Dear Fellow Booklover,
I owe my love of books to my mother, who started me reading at an early age. I skipped “see Jane run” and went straight to Agatha Christie and Nero Wolfe, the books stacked around our house like Legos.
The best present my mother gave me was when I was eight or nine and had already devoured the entire children’s section of the library. She convinced the librarian to give me an adult library card, which meant I had a whole new universe of stories to traverse. There I discovered Ray Bradbury and Robert Heinlein and Ellery Queen along with characters like Horatio Hornblower, the Stainless Steel Rat, the Saint…The only limitation was how many books I could carry to the car by myself. I remember stretching my arms as long as they would go, balancing a teetering stack of books with my chin pressed down on the top one, inhaling that scent of well-worn paper and binding glue, thinking this was heaven.
A few years later, my mother began working for a local bookstore. First, at the cash registers, but she was quickly promoted until she became their Trade Fiction Buyer. I had no idea what that meant except that suddenly I was able to get books by my favorite authors BEFORE they came out! My friends, fellow bibliophiles, were so jealous! But I shared the wealth, sneaking them the ARCs my mom gave me. The bookstore became our favorite place to hang out after school and my mom would call us in when sales reps visited, letting us look at their catalogues and asking us our opinions. I’ll never forget the feeling of pride I felt when books I told her would be hits did indeed breakout and make it to that coveted display window at the front of the store!
Through her store, my friends and I got to meet visiting authors, including the wonderful and amazing Isaac Asimov. We only spoke for a few minutes, but he made such an impression on me―not because he was a genius or talented or a rock star of the SF world, but rather because he was so very normal. Even the fact that he had taken the train from New York because he hated to fly made him seem human.
That’s when I realized anyone could write a book, if they were willing to put in the work. I’d been writing all my life, it’s my way of understanding the chaos that surrounds us in this world, but at that moment I realized I could take my little stories and really do something bigger, create an entire world with people I brought to life…and I wrote my first novel. It was terrible, as most first novels are. I was fifteen at the time, still had not made the leap of logic from writing a book to actually publishing it for others to read, much less getting paid or making a career from writing. But it was a wondrous achievement and started me on the path I’m on today.
All thanks to my mom, who was a bookseller for over two decades before she finally retired, and her love of books.
I’m very grateful that you have chosen one of my books to read and appreciate your time and attention―both in short supply these days! I look forward to hearing any thoughts you have on it.
Thanks for reading,
CJ
CJLyons.net
CJLyons@CJLyons.net
(CJ Lyons) Chapter 1
The security guard was surprised to see her there. All alone.
He remembered checking her into the Fairstone Museum.
She had arrived early, before the rush of limos and Town Cars, accompanied by the tall guy in the off-white dinner jacket and black tie―he remembered because this crowd was strictly into monkey suits. The Artist, the guard thought. They were the only ones who ever arrived early.
At least Mr. Dinner Jacket seemed to have some class.
At the last opening, the Artist had arrived in surfer shorts, sporting roach clips and a heroin spoon as jewelry. The crowd loved that, talked all night about his “free spirit” and unwillingness to be “caged by conformity.” The guard rolled his eyes at the memory. What a crock. The guy was merely stoned out of his gourd. From the looks of his so-called art, piles of sand with twigs and dog crap stuck in them, drugs were his main source of inspiration as well.
The guard fidgeted, one hand smoothing his hair over the bald spot on top of his head. He looked out into the glass-walled atrium―itself a piece of art with its never-ending springtime of colorful blooms, songbirds, and butterflies that even now, three days before Christmas, kept the Pittsburgh winter at bay. Why was she out there alone? Did she and Mr. Dinner Jacket have a fight? Maybe he should see if she needed anything.
She sat, knees hugged to her chest, the long, purple dress flowing away from her body in streams of color, and curled her bare feet into the luscious carpet of grass. Eggplant, the guard thought, that’s what his wife would call the color of her dress. It didn’t look like the color of a vegetable, not to him. It reminded him of those ancient sailors, the Phoenicians; the Discovery Channel had just done a special on them; he’d liked the way their ships seemed to fly over the water. They had a special purple dye reserved for royalty―that’s what color her dress was.
He glanced at his watch. It was getting late, everyone was here already. Should he tell her? Maybe she didn’t want to go inside and face the guy? He could call her a cab, help her get back home.
The guard sighed and stopped his futile fantasies. Seven years of watching couples drift in and out of the gallery, seeing the effect beautiful and powerful art had on them, he recognized true emotion when he saw it.
There was no fight, no reason for him to rescue her. He’d seen the look she’d given her escort, the way the man’s hand never strayed far from her body―not out of possessiveness, but compelled by tender regard.
She watched the antics of a hummingbird attracted to the day lilies. Then she smiled. His breath caught. This was no damsel in distress, but if she had been, he would have gladly slain a dragon or two for a chance to see that smile. It wasn’t that she was beautiful; her skin was too pale, hair unruly like a child’s, eyes a touch too wide and deeply set to be comforting. And her smile was a little cock-eyed, lopsided even.
But there was just something about her. The same something that most of these society women paid their surgeons and cosmetologists dearly for but never achieved. He watched her rise and walk barefoot across the grass toward him. Her dress was sleeveless, falling in drapes down her chest and much lower in the back. He slid off his stool and moved to open the heavy glass door for her as she crossed back into the lobby.
“Thank you.”
She wasn’t going to tip him for holding the door for her. But he didn’t mind. She strode past, her deep purple dress swishing against bare skin. No, he didn’t mind at all. He knew instinctively she wasn’t like the other women who attended these galas, women who brushed their bodies and hands against him as they waited for husbands to return with the car. Women who acted as if their five-dollar tips had bought and paid for him, who didn’t recognize that not everyone had a price.
He watched her bend forward, set black leather heels into place on the gold marble floor, and he sucked in his breath as the folds of her dress shifted over her back, tantalizing him with possibilities.
She rose in one fluid motion and curled her toes before stepping into the shoes. His sigh resonated with hers, echoing against the glass walls of the lobby. He admired the view as she continued down the hall, heels clicking against the marble floor.
She was graceful, but not rigid like a dancer, he thought, hypnotized by the fabric swinging back and forth at her lower back. When he was young, he’d seen a group of Chinese acrobats. One of the set pieces had been two men dueling with sharp swords, one in each hand. The four blades moved faster and faster until they became a blur dancing around the stage. The only thing that prevented bloodshed had been the acrobats’ grace, balance, and supreme confidence.
She disappeared into the main gallery and the guard sighed once more, longing for something he’d never possessed in the first place. He gave thanks to God for the mysteries that were women.
His finger tapped the guest list; it was easy to find her name, she and her escort had been the first to arrive. Hart, Cassandra Hart.
The guard moved back to his desk. He had the sudden urge to talk to his wife, to hear the voice that had kept him company for the past eleven years.
(CJ Lyons) 
