What if your ex was famous and adored by millions? What would you do if you had one chance to make him regret his entire existence? How much would you risk? Kate Hollis's ex-boyfriend's face plasters newsstands and TV, the Internet, and the multiplex. Jake Sharpe is one of the biggest recording stars on the planet, and every song he's famous for is about Kate. For over a decade his soundtrack has chased her -- from the gym to the supermarket, from the dentist's office to the bars. Now thirty-year-old Kate gets the call that Jake has finally landed back in their Vermont hometown for an MTV special. The moment she has been waiting for has arrived. On the eve of their prom, Jake Sharpe vanished, resurfacing when his song Losing -- about his and Kate's first sexual experience -- shot to the top of the Billboard charts. And the hits kept coming, each more personal than the one before. Now Kate gets her chance to confront Jake and reclaim her past. But after eleven years of enduring protracted and far-from-private heartbreak, everyone in Kate's life has a stake in how this plays out. Kate must risk betraying the friends Jake abandoned, the bandmates whose songs he plundered, and her own parents, who fear this will dredge up a shared past more painful than any of them want to acknowledge. But after getting the call in the dead of night and jumping on a plane, can she turn back now? Newsweek dubbed The Nanny Diaries a national phenomenon and the New Republic proclaimed, Thank God for Citizen Girl. Now McLaughlin and Kraus have written a poignant, humorous tale about modern celebrity obsession and coming of age during the divorce boom. With flawless depictions of the 1980s, a charismatic heroine, and their signature biting wit, the authors offer up another lively and hilarious tale of a smart young woman looking for satisfaction in the chaos of contemporary culture.
The team behind The Nanny Diaries and Citizen Girl returns with another breezy chick lit portrayal of a woman wronged and, eventually, empowered. When Kate Hollis's childhood chum Laura calls from their Vermont hometown and announces the arrival of Jake Sharpe, a mega rock star and Kate's high school sweetheart, Kate jumps on a plane from Charleston, S.C. (where she's a sustainable development consultant) and makes for idyllic Croton Falls. Through it's been 13 years, Kate still has a primal need to confront not only the boy who abandoned her before the senior prom, but the musical pirate who used her personal life as fodder for his most celebrated songs and cheated his high school bandmates out of deserved recognition and royalties. Chapters switch back and forth between the present and the pivotal middle and high school years where Kate (then Katie) and Jake did the first-love thing: readers get to see Jake's growing he's-just-not-that-into-you-ness and how (surprise!) their Zima-fueled love (it was the '90s) was idealized. While one spends much of the book wanting to shout at Kate to give it up, go back to Charleston and get on with it, McLaughlin and Kraus do get the nagging need for closure in even the shallowest relationships comically right. (June) Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information. -- PUBLISHERS WEEKLY.
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1 . Enjoyable
Posted September 06, 2010 by Sharon , TroutmanI really enjoyed it. An easy read with very likeable characters, brings back a lot of memories of high school and friendship.
June 04, 2007
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Excerpt from Dedication by Emma McLaughlin
December 22, 2005
"Laura?" I ask into the phone, disoriented, voice sandy with sleep.
"Yeah," I murmur, my head sinking, pushing the receiver deeper into the pillow.
"He's here," she repeats. "In Croton."
Her words register and my eyes fly open. I sit up.
"Awake now?" she asks.
"Yes." I look over to my bedside table, tilting up straighter to see over the stack of books. The glowing numbers on the clock read 4:43 a.m. "How -- "
"Mick's been throwing up -- some kind of stomach flu slash candy cane binge with the baby-sitter. I look out the bathroom window and his mother's house is lit up like Disney World, called the sheriff's office and they confirmed it. He's here. He's here, Kate."
I fling off the duvet. "I'm coming." Dropping the cordless into its metallic stand, I swing both feet to the smooth wood floor of my bedroom.
He's here -- there. Jake Sharpe. Of course it's not three P.M. on a Saturday. Of course you reappear in the middle of the night like some nocturnal blood-leech.
Adrenaline surges. I grab yoga pants from the chair, pull them up under my nightslip, and tug the little black cardigan from the doorknob. Throwing open the closet doors, I stand on tiptoe, fingernails catching the edge of my suitcase handle just enough to avalanche it off the shelf, business trip toiletries raining on my head and rolling across the hardwood. I scramble to retrieve the miniature bottles, an anxiety-dream sweat dampening the silk of my slip. Only I'm awake. And Laura's flare finally hovers in the night sky over the snowy hills of our hometown.
Indignation fuels the whipping open of drawers, fistfuls of underwear, T-shirts, and pajamas filling the case, my mind moving ahead to the important items -- skinny jeans, date sweater, dangly earrings -- the heels that knock me up to five-nine. The two zipper toggles collide and I shove my brass travel lock through the holes.
Rolling down the hall I push my feet into my sneakers, yank my trench from its hook, open the front door to the cricket quiet of my suburban street, and reach into my pocket for the keys -- shit, my purse. I whirl in the dark apartment, spotting it hiding on the kitchen table among the boxes of unwritten Christmas cards, rolls of wrapping paper, and my laptop. No. I don't need my laptop. Just bring the binder to read on the plane. Then I might start the report. Then I might need my laptop. Just bring the laptop. I try to unclip it from the docking station, but my fingers fumble. I flick the light switch on, startled by the jarring brightness. But, oh, this is good, yes, okay, good, light helps. Okay, reality check. I take in my reflection in the kitchen window, face creased from sleep, eyes puffed from deprivation of same, brown hair tangled from passing out in forgotten ponytail holder.
This is insane.
I flick the light back off, swing the front door shut, stalk back to the bedroom, flop on top of the bed, and pull the still-warm duvet over me like a taco. Letting the keys drop from my grip, I will the adrenaline away, will back the peaceful dead-to-the-world repose I was beneath just moments ago.
Sleep, Kate. Go back...to sleep. You've been working nonstop -- the conference, the meetings, the forty-two-hour round-trip to Argentina. This bed was all you could think of. Aren't you comfortable? And relaxed? Living your life? Sleeping in your bed? Isn't it nice to be an adult...who can get into her own bed...in her own apartment...and go to sleep...on her own timing. My pulse deepens. And not be reduced to some stupid...knee-jerk...adolescent...obsessive... lunatic behavior...just because Jake's finally shown up -- finally shown up --
I sit up. Breathless.
And within minutes find myself flying along Route 26, counting off the exits to the Charleston airport.