Atlantic Books

Atlantic Books

Locate me
FR

Reader's Corner

by

September’s Reader’s Corner comes from the Box of Delights Bookshop in Wolfville, NS

Relative-Happiness-Lesley-CreweRelative Happiness
by Lesley Crewe; $17.95 (pb)
9781771082099, 384 pp.
Nimbus Publishing, Movie Edition: June 2014

Easy to get into and hard to put down. Lexie Ivy is an endearing character; her kindness and insecurity will be recognizable to many. When she is forced to make a bittersweet romantic choice, readers will inevitably be divided. This book is certain to generate lively debate over whether the better man won.

~Hilary Drummond is a freelance editor and co-owner of the Box of Delights Bookshop in Wolfville, NS. She has previously worked at Shakespeare and Company (Paris), Atlantis Books (Greece) and Brill Publishing (Netherlands).

Purchase Relative Happiness online or click here to read an excerpt

Lesley CreweAbout the author:

Lesley Crewe is the author of Kin, Her Mother’s Daughter, Hit and Mrs., Ava Comes Home, Shoot Me, and Relative Happiness, which was shortlisted for the Margaret and John Savage First Book Award. Previously a freelance writer and columnist for Cape Bretoner magazine, she currently writes a column for Cahoots online magazine. Born in Montreal, Lesley lives in Homeville, Nova Scotia.

by

Relative-Happiness-Lesley-Crewe“I’ve never loved you. Not for a single second, you horrible man.”

Lexie threw herself across the room and fumbled with the doorknob in her haste to escape. She couldn’t get the door open.

“Let me out. Let me out!” She rattled it again and again but the door wouldn’t budge.

Her husband stormed over and grabbed her arm. “You’re a liar!” Then he looked away and muttered, “Will you know it off with the doorknob, already? It’s the only one we have.”

Lexie rattled some more. “Take your hands off me!” She whispered, “Actually we have two knobs – because you’re here.”

He shouted, “You’ll always love me!”

“I hate you.” Lexie pulled her arm out of his grasp and turned to the front of the stage. “I hate this guy.”

“Okay, stop. Stop. Jesus, Lexie. Those aren’t the lines.”

Lexie jerked her thumb at her fellow thespian. “No, I mean, I really hate this guy.”

The husband sneered. “And you’re such a prize.”

“God, Todd. I have to rattle the doorknob. I’m supposed to be in a frenzy. It’s called acting.”

“You couldn’t act your way out of a paper bag. A very large paper bag.”

The director threw his hands on his head. “Lord, why me? Okay, everyone. Take a break.”

“Moron,” Lexie grumbled as she huffed off the stage. Todd gave her the finger. She hurried down the side steps and stomped up the aisle of the theatre until she saw Susan, who sat in one of the top rows chowing down on a bag of Cheerios.

“Wow, you were really convincing,” she said with her mouth full. “I could feel the hate from here.”

Lexie plunked into the seat beside her. She reached into Susan’s bag and grabbed a handful of orange junk.

“Why do I come here, year after year? I need this like a hole in the head.” She stuffed her face and sighed at the same time, which caused her to choke.

Susan passed her a bottle of root beer. Lexie chugged it down and passed the empty bottle back.

“Thanks. Now I have none.”

“Quit bitching.”

“And ruin the only entertainment I have? Not on your life.”

They smiled at each other. Because it was true. Lexie and Susan were two frumpy old maids. If they didn’t have each other, they’d be total losers.

Susie licked her fingers, “So. What’s on the agenda for this weekend? Shall we colour our grey or lose fifty pounds?”

“I say we shag the first guy we see,” Lexie proposed. “And Todd doesn’t count. Actually, what am I saying? No one in this stupid theatre qualifies. No one in this whole stupid town does either.”

Susan tried to get a drop of root beer to drip on her tongue. It didn’t work, so she stuck her tongue in the bottle. Lexie made a face.

“You’ll get your tongue stuck if you keep that up.”

Susan suddenly froze, the bottle hanging from her mouth. Her eyes bugged out from her head. She whacked Lexie on the shoulder about five times.

“God, Susan. Can you breathe? Are you dying?”

Susan continued to whack and waggle the bottle back and forth. Lexie started to panic. “It’s all right, just let me grab it.” She took the end of the bottle and yanked for all she was worth. A huge pop caused everyone in the place to swing around and gawk.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong, for heaven’s sake?”

“Holy shit, look behind you,” Susan hissed out of the side of her mouth. “Am I dreaming?”

Lexie swiveled in her seat and saw a young man standing at the top of the aisle. He wore a pair of old jeans, a sweater that was too big for him with holes in the sleeves, and a long scarf wrapped around his neck about four times. He had on a pair of knitted gloves with the fingertips cut off, and carried an old army knapsack that had seen a lot of action.

It seemed impossible, but it was as if he’d been plucked from the streets of Paris and dropped out of the sky into the middle of this dreary, dirty coal town. Nothing this exciting had happened in years.

He smiled at them and Lexie had a hard time catching her breath. As she drank him in, it registered that he was tall and lean, with a mass of shoulder-length brown hair falling in his eyes. His teeth were a beautiful white and his eyes were very blue. It looked as if he hasn’t shaved in a couple of days. He wasn’t classically handsome – his face was too angular for that – but Lexie knew she’d never forget him for as long as she lived.

“Anyone looking for an off-Broadway actor?”

Lexie stood, or at least tried to. Susan was directly behind her, holding the hem of Lexie’s blouse in a tight grip. “Oh my God…what are you doing?”

Lexie had no idea, but she kept moving until Susan let go. She stretched out her hand and said, “Hi, I’m Lexie.”

“Hello Lexie.” He took her hand and gave it a warm shake. “What a beautiful name.”

If she didn’t love him before, she sure as shootin’ loved him now.

Lexie Ivy hated her name. Who wouldn’t? Just try and get your fingers wrapped around an “x,” a “v,” and a “y” when you’re five and learning the alphabet. Her younger sisters, Beth, Gabby, and Kate, had an easier time of it. Of course they had an easier time of everything, being gorgeous and slim, slim, slim white she was fat, fat, fat. Why she even talked to her sisters was a mystery. The three of them personified perfection. Growing up, Lexie fantasized about locking her sisters in a tower, but even in her own daydreams princes pushed past her. They were the fair maidens, after all.

Unfortunately, not much had changed over the years. Lexie’s mother still made it quite clear that at the ripe old age of thirty, her oldest daughter was still a work in progress.

All of this ran through her head as she stared at this man. He said something because his lips moved.

“Excuse me?”

He laughed. “I said, I’m Adrian Davenport.”

“That’s wonderful.”

He laughed again. “Is it?”

Get a grip, Lex. You’re acting like an idiot. She finally let go of his hand and was instantly left out in the cold.

“Show I can’t quite believe you’re a Broadway actor. Don’t you know you’re in the middle of nowhere? You must be lost.”

He hesitated for only half a second, but it was long enough for her to know. He was lost. His eyes betrayed him.

He threw his hands in the air and shrugged his shoulders. “I knew I should have turned left at the border.”

They grinned at each other.

“Well, since you’re here, why don’t I ask you a few questions. I happen to be the producer of this particular play, and the starring lead.” She leaned closer to him. “There are so few of us, we all have to take turns. I’m the stagehand next time round. Or is it director? I forget.”

He gave her a little bow. “I’m at your service.”

Holy moley, I sure hope so. What should she do now? She had a brainstorm. “Why don’t I take you across the street to Tim Horton’s and we’ll get a coffee. My treat.”

“That would be lovely.”

This couldn’t be happening. She turned around and screamed back to earth. Susan sat there with her mouth agape, as if her jaw was unhinged.

“Oh, gee. Adrian, this is my friend, Susie.”

“How do you do?” He reached out and held his hand in the air.

Susan was frozen. And she stayed frozen.

Adrian dropped his arm.

“Susie!”

“What…?”
“This is Adrian.”

“Yea…”

“We’re going for a cup of coffee.”

“Wha…?”

“Good grief, woman. I’m taking Adrian for a cup of coffee. Tell Todd the nob I’ll be back in half an hour.”

She didn’t wait for Susan to reply because there was no point. Her eyes were still glazed over.

Lexie ushered Adrian out of the theatre, but not before she saw Susan suddenly spring to life and hightail it down to the stage, her hands flapping. No doubt her gums were flapping too, but Lexie would worry about that later. She picked up her coat at the door. It was a huge woven shawl she had made herself. She felt good in it because it was covered in a multitude of sins.

Relative Happiness
by Lesley Crewe
$17.95, paperback, 384 pp.
Nimbus Publishing, Movie Edition: June 2014

by

September’s Reader’s Corner comes from the Box of Delights Bookshop in Wolfville, NS

Blank white book w/path
Everything is so Political
edited by Sandra McIntyre $19.95 (pb)$16.95 (epub)
9781552665497 (pb), 9781552665947 (epub), 200 pp.
Roseway Publishing, May 2013

A collection of short fiction is sometimes a refreshing alternative to a novel. By offering a variety of creative perspectives on the many different kinds of relationships Canadians have to our political process, these thought-provoking stories will provide readers an accessible avenue for discussion into subjects often considered taboo.

~Hilary Drummond is a freelance editor and co-owner of the Box of Delights Bookshop in Wolfville, NS. She has previously worked at Shakespeare and Company (Paris), Atlantis Books (Greece) and Brill Publishing (Netherlands).

Praise for Everything Is So Political:

Sandra McIntyre
Sandra McIntyre is a freelance book editor and writer living in Calgary, Alberta. Previously, she was the managing editor of Nimbus Publishing in Halifax, NS. Sandra edits fiction primarily and is currently at work on a historical novel.Praise for Everything is So Political:

“Each story offers entertainment and food for thought to readers within a few brief pages.” — Winnipeg Free Press

“The greatest achievement of Everything Is So Political is proving that the marriage of art and politics can be anything but distasteful, unsophisticated, juvenile or offensive. In fact, rather than seeming to boast an agenda, these stories are harrowing, challenging, intelligent and, at times, even entertaining.” — rabble.ca

“These are well-crafted and demanding pieces that hang in the air as sharply as spilt champagne on your dinner jacket. The waft, however, is more Listerine before noon on the homeless man’s breath. They can’t be as easily shrugged off as a trip to the dry cleaners.” — Halifax Media Co-Op

“ Although the stories differ greatly in tone and theme, they are all thought-provoking, powerful and imaginative. Not only do I recommend reading this inspiring collection, I recommend rereading it not long after.” — Alberta Views

 

Buy Everything Is So Political online from Roseway Publishing or read an excerpt.

by

Blank white book w/pathI shouldn’t have minded that George sat down beside me at Carla’s party. I shouldn’t have cared that he’s different. If my mother had been here, she would have disapproved of my irritation. It doesn’t matter, she would have insisted, skin, fur, fish scales, feathers, who cares? But it did matter. Everyone stopped dancing and stared, and I hate it when people stare. I gazed out of the window with a preoccupied air as though ruminating some complex philosophical conundrum, hoping George would take the hint and go away. Carla scowled at me, deep vertical lines pinched between tented eyebrows, red lips sucked in tight. Did she think I’d invited George? I shook my head—discreetly—to tell her: no, no way, not me, are you crazy?

And then there stood George’s brother Mike, a vision in white fur, framed in the doorway, nose twitching, eyes flickering around the room. Poor Carla. She looked ready to burst into tears. I sympathized, I wouldn’t want it known that the Wolffe brothers had come to my party either.

Without greeting anyone (what would be the point, who would have responded?), Mike stalked, stiff legged, through the throbbing music and placed his haunches on the arm of the sofa beside my shoulder, on the other side from George. Jen, Barb and Ellis snickered, relieved they hadn’t been the ones who’d had to sit down because their shoes pinched so badly. I transferred my gaze to the carpet, counting the holes that had been left in it by generations of smoking pre-Carla tenants, trying to breathe through my mouth.

Hi, said George. I couldn’t look into his face. It wasn’t that he was ugly, but he didn’t, well, he didn’t look right. If my mother were here she’d have hissed to me that I had the sensitivity of a stoat, didn’t I see how uncomfortable I was making him? It’s not about what someone looks like, my mother likes to say, it’s about what’s inside—that’s what counts. I shouldn’t have minded. But I did. I was sorry of course that everyone stared at the brothers and made jokes at their expense. About the size of their noses, the hairiness of their legs, and above all, about the way they smelled. As long as I wasn’t personally involved I had no problem with them carrying on their lives however they liked. But if “however they liked” involved me, then…

I jumped to my feet. Hey, Jen, I called. Jen pointed to her empty glass and slipped out of the room.

Wanna dance? George’s low growl—or perhaps it was Mike’s—was not threatening but it made the hairs on my arms stand on end.

No, I don’t dance, thank you.

Silky white fur slipped over my skin as George draped an arm around my shoulders. Beneath the fur, bone, and sinew. He moved in a most peculiar way, knees jerking high, elbows wide, snout lifting and mouth pulling forward into a little round “o”. His movements had nothing to do with the rhythm of the music on Carla’s sound system. Mike crouched, belly low to the carpet, then leaped, twisting in the air as he kicked up his legs high behind him. George swept me up, tossed me to Mike. Face buried in fur, I breathed in the manky smell of the Wolffe brothers. Then I was crouching too.

My friends stared and shrank back against the walls as the three of us hurtled around the room, yapping and howling, tumbling on the holey carpet, springing up onto the back of the sofa, onto the window sill, the coffee table, the bookcase. Now I’d caught the rhythm that the brothers were dancing to: Of bright sun-glanced glaciers, of darting fish and green pebbled stream-beds, of pines and, beneath their bark, slow-seeping resin.

We stood on the carpet, panting. Well, that was fun, said George, leading me back to the sofa. We sat down, George on one side, Mike on the other. I stared at George, then at Mike, into those black-rimmed blue eyes. A flash of light. Carla rushed for a dustpan and brush. The bulb in the lamp beside the TV had exploded. That could only mean one thing: I was in love. The tip of George’s white tail entwined itself around my calf, Mike’s nestled in my elbow. Oh no, the tails. I’d forgotten the tails. They shouldn’t have mattered, I know, but they did.

Short story The Brothers Wolffe by Susi Lovell
from Everything is so Political
edited by Sandra McIntyre
$19.95, paperback, 200 pp.
Roseway Publishing, May 2013

by

Portrait of JuliaAt least she was sick before breakfast and once the heaves had subsided, Julia was hungry and eager to be out in the glorious air she drank in from her window. Pale sunlight was turning the calm Mediterranean a cerulean blue where the water was deeper, shading to the palest opalescent turquoise where its waves lazily uncurled on the shingle beach. Drinking in the joy of those colours, she sighed. Whether she was going to continue painting or not, she could not help looking with the painter’s eye. That was Morrice’s great faculty, his delicate eye, an eye that could see with exquisite refinement and colour sense. Even Frenchmen, or the most discerning of them, were ravished by his paintings of Normandy and Brittany and especially Paris. The French government had bought three of them. Some critics had bought him for their private collections. Of the thousands of painters working in Paris, he was one of very few, particularly among foreign painters, to have earned real distinction. Measured by her small talent, Morrice was a giant, who should be stimulated by such admiration to fresh achievement. He should be at the height of his powers, not dissipating them as he was. The previous afternoon he had looked almost drained of energy—until, it was true, the evening had revived him. He had seemed quite vigorous when he suggested painting her.

If doing that would reawaken his ambition and get him back to work, it would be right to do it. But this morning she did not feel like it in the least. She turned away from the window to go on dressing, wondering at her reluctance. Anyone interested in art should be honoured to pose for an important artist. Quite selfishly, it conferred a little posterity. Whomever Morrice painted would be known and looked at in galleries for generations. Even in Canada, slow to appreciate him, Morrice was now hanging in the National Gallery and many others. She raised a leg to pull on a stocking and stopped. She had felt no shyness about posing for him before she was married. Why would it be different now? But it was, inexplicably. Before she decided, she wanted to take off her clothes alone and scrutinize her body carefully. To satisfy herself about what? Never mind. She could do it later. She needed to be out now in the charming streets she could see from the window, amid the cheerful noises and delicious smells. She pulled up the stocking and secured it.

Wanting some time to herself, she left the hotel so as not to pass the café where she guessed Morrice might be and walked up Rue Meyerbeer. It was absolutely true that changing the scenery helped change the spirits. The undercurrent of anxiety she’d been living with began to dissolve as she headed away from the sea towards the old city of Nice, absorbed in the busy life of the streets, the costumes, the shops, the architecture, the different odours of the region’s cooking, the flowers strangely in season, the semi-tropical trees and foliage in the parks, all just exotic enough to be fascinating. By the time she had found a busy café on Place Masséna, with its shady arcades and terracotta- and pistachio- coloured buildings, she was cheerful. While she waited for her café au lait and croissants, she realized just what had been inhibiting her: Lucy.

Portrait of Julia
by Robert MacNeil
$19.95, hardcover, 352 pp.
Formac Publishing Company, September 2013