Tag Archives: Kalyanii

Kalyanii reviews How Still My Love by Diane Marina

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Familiar with Diane Marina’s work, I expected quite the good read as I delved into How Still My Love; however, I did not anticipate that I would be thrust into a world of characters who could so effortlessly elicit an emotional investment beyond what I am willing to contribute to my own experience. Navigating the mundane aspects of my day-to-day life while between chapters, I’d find myself swept away by everything from desire and intimate surrender to desperation and heartbreak. Time and time again, I’d have to remind myself that I was indeed not in the throes of passion or crisis; yet, upon setting the book down for the night, this more vivid world inhabited my dreams.

Having sustained a broken heart in a physically and emotionally abusive relationship several years before, Beth Anders pours her passion into her graphic design studio. Sure, she’s had a few casual encounters, but she has no interest in risking further hurt. That doesn’t dissuade her best friend, Laurel, from matchmaking however; and, Beth reluctantly concedes to a dinner with Laurel, her husband, and her co-worker, Toni Vincent, who Laurel believes to be the woman of Beth’s dreams.

Indeed, it’s lust at first sight and love shortly thereafter. Beth and Toni’s feelings for one another grow quickly, and it doesn’t take long for them to begin building a life together; yet, just a way down the road, they find that they may not have fully grasped one another’s visions for the future. Such a conflict of needs tends to have no easy resolution, but the couple’s lack of communication, resentments and fear-based behaviors turn a challenging situation into something that very well may prove downright devastating.

Be they scenes of intimacy, ecstasy or gut-wrenching loss, Marina writes them all with power, clarity and an understated intensity that packs all the more punch for its skillful lack of melodrama. All the while, I found her sense of pacing, character development and plot progression to be flawless. The unfolding of Beth and Toni’s relationship is nothing shy of masterfully executed for I felt so palpably the lusty anticipation of intimacy, the comfort and familiarity a few years in and the mingling of desperation and rage in the face of betrayal. Lest I neglect to mention, her penning of the bedroom scenes is sexy without an ounce of the lewd or ridiculous.

As much as I appreciate Marina’s strengths as an author, it is the impact and resonance of her work that left me in a state akin to afterglow upon turning the final page. In that moment, I experienced an undeniable sense of gratitude that Marina would provide such a lush and poignant experience for her readers. I certainly don’t indulge in emotionality or invest my heart to the extent I did while immersed in the life Beth and Toni shared; and, from one jaded soul to perhaps another, that vicarious surrender is a rare and precious gift.

Kalyanii reviews Women Float by Maureen Foley

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The names may be different, the locales may boast an unfamiliar topography and the events may have a turn all their own; but, once in a very great while, a work emerges that is capable of providing the seldom-uttered assurance that this story is your story. It is akin to the caress of the author’s hand upon your cheek or the splaying of fingers through your hair, accompanied by a whisper that encourages you to find healing within the pain that resides at the core of her character’s own heart. You realize that, by embracing her abandonment, you are able to let go of your own. By hearing her lies, you are able to discover the truth within your own tales.

At twenty-nine, Win finds herself amid her Saturn return, trying to make what sense she can of nearly three decades that have known more than their share of loss, rejection, fear and disappointment. Surrounded by well-meaning friends with a penchant for new age modalities, her process is facilitated by everything from a water blessing ceremony to a Make Your Own Shrine Kit. Determined to release her fear, Win vows to return to the water. Though her mother, Janie, who left her at the age of nine, may have been something of a mermaid, Win has always feared the water and has never learned to swim… until now, twenty years after Janie went away.

Indeed, the first chapter of Maureen Foley’s Women Float serves as one of the most touching openings in recent memory. A recounting of Win’s ninth birthday, the last birthday in which she had her mother, the chapter introduces complexities, contradictions and metaphors that weave their way throughout the remainder of the work, ultimately juxtaposing her last encounter with the water during childhood with her first encounter in adulthood.

The insights gleaned into Win’s relationship with Janie are palpably heartbreaking, from the baking of her own birthday cake to the terror that her mother would be angry that she went out too far in the water; yet, even as the story unfolds, Janie cannot be fully understood. She’s simply too elusive, for the reader as well as Win herself; and, we continue to come back to the one question that begs answering — What compelled Janie to deny her daughter access to the freedom and power that resides in the unshakable knowledge that she can float?

Yet, this unbidden soul quest is about much more than making peace with the past. Take, for example, the love she holds for her best friend Mia, which is destined never to be reciprocated. Or the lies Win tells that not only convey an altered reality but the denial of her personal truth. Or the mysterious postcards, which only exacerbate her longing. At what point do the visions within her mind’s eye manifest themselves in conscious and mindful action? What does it take for one to liberate herself by letting go of that which does not serve her and to embrace her personal power?

Remarkably, enhancing the genuine sense of presence with which Foley pens Win’s heart is the undulating quality of the writing itself, reflected within imagery that lends a sensuous cadence to the work as a whole. There is very little of a linear narrative in the telling of Win’s story; and, the more we understand her experience, the looser becomes our own grasp on reality. Distinctions blur between the actual and the imagined, surrender and indifference, courage and fear… until Win begins to trust herself to let go… and we choose to do the same.

Kalyanii reviews Owl Eyes by Georgie Watts

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Typically and perhaps ideally, when the exchange of ideas and the sharing of experience take place between a writer and her reader, the inherent value of both roles within the creative process is affirmed. The story would not exist without the writer, and it would have no reason to exist if not for the reader. It’s a profound and powerful act, which deeply touches everyone involved.

Then there is work created solely for cathartic purposes. Perhaps the writer needs to vent, to reframe her experience or re-write history. She is concerned only with what the story means within the context of her experience, rendering the reader unnecessary and wholly irrelevant. This is where literary art ends and narrative therapy begins.

Indeed, Owl Eyes by Georgie Watts is a classic example of a work that sacrifices the reader’s experience for the therapeutic benefits of stringing words together on the page. It is  the story of Sarah, a young woman who finds escape from her stressful job, demanding parents and disordered eating within the act of graffiti writing. Assuming an identity as Owlie for her depictions of… well, owls, Sarah finds a sense of freedom and empowerment within the defiance that fuels the street art scene.

Although I initially found the premise of the novel fresh and exciting, it didn’t take long for me to realize that Owl Eyes has little to do with conveying emotion or telling a compelling story. Given that no apparent effort was put into making the characters three-dimensional or developing a sense of depth or nuance through action or dialogue, it was hard to care about Sarah, her parents, her co-worker or the other graffiti artists she meets (not to mention the wealthy owner of a women’s magazine who somehow winds up facilitating the fulfillment of Sarah’s most treasured dreams). Nothing that transpires within the tale is accompanied by supporting events or foreshadowing and thus feels utterly implausible. We are told that Sarah has an eating disorder but do not witness it; and, we learn that she identifies as bisexual but feel no passion in spite of her burgeoning relationship with Phanatic, a homeless street artist and jiu jitsu master.

I applaud anyone’s engagement in the creative process, no matter what their skill level or experience, for magic is inevitable as long as the intent is pure; however, when one uses words to soothe the ego or prove something to themselves at the expense of the reader, the result can’t help but to fall flat. With this in mind, it’s no wonder that Owl Eyes left me feeling little more than an unwitting target of the author’s cathartic splatter and subsequent quest for validation.

Kalyanii reviews My Awesome Place by Cheryl Burke

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It is not in spite of the grit, irreverence and sordid encounters that Cheryl B.’s life serves as an inspiration; rather, it is because of the rawness and honesty with which she relays each and every detail. Without apologies, Cheryl B. within her posthumously published memoir, My Awesome Place, recounts the most tragic and triumphant moments of her life, cut short by complications from the treatment of Hodgkin’s lymphoma. A legendary spoken-word poet, performance artist, writer and member of the queer community, Cheryl B.’s story continues to spur creative souls to live their truth and express it boldly.

Growing up in a working class family amid both emotional and physical abuse, Cheryl B.’s childhood was no age of innocence. The stories are heartbreaking, even as she tells them with her characteristic irony and cynicism. While Cheryl B.’s home life was a barrage of high-conflict drama and emotional neglect, school proved an exercise in invalidation as she was discouraged from the pursuit of higher education. Seeking direction with the college application process, she remembers, her guidance counselor even suggested that “someone like her” should set her sights on a career as a toll taker on the New Jersey Turnpike.

Undaunted, Cheryl B. moved to New York to attend NYU and later The New School, where she found herself surrounded by a plethora of kindred spirits and opportunities to create her art. She collaborated with one of her closest friends on her foray into performance art and began participating in the poetry slams at the Nuyorican Poets Cafe, which ultimately led to a legendary career amid what was later recognized as the heyday of spoken-word performance.

Thrust in the hub of New York’s arts culture, Cheryl initially declined the offers of cocaine, opting for a few drinks and bong hits, until one of her girlfriends persuaded her to give it a try. Impressed with its ability to “cut the drunk,” she let go of her resistance. Before long, all-nighters, lost memories and foggy interludes had become the norm as she grieved her father’s death and the loss of what never was while he was alive. Relationships ended, one of her dearest friends became very ill and her loneliness grew.

After he died, I slipped into an angry depression, what I later identified as a breakdown that lasted years. I drank to excess, turning mean and paranoid. I was incredibly needy but turned everyone away. I trusted no one, not even Chris, with whom I was in love. I was prone to crying fits. I once tried to punch out a store window in the East Village. The window won. I couldn’t concentrate on my writing; instead I spent my creative energy putting together slutty outfits from $10 store offerings. I broke up with my best friend and was sure my other friends were all talking about how crazy I was behind my back. Basically, the world was conspiring against me. I was drowning in self-pity, cocaine and tequila. My self-diagnosed existential crisis was nothing more than a drug-fueled alcoholic rampage.

The momentum continued to build until she awakened one Sunday morning to the realization that “not only had I been blacking out, acquiring facial rashes, neglecting my cat and sleeping with men I barely knew and rarely remembered, there was also a bad conceptual art factory beneath my bed” comprised of a Snapple bottle half-filled with tequila, a constellation of cat hair, Ziploc bags, pretzel parts and discarded condoms among other treasures. Flushing the drugs down the toilet and pouring the alcohol down the kitchen drain, Cheryl B. decided that the time was ripe for change and committed to sobriety for 30 days, which became 10 years shortly after her diagnosis.

Cheryl B. left a working draft of this memoir upon her death in June of 2011. As a tribute to her life and her work, her partner, Kelli Dunham, and members of her writing group made use of notes and emails to pull together the completed work. The writing is often far from clean, verb tense inconsistencies abound and typos crop up more than a time or two; but, these apparent flaws only serve as a reminder that in the end Cheryl B. was robbed of the opportunity to edit the manuscript herself.

More information about Cheryl B.’s literary accomplishments can be found in a piece entitled “Remembering Cheryl B.” at www.lambdaliterary.org. Video footage of her readings can be accessed at www.youtube.com.

Kalyanii reviews Emily’s Art and Soul by Joy Argento

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While a novel may entertain, inspire or even frustrate, there is something profound about a work that leaves us with enough insight into the human condition that we are able to forgive the author for elements of its execution that fall short of expectations. At the outset, I would not have imagined this would have been my resonant sense from Emily’s Art and Soul by Joy Argento; but, for all of my eye-rolling and impatient huffing throughout the first half of the book, I appreciated the emotional impact and depth of its conclusion.

After a painful divorce and her mother’s death, Emily Sanders takes a job as a high school art teacher in Syracuse, eighty miles from her hometown, in an effort to begin life anew; however, she soon discovers that little in life works out as planned. Emily’s father turns to alcohol as a means of coping with his grief and finds that he cannot tend to his own needs much less those of Mindy, Emily’s younger sister with Down syndrome. Thus, Mindy comes to live with Emily in Syracuse, where she has no one but her big sister upon whom to rely.

Unfulfilled by her past romances, Emily is happy enough without a partner and looks to her oil painting as an outlet for her sensuality and passion until she is inexplicably drawn to Andi Marino, a female colleague who over time assumes the role of Emily’s best friend. The way her body responds to Andi’s mere presence serves as the catalyst for Emily’s sudden realization that she is gay, which throws her into a high-speed tailspin. Emily can’t quite wrap her mind around the fact that she spent the first thirty-five years of her life unaware of this personal truth and becomes utterly obsessed with having a woman in her life.

Emily begins investing an exorbitant amount of time gawking at other women’s rear ends, indulging in sexual innuendo, making out with a near-stranger, speed dating and getting schnockered at a lesbian bar. In carrying out her intention to “play the field,” she disregards her feelings for Andi, the woman who inadvertently inspired Emily’s realization, and is rendered blind to the genuine care and concern that Andi so generously bestows upon Emily and her sister.

It was extraordinarily difficult for me to sympathize with Emily given her self-absorption and resulting disregard for others’ needs; all the while, Andi’s humor, consistency and true goodness make her so very likeable that I couldn’t help but to feel that she deserves someone capable of a mature, respectful and loving relationship. In other words, Andi is worthy of someone significantly more evolved than Emily.

Once she has made her fair share of mistakes, Emily begins to redeem herself through more responsible actions and clearer vision; however, for me, it was too little, too late. Fortunately for Emily, Andi is more willing to cut her slack than I, and that is where the novel’s depth and sensitivity emerges. The blatant plays on lesbian stereotypes fall away, and Emily becomes more fully human. She begins to understand how to love and ends up courageously coming out to those who matter most in her life.

I’d be curious to know the author’s intent with regard to the first half of the book. More than a matter of Emily’s evolution, it feels as though the strength of the latter part is due to Argento’s finding her own stride. When she does, it is rather remarkable to witness. Whereas I was initially mortified to consider Emily’s Art and Soul as a reflection of the lesbian experience, I couldn’t have been more pleasantly surprised upon turning the final page.

Kalyanii reviews Tell Me by Deanna DiLorenzo

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There is something haunting about a novel that engages in a manner such that the reader feels the story to be her story, seducing to a degree wherein the experience conveyed comes to flow through her veins and beat with her heart until it leaves her all but trembling with emotion, eventually settling within the very marrow of her bones. Having surrendered to the intensity, the reader’s breath quickens as she teeters on the cusp of long-awaited climax — only to find herself utterly deflated upon finding the tale hijacked by an author who betrays her characters in favor of the propagation of her personal agenda. In spite of the rapturous buildup, the reader is left frustrated, forsaken and ultimately dissatisfied. I was that reader, and this was my experience of Tell Me by Deanna DiLorenzo.

After breaking up with her rockstar boyfriend, Meagan Summers finds herself under the spell of the beautiful and talented poet, Amber Reed. From the start, their relationship proves nothing less than high-conflict as Amber shifts from adoration and seduction to vengeance and retribution in the blink of an eye while Meagan struggles merely to wrap her head around the fact that she has entered into relationship with a woman, mortified by the subtlest public display of affection. Vacillating between the most passionate expressions of love and sinister acts of betrayal, Meagan and Amber nonetheless view themselves as soulmates, bound by the moonstone that symbolizes the depth of their connection.

After several emotionally exhausting months, Meagan ends the relationship under the pretext of sparing Amber any further pain and shortly thereafter begins a friendship with Ken, who she later marries but loves rather platonically; Amber becomes involved with the gorgeous and mean-spirited Gwynne, who Meagan and Ken hire as their interior decorator. Although they don facades intended to convince the other that they have moved on with their lives, their mutual obsession remains as strong as ever; and, just when Meagan touches upon the courage to abide by her own truth, tragedy strikes, leaving not only the couple’s destiny but Meagan’s very survival in the balance.

In spite of the undeniably compelling storyline, the looseness of DiLorenzo’s writing frequently steals the intensity from the emotional maelstrom brewing on the page. On several occasions, when I was rapt and eager to ride the next wave, the moment would be lost to a tangent that appeared either completely irrelevant or unsubstantiated by events prior or yet to come. By the time I recovered from the shift in trajectory, another instance lurked in the near distance, stealing the momentum that had so skillfully been cultivated up to that point.

Although the novel’s secondary characters come to life fully and vividly (especially Jenna, Meagan’s hippy-chick best friend), when it comes to the construction of Meagan’s personality, the culmination of traits simply does not make sense. It’s not a matter of contradictions within Meagan’s internal landscape or her oft-referenced neuroticism; rather, the incongruity feels to be more a result of a forcing on DiLorenzo’s part to make Meagan into something that she simply is not.

This dissonance extends to the relationship between Meagan and Amber as well, which never really embraces the essence that one would expect to find in soulmates; instead, the dynamic between them appears as the manifestation of the crazy-making nature of a relationship between one woman who cares about appearances more than she does her partner and another exhibiting a textbook personality disorder. Whereas the narrative paints Amber as a victim of Meagan’s reluctance to identify as lesbian, it completely disregards Amber’s manipulative and highly volatile borderline traits that would make any partnership a challenge. Somehow, the idea that Meagan is the sole perpetrator becomes central to the storyline; however, I was never convinced that there was any reason for her to assume the guilt that she feels her due. Although there are surely challenges inherent in being with a woman who is unable to accept her own sexuality, there are more productive ways of working with the issue than through rage, guilt-trips and aggression.

In spite of flaws in characterization, it was with the shift in tone toward the end of the book that the author abandons the novel’s integrity completely, giving Tell Me a propaganda-like feel as DiLorenzo contends through the voice of an astral guide named Victor that women who resist labels and embrace their sexual fluidity are more spiritually evolved than those who identify as lesbian. I would never dare invalidate another’s sexual identity, thus I found myself rather put off by DiLorenzo’s judgment. This aside, such a contentious assertion devalues Amber’s identification as lesbian and elevates Meagan’s process, which throughout the tale has been guided by fear and a healthy dose of cowardice.

DiLorenzo is without a doubt an extraordinary talent, creating a story of intense psychological impact and complexity; however, I can only assume that the breadth of her vision for this work was so vast that it would have been virtually impossible to carry it out without stumbling. That being said, I’d have given anything for the story to have proceeded on an earthly rather than astral plane, where spiritual guides spout opinions and pithy wisdom, for up until that point, DiLorenzo had me in complete surrender, begging for her to whisper nothing more than two charged yet simple words: “Tell Me.”

Kalyanii reviews Cha-Ching! by Ali Liebegott

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Anyone who’s attempted to outrun her demons will attest that the endeavor is ultimately futile; however, it’s something that most of us have given a shot at some point in our lives. Would we have learned as much about ourselves had we done the “wise” thing and heeded the warnings of those around us? Could we understand the journeys of others as well as we now do had we just stayed put, waiting to see what unfolds? I’m guessing that your answer may be the same as mine.

Even if you’ve simply entertained the notion of escape, there’s a good chance that the story of Theo, the unlikely heroine of Cha-Ching! by Ali Liebegott, will resonate with you. On the cusp of thirty, Theo is convinced that if she leaves San Francisco to start over in New York, she will become the person who she wishes herself to be. She can see it so clearly — She wouldn’t drink, smoke or watch television; rather, she’d prove herself well-read, beginning with the complete works of Dostoyevsky and the biographies of legendary artists. Perhaps she’d even take a painting class, become an inventor and entrepreneur or read Crime and Punishment on the stationary bike at the gym. After all, she plans on getting a membership.

Moments before departing on her cross-country adventure, complete with her Butch Bathroom Wig to keep her from being hassled at truckstop restrooms given her gender ambiguity and military-style haircut, her destiny collides with that of another wounded soul — a pit bull who she names Cary Grant. Together the two of them embark upon a new life.

Arriving in New York, Theo does the best she is able with what she’s got, both in terms of internal and external resources. Not only does she have a small handful of cash in her pocket, an acquaintance to look up and enough charm to get by, but her alcoholism, problem gambling and loneliness have also come along for the ride. Although she makes a valiant effort to navigate her addictive tendencies, it isn’t long before she discovers that the addict within her is alive and well.

Although I was drawn to Theo from the start, I found her lack of jadedness somewhat disconcerting. Identifying as butch, Theo frequently refers to herself as a “timid sirma’amsir.” I had a hard time buying into the idea that she wouldn’t have adopted some sort of defense to safeguard her vulnerability; however, it is only while gambling that she endeavors to talk down her fear. In any other context, Theo possesses very little armor to protect her heart in spite of declaring a numbness that is betrayed by her rather frequent experience of emotion.

I also couldn’t let go of the fact that Theo’s reasons for wanting to flee San Francisco are never revealed. None of us make it through three decades without a story to tell, and I desperately wanted to learn of Theo’s history in order to understand more about the person who lived it. In passing, she makes a brief reference to arrests, lost girlfriends, a stint in a mental hospital and a “suicidal streak,” but there are no details provided and no mention of the catalyst for the move.

In spite of a few minor incongruities and the lack of backstory, I found myself unable to put Cha-Ching! down for a moment much less overnight and ended up reading it straight through — twice. What was the drive to keep reading? It wasn’t the quest for answers because there really are none to be found; rather, it was the desire to spend time with Theo in her world. After all, as familiar as I found her internal landscape to be, I wouldn’t be surprised if an understanding and acceptance of Theo just may allow us to extend the same humble courtesies to ourselves.

Kalyanii reviews Something in the Wine by Jae

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Coming out stories are nothing new to the lesbian romance genre; and, if you are anything like me, you may approach such fictional accounts with a healthy dose of skepticism and relatively low expectations. After all, we’ve all been burned a time or two in attempting to invest ourselves in stories that ended up being clumsily crafted or just plain over-the-top. At last, I am pleased to offer my most heartfelt recommendation of Something in the Wine, one of the most skillfully written narratives of a woman’s coming to terms with her sexuality that I have encountered to date.

Annie Prideaux, senior accountant at Cargill & Jones, asks for little more out of life than to conduct her career successfully, enjoy her books and avoid the incessant barrage of practical jokes of her party-boy brother, Jake. In her thirty years, she has yet to figure out how to escape falling victim to his pranks; however, when he sets her up with Drew Corbin, an old college buddy who just so happens to be female, the two women devise a plan to teach Jake a lesson by convincing him that his matchmaking has worked so well that his straight-laced sister has fallen head-over-heels for Drew.

I’ll admit, the premise is a bit contrived and requires some suspension of disbelief, but the enjoyment of the novel is well worth the humble effort. Plus, who could resist Drew? Having taken over her family’s vineyard and winery, she produces exquisite varietals from the rolling hills of her lakeside estate. Her hands are stained with tannin, and her thighs are strong from tending the vines. She is smart, funny, patient, intuitive, a good listener and comfortable in her own skin. If I were to agree to a blind date, as Annie did, I could only pray that such a woman would be awaiting my arrival.

In the process of rehearsing the loving gestures intended for Jake’s benefit, Annie gradually becomes more at ease with proximity to Drew and a friendship based on mutual caring and respect develops between them. Just as Annie nurses Drew through illness, Drew encourages Annie to speak up, set boundaries and develop a healthier sense of herself. Although Annie is initially uncomfortable sharing emotion, Drew cultivates a sense of trust within their friendship that allows for the sharing of histories and the revealing of emotional wounds.

In spite of their best efforts, Jake doesn’t buy a bit of their charade. (Is their connection a charade or something more?) Thus, Annie and Drew set their sites on the Thanksgiving holiday, when Drew is to accompany Annie to her family’s celebration. Concluding that their affectionate rapport has been too subtle for Jake, they decide upon a more obvious approach, planning to bring Annie and Jake’s emotionally unavailable parents in on the joke. What transpires around the table sets the stage for what is by far the most satisfying scene of the novel.

Given that I’ve never been shy about my sexuality, Something in the Wine provided me with an understanding of the challenges that some women may face in the process of coming out. Annie’s discomfort with the feelings that arise within her, the anxiety she experiences on the cusp of closeness, her self-judgment and her fear of the judgement of others allowed me to grasp the gravity of reaching a point where hiding from one’s truth is no longer an option. The finesse with which Jae handles Annie’s inner-landscape illuminates a sensitivity within the author that contributes to the depth of the novel as a whole.

Something in the Wine is the entire package when it comes to romance. Drew and Annie became so real to me that I felt a tugging at my heartstrings at nearly every turn. The dialogue flowed naturally and believably; and, there was a consistency in the dynamics among the characters, accompanied by supporting nuances. The novel held my interest and kept me entertained while providing insight into experiences not my own. Last but certainly not least, the images of Drew Corbin’s stained hands and muscular thighs are sure to inspire my imagination long after the final page has been turned.

Kalyanii reviews Imperial Hotel by Diane Marina

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Rare is the romance that speaks to the journey of two lovers as they grow fully into themselves just as they merge into one another; yet, that is precisely what Diane Marina offers within Imperial Hotel, a novelette that takes the reader on the most intimate of journeys, lingering in eternal moments of innocence and passion as well as empowerment and transcendence.

Introduced by their mothers over tea and finger sandwiches at the Imperial Hotel on an unseasonably brisk autumn morning in 1948, Joan Blackstone is instantly drawn to Lily Dandridge, the stunning young socialite who is to assist her in the quest for a proper husband; and, although Lily initially purses her lips and averts her eyes in disinterest, the moment her gaze falls upon Joan, the sense of intrigue grows mutual. As Joan explains, “The expression on her face changed from diffidence to curiosity as she studied my eyes, then the rest of me, before landing back on my eyes, which had never left her face.” As the four share polite conversation and Mrs. Blackstone inquires into Lily’s recent engagement, Joan finds herself inexplicably troubled at the thought of her new friend marrying Andrew, who Lily enthusiastically references as “the most marvelous man who ever walked God’s green earth.”

As their friendship blossoms over cafe lunches, shopping and strolls through Central Park, Joan and Lily become inseparable; and, as a first kiss confirms a love beyond friendship, visits to the Imperial Hotel take on new meaning as the two young ladies enjoy many a discreet intimate encounter within its rooms.

In spite of the genuine love they share, so tender and raw in its innocence and intensity, their relationship is not without its perils. Not only is Lily to be married, but she is also bound by convention in a way that Joan refuses to be. For Lily, not only are there the expectations of family to consider but also appearances and the consequences of two women in love attempting to live openly in New York City’s high-society of the 1940’s. Given the chasm between Lily’s sense of propriety and Joan’s principles, resolution can only be found within the deep recesses of the heart and a commitment to living with authenticity.

The intricacy with which Marina pens the evolution of Joan and Lily’s love affair is most profoundly witnessed as Joan processes each glance, word and caress exchanged between them, encountering a plethora of feelings she knows not how to name. I couldn’t help but to vicariously experience the breathlessness of their first kiss or the all-consuming mingling of fear and desire which accompanied their first intimate encounter; and, as the story continued to unfold, I found myself increasingly invested, for just when I settled into an idea of what was to come, I found myself swept into another unforeseen and unforgettable moment in time.

The plot itself drives an understanding of Lily’s plight; yet, it is Joan who shows herself as the true heroine of this tale, for her honesty and courage prove beyond what one would expect from a young woman who finds herself utterly smitten, navigating the most tender emotions in a world that has yet to recognize the travesty of societal pressure to live one’s life contrary to one’s truth.

Although the story of Joan and Lily’s exquisite connection could easily fill the pages of a full-length novel, there is something so very perfect in the telling just as it is. After all, at its core, it’s the precious history shared across an ornately decorated table within the Imperial Hotel that underscores the most profound moments of these two women’s lives.