited about today’s show, she said not quite batting her eyes. Today I’m going to introduce you to one of the best-kept secrets in urban gardening. She leaned down toward the bed of flowers at her feet, aware of the plunging neckline of her tight black T-shirt. The camera rolled toward her. This little guy, she said, picking up one of the small plants and holding it at breast level, is a beautiful specimen with an unfortunate name: Black Scallop Bugleweed. The dark green leaves and purple flowers make this a nice alternative to pedestrian marigolds. She turned her eyes toward the camera window like she was looking at a lover. It may look delicate, but this hearty plant is ideal for turning those ugly, bite-sized squares of weedy dirt found in city sidewalks into stunning pockets of beauty. It only requires proper attention. I’ll show you everything you need to know to make it grow.

***

After filming was over, Margo ignored the usual staff praise and walked quickly to her dressing room, where she could enjoy a cigarette in silence and muster the courage to call Kit, her old band mate. She hadn’t talked to Kit in over two years. When they’d formed Broad Street back in 1994, they were still in the post-adolescence of their early twenties—blindly partying, complaining about men, holding each other up during the tough times. But after two years of broken promises from producers and record labels, Margo had decided she’d be better off leaving the band behind and had managed to blend her secret passion for gardening with her love of the spotlight. She’d been surprised by how easy it had been to sell her idea of a Guerrilla Gardening show. Through the band, she’d made just the right entertainment contacts to get a meeting with Warren, one of the producers of the two-year-old Contemporary Living Network. She wore a tight dress, turned her charm up to 10, and convinced Warren he’d be crazy not to pick up a gardening show that, thanks to the unique guerrilla twist, would be watched by housewives and hipsters alike.

Though Kit had been pissed off when Margo told her she was leaving the band, she had eventually cooled down and they’d remained friendly—until a couple of years ago, when Kit had stopped talking to her.

And now it was 2004, and Margo hadn’t touched her guitar since the band broke up, and here she was sitting in the dressing room that she’d always wanted, thinking it would be a good idea to take this tour offer.

She didn’t know why, but she knew she wanted to do it. Maybe she wanted to relive her twenties or rekindle a friendship that she missed—or maybe she just wanted to prove she could do it. It didn’t matter. She had told the tour’s manager she would make it happen.

She didn’t have Kit’s number, but she decided to start by calling her old home number. She could ask Kit’s dad and catch up with him. She’d always liked Pierce.

She was surprised when Kit herself picked up.

Hey, stranger! Margo said, as if they’d parted as friends. It’s Margo. She pulled another cigarette from her pack and began tapping it against her dressing room table.

There was a moment of silence. Uh, wow, Kit stammered. Margo. How are you?

Oh my god, Margo said, pausing to light the cigarette. I’m so busy with the show, I barely have time to take a crap. But, hey, I shouldn’t complain. Ratings are good, even though my producer wants me to wear even tighter clothes. I’m sure my cleavage draws a few perverts, but come on, how many guys are really into gardening? She cut herself off and took a deep drag. What kind of nonsense was spewing out of her mouth?

There was another silence.

Anyway, Margo continued, enough bitching. Listen, The Venturas’ manager called me. He’s putting together a Women of Rock Tour with some big names like Sam Starr. For some reason he thinks Broad Street would make a good addition to the bill. I’m sure he’s exploiting me because of my show, but who cares? You up for it?

She leaned back and sucked on her cigarette, bouncing her crossed leg impatiently. She imagined Kit sitting on one of the mismatched chairs in