Crazy Love

By Candace Gold

What would you do for love?

When Abby Minton agrees to host a book signing for Charles Greer in her bookstore, she doesn't expect she'll end up giving the man dating advice. . .or dating him herself! As she falls in love with Charles, she becomes more and more petrified that their relationship would be history if he ever met her dysfunctional family. Between her brother's failed bank heist interrupting Charles's book signing and roses from a persistent stalker making Charles think she's taken, their relationship is one mishap after another.

But when Charles finally proposes, Abby is faced with the most ridiculous prospect of all: introducing him to her crazy family. How can she keep the man of her dreams when her family is the stuff of nightmares?

54,000 Words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyrical Press
• Release date: Jan 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781616503451

Candace Gold

With nearly 200 short stories, numerous anthologies and 15 published novellas and novels, whether she’s writing contemporary romance as Candace Gold or spicy hot interracial erotica as Candy Caine, her alter ego, Candace keeps her husband, Robert, on his toes in their Long Island, NY home. Supportive with her writing career, he’s always willing to help her add authenticity to the scenes in her stories. And their yellow Lab, Sammy, keeps them both in line. When asked why she began to write, Candace says: “Reading has always been an addiction for me and my biggest thrill is to bring the joy of reading to others. To me, that’s what writing is all about.”

Book preview

http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/

I dedicate this book to my extended family which gave me so much inspiration.

Chapter 1

A half-hour before Abby Minton’s bookstore, Secondhand Prose, was to open, her closest friend and associate, Francie, made a pit stop in the bathroom. She’d eaten something that didn’t agree with her and the terrible rumbling noises her stomach was making in protest were loud enough even for Abby to hear.

As Abby put money into the register, she realized that Francie had been gone for quite some time. She finished what she was doing and headed toward the back to check on her. She was nearly there when she heard a bloodcurdling scream.

Abby knocked on the bathroom door. Francie! What’s the matter? Are you all right?

I’m going to drown.

Thinking of Francie’s stomach problem, an awful vision of the toilet having backed up flashed in Abby’s mind. She groaned. Oh, no!

The door’s not locked! Francie called. You gotta save me.

Fearing the worst, Abby slowly opened the door. Instead of being greeted by a brown river, she was forced to jump out of the path of a sudsy, white one. Francie was standing on top of the toilet seat, eyes closed, and her panties down around her ankles.

Get me outta here!

Abby immediately located the source of the problem. A river of soap bubbles was streaming out from the wall, which the bookstore shared with the laundromat next door.

Some idiot must have put too much soap in one of the washing machines again, Abby said.

No. It looks worse. There’s gotta be more than one machine involved. Whatever. Just get me outta here. I don’t want to ruin my new suede boots.

Okay. Just a sec. I’ll think of something.

Abby made certain the sudsy river flowed down the drain she’d had the plumber install in the backroom floor. Having survived the first backup caused by the laundromat, she had learned the hard way not to keep anything of importance on the floor.

She gazed around at the accumulated stuff hanging about the place, hoping that something usable would catch her eye. A few long planks of lumber rested against a far wall. An idea came to her.

Grabbing one of the planks, she dragged it back to the bathroom.

Francie saw her and asked, What are you going to do with that?

Better still, aren’t you getting a chill?

Huh? Francie looked down at herself. A beat later and, more than a little red-faced, she pulled up her panties.

Move back a little, Abby told her.

Francie did what she was told and Abby placed the plank of wood on the edge of the toilet.

I’ll hold this end while you start to walk down.

Like a tightrope walker, Francie slowly traveled down the wooden board over the foamy sea of soap bubbles.

Thanks! I couldn’t have done it without you.

So I’m back on your Christmas card list?

Francie merely made a sound that sounded like a hiccup colliding with a snort. Abby glanced at her watch. We’ve got to open.

It would be better if we opened far away from that horrible laundromat next door. It’s always something with that place.

That’s not going to happen, but at least I can give them a piece of my mind.

Uh-oh, Francie said. A whole piece? How are you gonna be able to work with what you’ve got left?

You’re a funny girl, but no Barbra Streisand, Abby said, walking toward the front door.

Give ’em hell, girlfriend! Francie called to her, pumping her fist into the air.

Not five minutes later, Abby was back.

Well, that was quick. Did you shoot the manager and run?

No. She wasn’t there. Today’s Monday.

Bummer. Then Francie asked, And that’s important because…?

The English-speaking manager is off on Mondays.

Oh, yeah. That’s right.

And Ms. I-Have-No-Idea-What-Language-She-Speaks was working.

Is that the tall, skinny lady with the mustache who just bobbles her head when you ask her a question?

Yup. I’d get more satisfaction out of a box of detergent.

There’s always tomorrow.

Too bad for us, the soap suds mess can’t wait. I’ll be in the back mopping the floor, if you need me.

Hey, look on the bright side.

Which is…

Francie gave Abby a huge smile. At least the floor will be clean. It needed washing.

Abby gritted her teeth and walked away, fearful she’d do something she might regret later–or not. It was difficult for Abby to remain angry at Francie for long. They’d been friends forever. They’d met in kindergarten, and since then had shared all their ups and downs. When Francie married her high school sweetheart following graduation and moved out of New York, they’d tried to remain in contact. Then life seemed to get in the way and one day Abby realized she hadn’t heard from Francie in a long while. She sent a letter, but it came back to her marked address unknown. Losing her friend felt like the loss of a limb.

Then Francie came walking through the door, one day and a divorce later. She moved back in with her family and, when Abby bought the store from James Owen, went to work for Abby.

Abby made her way to the backroom where she kept an extra large bottle of Excedrin and popped two into her mouth. She really should buy stock in the company. With her track record, she was probably one of their best customers.

* * * *

Charles Greer parked his car on Main Street in Huntington Village. He took out his memo pad containing a list of bookstores and checked the address one last time. It was the next to last entry on the paper. That meant he’d already stopped by seven other bookstores in the area. A flood of doubt washed over him. The terrible feeling that his father might have been right shook his confidence. Instead of trying to make a career out of writing, would he be better off driving full time for the cab company? It would be simple to add some more hours to the ones he already drove. He covered his ears as if he could still hear the echo of his father’s words in his head. And if driving a cab ain’t good enough for my uppity son, he can learn to work with his hands and become a custodian like me.

Being a writer was a tough profession, all right. Finding a publishing house that even bothered to read non-solicited manuscripts–those submitted by the author himself and not through an agent representing him–had been hard enough. Then, getting an agent to represent him had proved to be just as difficult as getting published. It was a catch-22. Agents wanted to pick up proven or published authors. And the publishing houses relied on the agents, who signed with published authors, to have already screened the better manuscripts.

Luckily, Charles’s book had been contracted by a small publishing house, but there had been no advance and he soon discovered that he had to publicize and market his own work. The task seemed indomitable at times.

Knowing he needed exposure to the public, Charles thought that a book signing would be a good way to start getting his name and face out there. He’d reasoned that booksellers would be happy to allow him to sign books in their store, because he’d be bringing in business with basically no cost to them. Even if he only sold one book, it would still be a sale they wouldn’t have had if he hadn’t been there signing.

He soon discovered many of the owners and managers of the book stores didn’t quite see things the way he did. When they told him their stores were too small and there was no place to set up a table, Charles made suggestions. However, those were countered with more excuses. His favorite excuse was, because he had signed with a small publishing house that relied on small, independent print firms to produce his books, it would be difficult to acquire his books in time. That in itself was a very lame excuse since no date for a signing had been given, so Charles couldn’t even argue that there was plenty of time. Talk about putting the cart in front of the horse. He was perceived as an unknown. Just as the unexplored New World had beckoned only the most daring explorers, it was going to take a brave bookseller willing to take the chance on having an unknown author sign.

Charles realized he was still sitting in the car. He suspected it was his way of delaying the inevitable. No matter what, he had to get out there and try. He didn’t have to reach too deep inside to rally himself. All he had to think about was failing and giving his father the opportunity to say, I told you so. If Charles didn’t believe in himself, why should anybody else? His book was good. With a little publicity, people would read it. And if they read it, they would like it. Besides, look how far he’d come in the first place. He couldn’t jump ship now–he might drown.

His resolution, though a little more tarnished, was back in place. Charles got out of his car and locked it. With his renewed resolve, he began to walk past the various stores that lined the street. His messenger bag bumped against his leg. Inside was a copy of his book, Gumshoe Blues. He prayed silently that the owner of Secondhand Prose would have a heart and allow him to have a book signing in the store. It would be such a wonderful little gesture for a struggling author like him.

Afraid his newly found fortitude might waver, he walked more quickly by the bakery, not slowing his pace until he passed the Sprint store, Mexican restaurant, printer, shoe store and bank, and reached the corner. The light was in his favor and he crossed the street, continuing on the other side without breaking stride. He put his long runner’s legs to work, remembering his track practice. His father had chided him because Charles had joined the varsity track team. What’s the matter with playing a contact sport like basketball? You a sissy, boy? Nothing he did ever pleased his father, who berated him for writing fluff and wanted Charles to write about African-American themes like those of Langston Hughes and Richard Wright. Charles wanted to have a broader reader base, appealing to all races.

Now he realized it didn’t matter what he wrote, if no one knew he even existed. One of Charles’s creative writing teachers in college, Mr. Phelps, once told him that all he needed to succeed as an author was one word–perseverance. Charles could now honestly say he understood why.

Standing in front of Secondhand Prose, he took one last breath, then pushed open the door. He entered and took a quick, nervous look around. The place had a warm, cozy feel to it, beckoning him to stay awhile and browse. The wooden shelving, containing its blend of old and new titles, gave the place a quaint look dating back to the early 50s when the bookstore probably first opened. The warm vibes gave him a good feeling–and hope.

Charles made his way to the register. A big woman with red hair swept up into a ponytail and large tortoise-shell glasses perched on her nose stood there watching him as she spoke on the phone. When he reached her, she held up a finger, indicating she’d be right with him. It took her only a minute or so to finish her conversation on the phone. She turned her attention to Charles.

Can I help you find something?

Just as Charles replied, The manager, please, the phone rang again and the woman answered it, spoke briefly and then hung up.

Now was that a new or old book?

The woman was smiling, but Charles couldn’t tell if she was putting him on. Had he spoken too quickly or hadn’t she heard what he said? He didn’t want to queer his chances by being rude or insinuating that she was an idiot, so he chose his next words wisely and spoke slowly.

I’m sorry if I misled you. I’m not looking for a book. I’d like to speak to the manager or owner if he’s available.

Today’s your lucky day. You can speak to them both.

That’s great.

The woman pressed a button on an intercom. Abby, can you come up front?

Is she the owner?

Yes.

Charles had second thoughts about going over the manager’s head. Usually they were the ones who really ran the businesses. Wait. Don’t bother the owner. Ask the manager to come instead.

Okay. Not a problem. Pressing the button for the intercom, she said, Abby, I need you.

But, I just asked you to call the manager and not the owner, Charles said, wondering why the woman was playing games with him.

I did.

But, I distinctly heard you– Charles began, his voice now strained.

Can I help you? someone asked behind him.

Charles turned to find a tall, nicely proportioned woman with soap scum covering her flushed face and clothes. Her blond hair was tumbling out in several directions from a hair-clip. At first, he’d been afraid that the crazy cashier had called the owner instead of the manager. Obviously, neither one was standing there in front of him. The ditsy redhead had called the cleaning lady to assist her. This was fast becoming a train wreck. He wanted to jump off before he became a casualty.

I’m sorry if the cashier disturbed you. You’re obviously not the person I need.

Charles watched as the cleaning lady looked at the cashier, who shrugged. He had the feeling they thought he was crazy. The cleaning lady spoke, interrupting his thoughts. Exactly who do you need to talk to?

Well, the manager–though, I did ask the cashier to call the owner first.

That’s fine. You can tell me what you need.

He shook his head. Had he fallen into a parallel universe where the inmates ran the asylum? If so, he should bail out now. The corner of his mouth twisted with exasperation. "I sincerely doubt that you can help me."

Why would you say that? You haven’t even asked your question yet.

He replied through clenched teeth. Because I need to talk to someone with the authority to make decisions.

Okay. That’s fine. Just tell me what you need.

That did it. Charles felt himself beginning to lose it. Lady, why aren’t you listening to me?

"I am listening. You still haven’t told me what you want yet."

"That’s because I need to discuss the matter with the manager."

"Sir, I am the manager. I am also the owner," the soap-covered woman finally stated in exasperation.

Charles groaned and smacked his forehead. He’d really blown it this time. In a small squeaky voice he managed to say, You?

Yes, me. Anger crept into her voice. Who were you expecting? A man, instead? Are you some chauvinist who thinks a woman can’t own and run a business?

Charles began to sputter. No-no-nothing like that. I like women–I honestly do.

I’m sure. Next, you’ll be telling me some of your best friends are women.

Charles shook his head and sighed. He knew when he’d lost the game and it was time to gather his remaining chips and leave. I think it’s time for me to be going now. He turned to make a hasty exit.

Wait! the woman called to him.

What for? So she could finish cutting him down to size? He stopped and turned around to face the woman.

You still haven’t told me what you wanted.

Was she for real? Things couldn’t get any worse–could they?

We don’t seem to be communicating very well. Why don’t we begin all over again? she said, extending her hand. I’m Abby Minton.

He shook her hand. Charles Greer–man with a mission, though lately it seems quite an impossible one.

She laughed. It was a warm laugh that had come from deep inside her, not a