The Daughters of Palatine Hill: A Novel

Review “An absolutely marvelous book, even better than I Am Livia ...Phyllis T. Smith is a remarkable and sophisticated writer who truly breathes life into her characters and her era. A masterful work.” — Reading the Ages “I found myself absolutely in the thrall of this book from the moment I opened it up.” — Precious Books and Baubles “Smith brings ancient Rome to life...An excellent follow-up to her first novel, I Am Livia .” — Historical Novels Review Praise for I Am Livia : “Highly polished and compelling…seamlessly written…[Phyllis T. Smith] offers a richness of historical detail...” — Publishers Weekly “ I Am Livia is a wonderful journey to ancient Rome that provides amazing, thoughtful insight into one of its most influential and unconventional citizens...Smith’s Livia is such a dynamic character, so approachably human, at times fearless and forceful but also merciful and just...The historical backdrop of Rome becomes more accessible, less academic, when seen through the lives of Smith’s characters.” — Historical Novels Review About the Author Phyllis T. Smith was born and currently lives in Brooklyn, New York. After obtaining a bachelor’s degree from Brooklyn College and a master’s degree from New York University, Phyllis pursued a practical career in computer applications training, yet she found herself drawn to writing fiction and to the history, literature, and art of the ancient world. Her first novel, I Am Livia , was a #1 Kindle and Digital Book World bestseller. She plans to write more novels set in ancient Rome.

The Swans of Fifth Avenue: A Novel

Review “Exceptional storytelling . . . teeming with scandal, gossip and excitement.” —Harper’s Bazaar “This moving fictionalization brings the whole cast of characters back to vivid life. Gossipy and fun, it’s also a nuanced look at the beauty and cruelty of a rarefied, bygone world.” — People “The era and the sordid details come back to life in this jewel of a novel.” — O: The Oprah Magazine “Shamelessly gossipy . . . a catty, juicy read that’s like a three-martini lunch.” — USA Today “[Captures] the mesmerizing sparkle and scandal of New York high society in the 1950s.” — Chicago Tribune “Tantalizing . . . Readers will fall into a world of glitz, glamour and the exciting life of the rich and famous. The details and conversations are so rich, you may forget you're reading a novel.” —Associated Press “Highly entertaining.” — The Washington Post “Take Gossip Girl and move it to the 50s.” — theSkimm “[Melanie] Benjamin has given us a compelling look at an American icon, a talented yet vulnerable man, and the complex woman he loved in his own distinctive way.” — The Philadelphia Inquirer “The strange and fascinating relationship between Truman Capote and his ‘swans’ is wonderfully reimagined in this engrossing novel. It’s a credit to Benjamin that we end up caring so much for these women of power, grace, and beauty—and for Capote, too.” —Sara Gruen, New York Time s bestselling author of Water for Elephants “A delicious tale . . . Melanie Benjamin has turned Truman Capote’s greatest scandal into your next must-read book-club selection.” —Jamie Ford, New York Times bestselling author of Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet “Reading The Swans of Fifth Avenue is like being ushered into a party where you’re offered champagne and fed the sumptuous secrets of New York’s elite—without having to pay the price afterward. The swans are outmatched only by the elegance of Melanie Benjamin’s prose—captivatingly earnest and sophisticated.” —Vanessa Diffenbaugh , New York Times bestselling author of The Language of Flowers “Benjamin convincingly portrays a large cast of colorful historical figures while crafting a compelling, gossipy narrative with rich emotional depth.” — Library Journal “The beautiful people of the fifties and sixties glitter in this riveting tale of betrayal and greed. . . . Irresistible, astonishing, and told with verve . . . not to be missed.” —Lynn Cullen, bestselling author of Mrs. Poe Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. chapter 1.....Once upon a time—It was the best of times, it was the worst of times—There once was a man from Nantucket—Truman giggled. He covered his mouth like a little boy, and tittered until his slender shoulders shook, his blue eyes so gleefully mischievous that he looked like a statue of Pan come to life.“Oh, Big Mama! I am such a naughty imp!”“True Heart, you are priceless!” Slim had laughed, too, she remembered, laughed until her ribs ached. Truman did that to her in those glorious early days; he made her laugh. That was it, really. The simple truth of the matter.When he was young, back in 1955, when they were all young—or, at least, younger—when fame was new and friendships fledgling, fueled by champagne and caviar and gifts from Tiffany’s, Truman Capote was a hell of a lot of fun to be around.“Once upon a time,” Slim had finally pronounced.“Yes. Well . . . ,” and Truman drawled it out in his theatrical way, adding several syllables. “Once upon a time, there was New York.”New York.Stuyvesants and Vanderbilts and Roosevelts and staid, respectable Washington Square. Trinity Church. Mrs. Astor’s famous ballroom, the Four Hundred, snobby Ward McAllister, that traitor Edith Wharton, Delmonico’s. Zany Zelda and Scott in the Plaza fountain, the Algonquin Round Table, Dottie Parker and her razor tongue and pen, the Follies. Cholly Knickerbocker, 21, Lucky Strike dances at the Stork, El Morocco. The incomparable Hildegarde playing the Persian Room at the Plaza, Cary Grant kneeling at her feet in awe. Fifth Avenue: Henri Bendel, Bergdorf’s, Tiffany’s.There was a subterranean New York, as well; “lower” in every meaning of the word. Ellis Island and the Bowery and the Lower East Side. The subway. Automats and Schrafft’s, hot dogs from a cart, pizza by the slice. Chickens hanging from windows in Chinatown, pickles from a barrel on Delancey. Beatniks in the Village with their torn stockings and dirty turtlenecks and disdain for everything.But that wasn’t the New York that drew the climbers, the dreamers, the hungry. No, it was lofty New York, the city of penthouses and apartments in the St. Regis or the Plaza or the Waldorf, the New York for whom “Take the ‘A’ Train” was a song, not an option. The New York of big yellow taxis in a pinch, if the limousine was otherwise occupied. The New York of glittering opening nights at the Met; endless charity balls and banquets; wide, clean sidewalks uncluttered by pushcarts and clothing racks and children playing. Views of the park, the river, the bridge, not sooty brick walls or narrow, dank alleys.The New York of the plays, the movies, the books; the New York of The New Yorker and Vanity Fair and Vogue.It was a beacon, a spire, a beacon on top of a spire. A light, always glowing from afar, visible even from the cornfields of Iowa, the foothills of the Dakotas, the deserts of California. The swamps of Louisiana. Beckoning, always beckoning. Summoning the discontented, seducing the dreamers. Those whose blood ran too hot, and too quickly, causing them to look about at their placid families, their staid neighbors, the graves of their slumbering ancestors and say—I’m different. I’m special. I’m more.They all came to New York. Nancy Gross—nicknamed “Slim” by her friend the actor William Powell—from California. Gloria Guinness—“La Guinness”—born a peasant in a rural village in Mexico. Barbara Cushing—known as “Babe” from the day she was born, the youngest of three fabulous sisters from Boston.And Truman. Truman Streckfus Persons Capote, who showed up one day on William S. and Babe Paley’s private plane, a tagalong guest of their good friends Jennifer Jones and David O. Selznick. Bill Paley, the chairman and founder of CBS, had gaped at the slender young fawn with the big blue eyes and funny voice; “I thought you meant President Truman,” he’d hissed to David. “I’ve never heard of this little—fellow. We have to spend the whole weekend with him?” Babe Paley, his wife, murmured softly, “Oh, Bill, of course you’ve heard of him,” as she went to greet their unexpected guest with her legendary warmth and graciousness.Of course, Bill Paley had heard of Truman Capote. Who hadn’t, in Manhattan in 1955?Truman, Truman, Truman—voices whispered, hissed, envied, disdained. Barely thirty, the Boy Wonder, the Wunderkind, the Tiny Terror (this last, however, mainly uttered by other writers, it must be admitted). Truman Capote, slender, wistful bangs and soulful eyes and unsettling, pouty lips, reclining lazily, staring sultrily from the jacket of his first novel, Other Voices, Other Rooms. A novel that neither Babe nor any of her friends such as Slim or Gloria had bothered to read, it must be admitted. But still, they whispered his name at cocktail parties, benefits, and luncheons.“You must meet—”“I’m simply mad about—”“Of course you know—”Truman.“I introduced you to him first,” Slim reminded Babe after that fateful weekend jaunt to the Paleys’ home in Jamaica; that startling, stunning weekend when Babe and Truman had found themselves blinking at the first dazzling sunrise of friendship, still so new that they didn’t quite understand that it was friendship, this thing that had cast a spell over the two of them to the exclusion of mere mortals. “You just don’t remember. But he was mine, my True Heart. It’s not fair that you’ve stolen him from me.” And Slim pouted and shook her blond hair, always hanging over one eye, looking more like Lauren Bacall than did Lauren Bacall, which was only appropriate, since Lauren Bacall had modeled herself after Slim. “Around the time he was working on the screenplay of Beat the Devil, Leland brought him home for dinner one night. Don’t you remember?”“No, it was I who first discovered him,” Gloria insisted with a flash of her exotic dark eyes; that flash that always threatened to expose her real origin, concealed so nearly completely beneath the Balenciaga dresses and Kenneth hairstyles—and studied British accent. “I’m surprised, Slim, that you don’t recall. It was soon after he adapted The Grass Harp for Broadway. I don’t generally go in for Broadway, naturally,” she said with an arch look at Slim, who bristled. “But I’m very glad I went to that opening night. I told you all about him then, Babe.”“My dear, no. I invited him for the weekend, in Paris, don’t you recall?” Pamela broke in, her voice so veddy, veddy British that they all, instinctively, leaned in to hear her (and they all, instinctively, recognized the ploy for what it was, and the many times their husbands had done the same thing, only to encounter Pamela’s magnificent cleavage displayed in a low-cut Dior). “Long before any of you—back when he had just published Other Voices, Other Rooms. Bennett Cerf, you know, the publisher”—and she could barely suppress a shudder; one simply did not like to admit one knew those types—“asked me if I could entertain this young novelist of his, as he was rather nervous about reviews. You were there, Babe. I’m certain of it.”“Ladies, ladies,” admonished C.Z., unflappable and untouchable as ever, never quite “in” but never quite “out” of their world—simple and uncomplicated, a Hitchcock blonde with a sunny smile (and a clenched, exceedingly proper Boston drawl). But C.Z., they all knew, was happier puttering around in her garden, spade in hand, or tending to her horses than she was lunching at Le Pavillon. “I don’t usually care about this sort of thing, but I do believe I was the one who introduced Truman to Babe. We were shopping at Bergdorf’s. Truman is marvelous at picking out just the right handbag. You were there that afternoon, Babe.”“No, I propose it was on our yacht,” Marella said in her uncertain English; her entire manner was shy and tentative around her friends, since she was much younger than they were, never entirely sure of her place, despite her fabulous wealth and exquisite beauty—and a face that Truman had pronounced “what Botticelli would have created, had Botticelli had more talent!” “Alec Korda brought him along, one summer. I believe you and Bill were there, Babe, were you not?”Babe Paley, cool in a blue linen Chanel suit that did not crease, no matter the radiator heat of a New York summer, didn’t reply; she merely looked on, amused, as she removed her gloves, folded them carefully, and slipped them inside her Hermès alligator bag. Seated in the middle of the best table at Le Pavillon, she surveyed her surroundings.This was her world, a world of quiet elegance, artifice, presentation. And luncheon was the highlight of the day, the reason for getting up in the morning and going to the hairdresser, buying the latest Givenchy or Balenciaga; the reward for managing the perfect house, the perfect children, the perfect husband. And for maintaining the perfect body. After all, one generally dined at home, or at a dinner party; why else employ a personal chef or two? But one went out for luncheon, at The Colony or Quo Vadis. But especially Le Pavillon, where the owner, Henri Soulé, displayed his society ladies like the objets of fine art that they were, seating them proudly in the front room, spreading them out in plush red-velvet banquettes, setting the table with the finest linen, Baccarat glasses, exquisite china and silver, and cut crystal bowls of fresh flowers. They drank their favorite wine, pushed the finest French cuisine around their plates (for in order to wear the kind of clothes and possess the kind of cachet to be welcome at Le Pavillon, naturally one could not actually eat), gossiped, and were seen.Photographers were always gathered on the sidewalk outside, waiting to snap the beautiful people inside, and Babe, tall, regal, a gracious smile on her face, was the most sought-after of all, to her friends’ eternal dismay and her own weary disdain—although the most observant, like Slim, might notice that Babe would pause, imperceptibly, if no photographer happened to be around, as if looking, or wishing, for one magically to appear.Why was Babe Paley such a favorite? Why was she the most fussed over, the most sought out for a quick, reverent hello by those not privileged to be seated with her? She was not the most beautiful; that honor must go to Gloria Guinness, with her exquisite neck, lustrous black hair, and flashing eyes. She was not the most amusing; that was Slim Hayward, with her quips and her quick wit, honed at the feet of men like Ernest Hemingway and Howard Hawks and Gary Cooper. She was not the most noble; no, that would be a tie between the Honorable Pamela Digby Churchill, daughter of a baron, ex-daughter-in-law of a prime minister, and Marella Agnelli, a bona fide Italian princess, married to Gianni Agnelli, the heir to the Fiat kingdom.It was her style, that indefinable asset. It was said that the others had style but Babe was style. No one noticed Babe’s clothes, for instance; not at first, even though she was always clad in the chicest, most exquisite designs. They noticed her, her tall, slender frame, her grave dark eyes, the way she had of holding her handbag in the crook of her arm, the simple grace with which she pushed her sunglasses on top of her hair or unbuttoned a coat with just one hand, allowing it to fall elegantly from her shoulders into the always-waiting arms of a maître d’.What they did not notice was the loneliness that trailed after her, along with the faint, grassy scent of her favorite fragrance, Balmain’s Vent Vert. The loneliness that, despite fabulous wealth, numerous houses, children, the most vibrant and powerful husband of all her friends, was her constant companion—or, at least, had been. Until now.“It doesn’t really matter,” Babe finally pronounced, settling it once and for all. “I’m simply so very glad to know him. To Truman!” And she raised a flute of Cristal.“To Truman!” her five friends all echoed, and they toasted to their latest find, excited and hungrily anticipating fresh amusements galore, nothing more.“To Truman,” Babe whispered to herself, and smiled a private little smile that none of her friends had ever seen before. But the Duchess of Windsor had just entered the restaurant, her harsh little face turned first to the left, then to the right, as if she really were royalty, igniting a small wildfire of catty conversation—“Isn’t the duke the most boring man you’ve ever met? But those jewels! The one thing he’s ever done right!”—and none of Babe’s friends was even looking at her.Except for Slim, who narrowed her eyes and bit her lip. And wondered. chapter 2.....There was another young woman who dreamed of New York; another young woman who knew that if she could only find her way there, she could live happily ever after—with or without her young son. Her name was Lillie Mae Faulk, and she was from Monroeville, Alabama. She came to New York, too.Once upon a time.“My mother’s name was Nina,” Truman told Gloria, told C.Z., told Slim. His eyes gleamed softly, reverently. “Nina was beautiful—a real lady. She was too much for Monroeville, Alabama! She always told me, ‘Truman, my little man, I’m going to take you to New York one day.’ And she did, when I was eleven. That’s when my life really began—because it’s New York! Not sleepy little Monroeville, where nothing ever happened. Although I did get bit by a cottonmouth once, and nearly died. Nearly—oh, my goodness, I was one foot over the line! But they saved me. Nothing can kill me, not even a snake!”“Oh!” Slim gasped. Then she grinned. “Let me see the scar!”“Big Mama!” Truman wagged a finger at her but obliged, rolling up his shirt to reveal a thin, supple arm, paler than the moon, covered with a fine down of silken blond hair, as white as the hair on his head, the hair brushing his eyes, always falling, falling over his face like a curtain or a veil. “See?”Slim did see: two faint punctures on his forearm, barely visible.“These are my scars, my only scars,” Truman told her, triumphantly. “I don’t have any others!”“My mother’s name was really Lillie Mae,” Truman revealed to Babe. It was early in their friendship, those days when they had to catch each other up on everything that had happened to them, so that they could mark their lives—Before. And After.“Lillie Mae Faulk. And she was a selfish bitch,” Truman said, his voice flat for once. He wasn’t trying to captivate or ensnare; he knew he had Babe, knew it in his heart. Knew it as a dream come true, for that was what it was. --This text refers to the paperback edition. About the Author Melanie Benjamin is the New York Times bestselling author of The Children’s Blizzard , Mistress of the Ritz, The Girls in the Picture, The Swans of Fifth Avenue, The Aviator's Wife, The Autobiography of Mrs. Tom Thumb, and Alice I Have Been . Benjamin lives in Virginia, where she is at work on her next historical novel. --This text refers to the paperback edition. Read more

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A Gentleman in Moscow: A Novel

Review "The novel buzzes with the energy of numerous adventures, love affairs, [and] twists of fate." — The Wall Street Journal "If you're looking for a summer novel, this is it. Beautifully written, a story of a Russian aristocrat trapped in Moscow during the tumult of the 1930s. It brims with intelligence, erudition, and insight, an old-fashioned novel in the best sense of the term." —Fareed Zakaria, "Global Public Square," CNN "Fun, clever, and surprisingly upbeat . . . A Gentleman in Moscow is an amazing story because it manages to be a little bit of everything. There’s fantastical romance, politics, espionage, parenthood and poetry. The book is technically historical fiction, but you would be just as accurate calling it a thriller or a love story.” —Bill Gates “The book is like a salve. I think the world feels disordered right now. The count’s refinement and genteel nature are exactly what we’re longing for.” — Ann Patchett “How delightful that in an era as crude as ours this finely composed novel stretches out with old-World elegance.” —The Washington Post “[A] wonderful book at any time . . . [I]t brought home to me how people find ways to be happy, make connections, and make a difference to one another’s lives, even in the strangest, saddest and most restrictive circumstances.” —Tana French, author of The Searcher “Marvelous.” — Chicago Tribune “The novel buzzes with the energy of numerous adventures, love affairs, twists of fate and silly antics.” — The Wall Street Journal “A winning, stylish novel.” —NPR.org “Enjoyable, elegant.” — Seattle Times “The perfect book to curl up with while the world goes by outside your window.” —Refinery29 “Who will save Rostov from the intrusions of state if not the seamstresses, chefs, bartenders and doormen? In the end, Towles’s greatest narrative effect is not the moments of wonder and synchronicity but the generous transformation of these peripheral workers, over the course of decades, into confidants, equals and, finally, friends. With them around, a life sentence in these gilded halls might make Rostov the luckiest man in Russia.” — The New York Times Book Review “This is an old fashioned sort of romance, filled with delicious detail. Save this precious book for times you really, really want to escape reality.” —Louise Erdrich “Towles gets good mileage from the considerable charm of his protagonist and the peculiar world he inhabits.” — The New Yorker “Irresistible . . . In his second elegant period piece, Towles continues to explore the question of how a person can lead an authentic life in a time when mere survival is a feat in itself . . . Towles’s tale, as lavishly filigreed as a Fabergé egg, gleams with nostalgia for the golden age of Tolstoy and Turgenev.” — O, The Oprah Magazine “‘The Grand Budapest Hotel’ and ‘Eloise’ meets all the Bond villains.” —TheSkimm “And the intrigue! . . . [ A Gentleman in Moscow ] is laced with sparkling threads (they will tie up) and tokens (they will matter): special keys, secret compartments, gold coins, vials of coveted liquid, old-fashioned pistols, duels and scars, hidden assignations (discreet and smoky), stolen passports, a ruby necklace, mysterious letters on elegant hotel stationery . . . a luscious stage set, backdrop for a downright Casablanca -like drama.” — The San Francisco Chronicle “The same gorgeous, layered richness that marked Towles’ debut, Rules of Civility , shapes [ A Gentleman in Moscow ].” — Entertainment Weekly Praise for Rules of Civility “An irresistible and astonishingly assured debut." — O, the Oprah Magazine “With this snappy period piece, Towles resurrects the cinematic black-and-white Manhattan of the golden age…[his] characters are youthful Americans in tricky times, trying to create authentic lives.” — The New York Times Book Review “Sharp [and] sure-handed.” — Wall Street Journal “Put on some Billie Holiday, pour a dry martini and immerse yourself in the eventful life of Katey Kontent." — People “[A] wonderful debut novel.” — The Chicago Tribune “Glittering…filled with snappy dialogue, sharp observations and an array of terrifically drawn characters…Towles writes with grace and verve about the mores and manners of a society on the cusp of radical change.” —NPR.org “A book that enchants on first reading and only improves on the second.” — The Philadelphia Inquirer Amazon.com Review An Amazon Best Book of September 2016: A Gentleman in Moscow is the utterly entertaining second novel from the author of Rules of Civility . Amor Towles skillfully transports us to The Metropol, the famed Moscow hotel where movie stars and Russian royalty hobnob, where Bolsheviks plot revolutions and intellectuals discuss the merits of contemporary Russian writers, where spies spy, thieves thieve and the danger of twentieth century Russia lurks outside its marbled walls. It’s also where wealthy Count Alexander Rostov lives under house arrest for a poem deemed incendiary by the Bolsheviks, and meets Nina. Nina is a precocious and wide-eyed young girl who holds the keys to the entire hotel, wonders what it means to be a princess, and will irrevocably change his life. Despite being confined to the hallway of the hotel, the Count lives an absorbing, adventure-filled existence, filled with capers, conspiracies and culture. Alexander Rostov is a character for the ages--like Kay Thompson’s Eloise and Wes Anderson’s M. Gustav, he is unflinchingly (and hilariously for readers) devoted to his station, even when forced to wait tables, play hide and seek with a young girl, or confront communism. Towles magnificently conjures the grandeur of the Russian hotel and the vibrancy of the characters that call it home. --Al Woodworth, The Amazon Book Review --This text refers to the hardcover edition. About the Author Amor Towles is the author of the New York Times bestsellers Rules of Civility and A Gentleman in Moscow . The two novels have collectively sold more than four million copies and have been translated into more than thirty languages. Towles lives in Manhattan with his wife and two children. --This text refers to the paperback edition. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. From A Gentleman in Moscow : There were two restaurants in the Hotel Metropol: the Boyarsky, that fabled retreat on the second floor that we have already visited, and the grand dining room off the lobby known officially as the Metropol, but referred to affectionately by the Count as the Piazza.Admittedly, the Piazza could not challenge the elegance of the Boyarsky’s décor, the sophistication of its service, or the subtlety of its cuisine. But the Piazza did not aspire to elegance, service, or subtlety. With eighty tables scattered around a marble fountain and a menu offering everything from cabbage piroghi to cutlets of veal, the Piazza was meant to be an extension of the city—of its gardens, markets, and thorough fares. It was a place where Russians cut from every cloth could come to linger over coffee, happen upon friends, stumble into arguments, or drift into dalliances—and where the lone diner seated under the great glass ceiling could indulge himself in admiration, indignation, suspicion, and laughter without getting up from his chair.And the waiters? Like those of a Parisian café, the Piazza’s waiters could best be complimented as “efficient.” Accustomed to navigating crowds,they could easily seat your party of eight at a table for four. Having noted your preferences over the sound of the orchestra, within minutes they would return with the various drinks balanced on a tray and dispense them round the table in rapid succession without misplacing a glass. If, with your menu in hand, you hesitated for even a second to place your order, they would lean over your shoulder and poke at a specialty of the house. And when the last morsel of dessert had been savored, they would whisk away your plate, present your check, and make your change in under a minute. In other words, the waiters of the Piazza knew their trade to the crumb, the spoon, and the kopek.At least, that was how things were before the war. . . .Today, the dining room was nearly empty and the Count was being served by someone who appeared not only new to the Piazza, but new to the art of waiting. Tall and thin, with a narrow head and superior demeanor, he looked rather like a bishop that had been plucked from a chessboard. When the Count took his seat with a newspaper in hand—the international symbol of dining alone—the chap didn’t bother to clear the second setting; when the Count closed his menu and placed it beside his plate—the international symbol of readiness to order—the chap needed to be beckoned witha wave of the hand; and when the Count ordered the okroshka and filet of sole, the chap asked if he might like a glass of Sauterne. A perfect suggestion, no doubt, if only the Count had ordered foie gras!“Perhaps a bottle of the Châteaude Baudelaire,” the Count corrected politely.“Of course,” the Bishop replied with an ecclesiastical smile.Granted, a bottle of Baudelaire was something of an extravagance for a solitary lunch, but after spending another morning with the indefatigable Michel de Montaigne, the Count felt that his morale could use the boost. For several days, in fact, he had been fending off a state of restlessness. On his regular descent to the lobby, he caught himself counting the steps. As he browsed the headlines in his favorite chair, he found he was lifting his hands to twirl the tips of moustaches that were no longer there. He found he was walking through the door of the Piazza at 12:01 for lunch. And at 1:35, when he climbed the 110 steps to his room, he was already calculating the minutes until he could come back downstairs for a drink. If he continued along this course, it would not take long for the ceiling to edge downward, the walls to edge inward, and the floor to edge upward, until the entire hotel had been collapsed into the size of a biscuit tin.As the Count waited for his wine, he gazed around the restaurant, but his fellow diners offered no relief. Across the way was a table occupied by two stragglers from the diplomatic corps who picked at their food while they awaited an era of diplomacy. Over there in the corner was a spectacled denizen of the second floor with four enormous documents spread across his table, comparing them word for word. No one appeared particularly gay; and no one paid the Count any mind. That is, except for the young girl with the penchant for yellow who appeared to be spying on him from her table behind the fountain. According to Vasily, this nine-year-old with straight blond hair was the daughter of a widowed Ukrainian bureaucrat. As usual, she was sitting with her governess. When she realized the Count was looking her way, she disappeared behind her menu.“Your soup,” said the Bishop.“Ah. Thank you, my good man. It looks delicious. But don’t forget the wine!”“Of course.”Turning his attention to his okroshka, the Count could tell at a glance that it was a commendable execution—a bowl of soup that any Russian inthe room might have been served by his grandmother. Closing his eyes in order to give the first spoonful its due consideration, the Count noted asuitably chilled temperature, a tad too much salt, a tad too little kvass, but a perfect expression of dill—that harbinger of summer which brings to mind the songs of crickets and the setting of one’s soul at ease. But when the Count opened his eyes, he nearly dropped his spoon. For standing at the edge of his table was the young girl with the penchant for yellow—studying him with that unapologetic interest peculiarto children and dogs. Adding to the shock of her sudden appearance was the fact that her dress today was in the shade of a lemon.“Where did they go?” she asked, without a word of introduction.“I beg your pardon. Where did who go?”She tilted her head to take a closer look at his face.“Why, your moustaches.”The Count had not much cause to interact with children, but he had been raised well enough to know that a child should not idly approach a stranger, should not interrupt him in the middle of a meal, and certainly should not ask him questions about his personal appearance. Was the minding of one’s own business no longer a subject taught in schools?“Like swallows,” the Count answered, “they traveled elsewhere for the summer."Then he fluttered a hand from the table into the air in order to both mimic the flight of the swallows and suggest how a child might follow suit.She nodded to express her satisfaction with his response.“I too will be traveling elsewhere for part of the summer.”The Count inclined his head to indicate his congratulations.“To the Black Sea,” she added.Then she pulled back the empty chair and sat.“Would you like to join me?” he asked.By way of response, she wiggled back and forth to make herself comfortable then rested her elbows on the table. Around her neck hung a small pendant on a golden chain, some lucky charm or locket. The Count looked toward the young lady’s governess with the hopes of catching her attention, but she had obviously learned from experience to keep her nose in her book.The girl gave another canine tilt to her head.“Is it true that you are a count?”“’Tis true.”Her eyes widened.“Have you ever known a princess?”“I have known many princesses.”Her eyes widened further, then narrowed.“Was it terribly hard to be a princess?”“Terribly.”At that moment, despite the fact that half of the okroshka remained in its bowl, the Bishop appeared with the Count’s filet of sole and swapped one for the other.“Thank you,” said the Count, his spoon still in hand.“Of course.”The Count opened his mouth to inquire as to the whereabouts of the Baudelaire, but the Bishop had already vanished. When the Count turned back to his guest, she was staring at his fish.“What is that?” she wanted to know.“This? It is filet of sole.”“Is it good?”“Didn’t you have a lunch of your own?”“I didn’t like it.”The Count transferred a taste of his fish to a side plate and passed it across the table. “With my compliments.”She forked the whole thing in her mouth.“It’s yummy,” she said, which if not the most elegant expression was at least factually correct. Then she smiled a little sadly and let out a sigh as she directed her bright blue gaze upon the rest of his lunch.“Hmm,” said the Count.Retrieving the side plate, he transferred half his sole along with an equal share of spinach and baby carrots, and returned it. She wiggled back and forth once more, presumably to settle in for the duration. Then, having carefully pushed the vegetables to the edge of the plate, she cut her fish into four equal portions, put the right upper quadrant in her mouth, and resumed her line of inquiry.“How would a princess spend her day?”“Like any young lady,” answered the Count.With a nod of the head, the girl encouraged him to continue.“In the morning, she would have lessons in French, history, music. After her lessons, she might visit with friends or walk in the park. And at lunch she would eat her vegetables.”“My father says that princesses personify the decadence of a vanquished era.”The Count was taken aback.“Perhaps a few,” he conceded. “But not all, I assure you.”She waved her fork.“Don’t worry. Papa is wonderful and he knows everything there is to know about the workings of tractors. But he knows absolutely nothing about the workings of princesses.”The Count offered an expression of relief.“Have you ever been to a ball?” she continued after a moment of thought.“Certainly.”“Did you dance?”“I have been known to scuff the parquet.” The Count said this with the renowned glint in his eye—that little spark that had defused heated conversations and caught the eyes of beauties in every salon in St. Petersburg.“Scuff the parquet?”“Ahem,” said the Count. “Yes, I have danced at balls.”“And have you lived in a castle?”“Castles are not as common in our country as they are in fairy tales,” the Count explained. “But I have dined in a castle. . . .”Accepting this response as sufficient, if not ideal, the girl now furrowed her brow. She put another quadrant of fish in her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Then she suddenly leaned forward.“Have you ever been in a duel?”“An affaire d’honneur?” The Count hesitated. “I suppose I have been in a duel of sorts. . . .”“With pistols at thirty-two paces?”“In my case, it was more of a duel in the figurative sense.”When the Count’s guest expressed her disappointment at this unfortunate clarification, he found himself offering a consolation:“My godfather was a second on more than one occasion.”“A second?”“When a gentleman has been offended and demands satisfaction on the field of honor, he and his counterpart each appoint seconds—in essence, their lieutenants. It is the seconds who settle upon the rules of engagement.”“What sort of rules of engagement?”“The time and place of the duel. What weapons will be used. If it is to be pistols, then how many paces will be taken and whether there will be more than one exchange of shots.”“Your godfather, you say. Where did he live?”“Here in Moscow.”“Were his duels in Moscow?”“One of them was. In fact, it sprang from a dispute that occurred in this hotel—between an admiral and a prince. They had been at odds for quite some time, I gather, but things came to a head one night when their paths collided in the lobby, and the gauntlet was thrown down on that very spot.”“Which very spot?”“By the concierge’s desk.”“Right where I sit!”“Yes, I suppose so.”“Were they in love with the same woman?”“I don’t think a woman was involved.”The girl looked at the Count with an expression of incredulity.“A woman is always involved,” she said.“Yes. Well. Whatever the cause, an offense was taken followed by a demand for an apology, a refusal to provide one, and a slap of the glove. At the time, the hotel was managed by a German fellow named Keffler, who was reputedly a baron in his own right. And it was generally known that he kept a pair of pistols hidden behind a panel in his office, so that when an incident occurred, seconds could confer in privacy, carriages could be summoned, and the feuding parties could be whisked away with weapons in hand.”“In the hours before dawn . . .”“In the hours before dawn.”“To some remote spot . . .”“To some remote spot.”She leaned forward.“Lensky was killed by Onegin in a duel.”She said this in a hushed voice, as if quoting the events of Pushkin’s poem required discretion.“Yes,” whispered back the Count. “And so was Pushkin.”She nodded in grave agreement.“In St. Petersburg,” she said. “On the banks of the Black Rivulet.”“On the banks of the Black Rivulet.”The young lady’s fish was now gone. Placing her napkin on her plate and nodding her head once to suggest how perfectly acceptable the Count had proven as a luncheon companion, she rose from her chair. But before turning to go, she paused.“I prefer you without your moustaches,” she said. “Their absence improves your . . . countenance.”Then she performed an off-kilter curtsey and disappeared behind the fountain. --This text refers to the paperback edition. Read more

The Whitechapel Conspiracy

Review “A CHILLING WALK THROUGH HISTORY . . .If ever there was a place that could fuel a revolution, it was the streets around Whitechapel. And it is this threatening, despairing atmosphere that Perry captures so vividly in her historical thriller.” – The Orlando Sentinel “A juicy mystery . . . The Whitechapel Conspiracy recalls the edginess and romantic spark between Charlotte and Thomas that made the series so appealing to begin with. . . . The novel’s ending is exciting and satisfying.”– The Boston Globe From the Inside Flap ITECHAPEL CONSPIRACY is a beauty, brilliantly presented, ingeniously developed and packed with political implications that reverberate on every level of British society. The New York Times Book Review In 1892, the grisly murders of Whitechapel prostitutes by a killer dubbed Jack the Ripper remain a terrifying enigma. And in a packed Old Bailey courtroom, Superintendent Thomas Pitts testimony causes distinguished soldier John Adinett to be sentenced to hang for the inexplicable murder of a friend. Instead of being praised for his key testimony, Pitt is removed from his station command and transferred to Whitechapel, one of the East Ends most dangerous slums. There he must work undercover investigating alleged anarchist plots. Among his few allies are his clever wife, Charlotte, and intrepid Gracie, the maid who can travel unremarked in Whitechapel. But none of them anticipate the horrors to be revealed. . . . & From the Back Cover “A CHILLING WALK THROUGH HISTORY . . .If ever there was a place that could fuel a revolution, it was the streets around Whitechapel. And it is this threatening, despairing atmosphere that Perry captures so vividly in her historical thriller.” – The Orlando Sentinel “A juicy mystery . . . The Whitechapel Conspiracy recalls the edginess and romantic spark between Charlotte and Thomas that made the series so appealing to begin with. . . . The novel’s ending is exciting and satisfying.”– The Boston Globe About the Author Among Anne Perry ’s other novels featuring Thomas and Charlotte Pitt are Southampton Row , Half Moon Street , Bedford Square , Brunswick Gardens , Ashworth Hall , and Traitors Gate . She also writes the popular novels featuring Victorian private investigator William Monk–among them Funeral in Blue , Slaves of Obsession , The Twisted Root , A Breach of Promise , and The Silent Cry . “Her grasp of Victorian character and conscience still astonishes,” said the Cleveland Plain Dealer . Hundreds of thousands of readers in Europe and America agree. Anne Perry lives in Scotland.Visit the author on her Web site at www.anneperry.net Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. The courtroom at the Old Bailey was crowded. Every seat was taken and the ushers were turning people back at the doors. It was April 18, 1892, the Monday after Easter, and the opening of the London Season. It was also the third day in the trial of distinguished soldier John Adinett for the murder of Martin Fetters, traveler and antiquarian.The witness on the stand was Thomas Pitt, superintendent of the Bow Street police station.From the floor of the court Ardal Juster for the prosecution stood facing him."Let us start at the beginning, Mr. Pitt." Juster was a dark man of perhaps forty, tall and slender with an unusual cast of feature. He was handsome in some lights, in others a trifle feline, and there was an unusual grace in the way he moved.He looked up at the stand. "Just why were you at Great Coram Street? Who called you?"Pitt straightened up a little. He was also a good height, but he resembled Juster in no other way. His hair was too long, his pockets bulged, and his tie was crooked. He had testified in court since his days as a constable twenty years before, but it was never an experience he enjoyed. He was conscious that at the very least a man's reputation was at stake, possibly his liberty. In this case it was his life. He was not afraid to meet Adinett's cold, level stare from the dock. He would speak only the truth. The consequences were not within his control. He had told himself that before he climbed the short flight of steps to the stand, but it had been of no comfort.The silence had grown heavy. There was no rustling in the seats. No one coughed."Dr. Ibbs sent for me," he replied to Juster. "He was not satisfied with all the circumstances surrounding Mr. Fetters's death. He had worked with me before on other matters, and he trusted me to be discreet should he be mistaken.""I see. Would you tell us what happened after you received Dr. Ibbs's call?"John Adinett sat motionless in the dock. He was a lean man, but strongly built, and his face was stamped with the confidence of both ability and privilege. The courtroom held men who both liked and admired him. They sat in stunned disbelief that he should be charged with such a crime. It had to be a mistake. Any moment the defense would move for a dismissal and the profoundest apologies would be offered.Pitt took a deep breath."I went immediately to Mr. Fetters's house in Great Coram Street," he began. "It was just after five in the afternoon. Dr. Ibbs was waiting for me in the hall and we went upstairs to the library, where the body of Mr. Fetters had been found." As he spoke the scene came back to his mind so sharply he could have been climbing the sunlit stairs again and walking along the landing with its huge Chinese pot full of decorative bamboo, past the paintings of birds and flowers, the four ornate wooden doors with carved surrounds, and into the library. The late-afternoon light had poured in through the tall windows, splashing the Turkey rug with scarlet, picking out the gold lettering on the backs of the books that lined the shelves, and finding the worn surfaces of the big leather chairs.Juster was about to prompt him again."The body of a man was lying in the far corner," Pitt continued. "From the doorway his head and shoulders were hidden by one of the large leather armchairs, although Dr. Ibbs told me it had been moved a little to enable the butler to reach the body in the hope that some assistance could be given--"Reginald Gleave for the defense rose to his feet. "My lord, surely Mr. Pitt knows better than to give evidence as to something he cannot know for himself? Did he see the chair moved?"The judge looked weary. This was going to be a fiercely contested trial, as he was already uncomfortably aware. No point, however trivial, was going to be allowed past.Pitt felt himself flushing with annoyance. He did know better. He should have been more careful. He had sworn to himself he would make no mistake whatever, and already he had done so. He was nervous. His hands were clammy. Juster had said it all depended upon him. They could not rely absolutely on anyone else.The judge looked at Pitt."In order, Superintendent, even if it seems less clear to the jury.""Yes, my lord." Pitt heard the tightness in his own voice. He knew it was tension but it sounded like anger. He cast his mind back to that vivid room. "The top shelf of books was well above arm's reach, and there was a small set of steps on wheels for the purpose of making access possible. It lay on its side about a yard away from the body's feet, and there were three books on the floor, one flat and closed, the other two open, facedown and several pages bent." He could see it as he spoke. "There was a corresponding space on the top shelf.""Did you draw any conclusions from these things which caused you to investigate further?" Juster asked innocently."It seemed Mr. Fetters had been reaching for a book and had overbalanced and fallen," Pitt replied. "Dr. Ibbs had told me that there was a bruise on the side of his head, and his neck was broken, which had caused his death.""Precisely so. That is what he has testified," Juster agreed. "Was it consistent with what you saw?""At first I thought so. . . ."There was a sudden stirring of attention around the room, and something that already felt like hostility."Then, on looking more closely, I saw several small discrepancies that caused me to doubt, and investigate further," Pitt finished.Juster raised his black eyebrows. "What were they? Please detail them for us so we understand your conclusions, Mr. Pitt."It was a warning. The entire case rested upon these details, all circumstantial. The weeks of investigation had uncovered no motive whatsoever for why Adinett should have wished harm to Martin Fetters. They had been close friends who seemed to have been similar in both background and beliefs. They were both wealthy, widely traveled, and interested in social reform. They had a wide circle of friends in common and were equally respected by all who knew them.Pitt had rehearsed this in his mind many times, not for the benefit of the court, but for himself. He had examined every detail minutely before he had even considered pursuing the charge."The first thing was the books on the floor." He remembered stooping and picking them up, angry that they had been damaged, seeing the bruised leather and the bent pages. "They were all on the same subject, broadly. The first was a translation into English of Homer's Iliad, the second was a history of the Ottoman Empire, and the third was on trade routes of the Near East."Juster affected surprise. "I don't understand why that should cause your doubt. Would you explain that for us.""Because the rest of the books on the top shelf were fiction," Pitt answered. "The Waverley novels of Sir Walter Scott, a large number of Dickens, and a Thackeray.""And in your opinion the Iliad does not go with them?""The other books on the middle shelf were on the subjects of Ancient Greece," Pitt explained. "Particularly Troy, Mr. Schliemann's work and discourses, objects of art and historical interest, all except for three volumes of Jane Austen, which would more properly have belonged on the top shelf.""I would have kept novels, especially Jane Austen, in a more accessible place," Juster remarked with a shrug and a tiny smile."Perhaps not if you had already read them," Pitt argued, too tense to smile back. "And if you were an antiquarian, with particular interest in Homeric Greece, you would not keep most of your books on that subject on the middle shelves but three of them on the top with your novels.""No," Juster agreed. "It seems eccentric, to say the least, and unnecessarily inconvenient. When you had noticed the books, what did you do then?""I looked more closely at the body of Mr. Fetters and I asked the butler, who was the one who found him, to tell me exactly what had happened." Pitt glanced at the judge to see if he would be permitted to repeat it.The judge nodded.Reginald Gleave sat tight-lipped, his shoulders hunched, waiting."Proceed, if it is relevant," the judge directed."He told me that Mr. Adinett had left through the front door and been gone about ten minutes or so when the bell rang from the library and he went to answer it," Pitt recounted. "As he approached the door he heard a cry and a thud, and on opening it in some alarm, he saw Mr. Fetters's ankles and feet protruding from behind the large leather chair in the corner. He went to him immediately to see if he was hurt. I asked him if he had moved the body at all. He said he had not, but in order to reach it he had moved the chair slightly."People began to shift restlessly. This all seemed very unimportant. None of it suggested passion or violence, still less murder.Adinett was staring steadily at Pitt, his brows drawn together, his lips slightly pursed.Juster hesitated. He knew he was losing the jury. It was in his face. This was about facts, but far more than that it was about belief."Slightly, Mr. Pitt?" His voice was sharp. "What do you mean by 'slightly'?""He was specific," Pitt replied. "He said just as far as the edge of the rug, which was some eleven inches." He continued without waiting for Juster to ask. "Which meant it would have been at an awkward angle for the light either from the window or the gas bracket, and too close to the wall to be comfortable. It blocked o... Read more

The Last Woman Standing: A Novel

Review A New York Post Must-Read A 2016 True West Magazine Best of the West: Western Books (Women in the West) A Summer 2016 Hadassah Magazine Top Ten Jewish Bestseller “The well-known historical scoundrels and lawmen of Tombstone come alive in this book, from Curly Bill and the Clantons to Doc Holliday. These men are vividly portrayed…Overall, Josephine’s voice is strong and bursting with personality. It makes for an engaging narrative.” —Historical Novel Society “The in-depth details of life in 1880s Arizona and the larger-than-life characters who dwelled in the infamous town will appeal to readers of Westerns and women’s historical fiction alike.” —Authorlink “Ms. Adams’ prose is fresh and smart and the feminist sensibility she gives to her subject matter makes for an engaging story. Her keen visual perception is translated into words, which in turn form pictures in our minds–a beautiful cycle of imagination and its translation. The thoughtfulness she employs to explore Josephine’s fears, motivations, and triumphs, pays homage to the gravity of her task—to portray a historical figure with emotional integrity.” —Book Club Babble “A great flesh[ing] out to a lesser-known female Western figure, this book shines…Adams draws her readers in and doesn’t let them go.” — Montana Bookworm “ The Last Woman Standing is the best historical fiction I’ve read in some time. I’m a sucker for a plucky heroine who leaps before she looks. If you’re looking for a good Western, a good romance, or a historical retelling of the O.K. Corral, this book is for you. Adams holds your interest all the way through and gives you an in-depth look into a lesser-known historical figure behind the hero we all know.” —The Celebrity Café “Narrated with a feminine sensibility in the voice of Josephine, The Last Woman Standing is, at its heart, a love story of epic proportions. The reader is led on an emotional journey to see if, in the end, the good guys prevail and true love conquers all.” — Atlanta Jewish Times “This transporting novel swiftly whisks readers away to the rough-and-tumble, gritty boomtown of Tombstone, Arizona, during its heyday. Miners, outlaws, and lawmen live almost side by side, and one remarkable woman makes her mark alongside the men. Blending fact and fiction, Adams brings Josephine Marcus Earp to life with her sassy, no-holds-barred, first-person account. This is a fascinating read that will make readers wish they could join Josie on her life’s journey.” —RT Book Reviews “ The Last Woman Standing is an exciting glimpse into the life of a young woman embroiled in the violence and rivalries of Wild West Tombstone…Adams brings a uniquely female perspective to the town’s legends.” — Night Owl Reviews “If you enjoy history and romance, danger and deceit, you will find this is a terrific book for your library. Learning more of the past through such a venue keeps you reading and searching to the very end. Adams has given us a strong and passionate story filled with historical facts, and you will find it hard to put this book down. This would be a great book for a reading or discussion group, with a great deal of interest to them both.” —BlogCritics “There’s a great deal to be said about Thelma Adams’s book The Last Woman Standing …and all of it good. Very, very good. A feminist western mixing real and fictional characters, and totally defiling the era and prevailing attitudes of the times is no easy trick to pull off, and Adams does it with humor and, Lord help us all, charm.” —Examiner.com “Movies, television shows, and books tell the story about lawman Wyatt Earp but very few mention his wife. Married for nearly fifty years, Josephine Sarah Marcus Earp was beautiful, gutsy, and Jewish. Thelma Adams has delved into the life and times of Mrs. Wyatt with her latest…There would be no children but an enduring love, a passion that remained throughout the decades with the hurts and the laughter told during a time in history when one man and one woman would try to tame the west and each other.” — Las Vegas Informer “Truth can be stranger than fiction, they say. But Adams does a pretty bang-up job of blending the two while embellishing Mrs. Earp’s rightful place in Western lore.” — The Buffalo News “Wyatt Earp dodged many a bullet, but The Last Woman Standing is a fanciful, deeply entertaining account of how Josephine Marcus got him right in the heart.” — Chronogram “Who doesn’t want to read about the woman who married Wyatt Earp? A legend of her own, she was Jewish, beautiful, and exotic, and Adams has made her alive and kicking on the page. A Wild West story made even wilder, more poignant and inspired by Adams’s fascinating research and glittering prose.” —Caroline Leavitt, New York Times bestselling author of Is This Tomorrow and Pictures of You “It is not merely because The Last Woman Standing takes us to a time in the past that I felt dislocated upon completing it. Thelma Adams has also taken me back to a time when we could expect a gripping and rich yarn, for lack of a better word. I found myself thinking of Doctorow and Jong and Oates, and other good writers who have taken the historical novel and given it their vast intelligence and talent and a modern-day take on their subject. This—and more—Adams has done, and The Last Woman Standing will make you think of good work done by other writers, but it is also entirely original, and a marvel. It is a book you set aside like a fine wine and wait for the chance to reopen and savor it.” —James Grissom, author of Follies of God: Tennessee Williams and the Women of the Fog From the Publisher Allow me to introduce you to a woman of the Wild West, a straight-talking, opera-loving, educated, and vivacious woman who was pivotal to the gunfight at the O.K. Corral despite never firing a gun or leading a posse. You may have heard of her husband—legendary lawman Wyatt Earp—but somehow this incredible lady has been given short shrift by history. But no longer, thanks to The Last Woman Standing , which paints such a compelling portrait of Josephine Marcus Earp that I found myself telling everyone about her, researching her life online, and feeling a bit sassier myself.  Not at all a typical Western novel, this is a wildly entertaining fictional story of a charismatic woman and wife on the American frontier. But underneath it all, it is one of the greatest love stories of all time. I was completely entranced by this spitfire who had one of history’s most famous gunslingers wrapped around her finger. Josephine and Wyatt Earp were devoted to each other for nearly fifty years.  If Josephine were alive today, I know I’d want to hang out with her, longing to be her best friend. I can’t believe this magnetic beauty has not cast a bigger shadow on history, but thanks to the efforts of author Thelma Adams, a film critic and acclaimed celebrity interviewer, I suspect we won’t soon forget her. - Danielle Marshall, Editor About the Author Thelma Adams is an established figure in the entertainment industry. For two decades, she has penned celebrity features and criticism for high-profile publications. Her portfolio of actor interviews includes Julianne Moore, George Clooney, Jessica Chastain, and Matthew McConaughey, among many others. While covering film for the New York Post , Us Weekly , and Yahoo Movies, Thelma became a regular at film festivals from Berlin to Dubai, Toronto to Tribeca. She sits on the Hamptons International Film Festival Advisory Board and twice chaired the prestigious New York Film Critics Circle. Her debut novel, Playdate , published by Thomas Dunne Books, won high critical acclaim. Adams is often recognized, as she has been invited to share her expertise on many broadcast outlets, including appearances on NBC’s Today , CBS’s Early Show , and CNN. She graduated Phi Beta Kappa with a history degree from UC Berkeley and earned an MFA from Columbia University. She lives in Hyde Park, New York, with her family. Read more

Spanish Vocabulary 2: Intermediate (Quick Study Academic)

Christmas On The Move Out West

About the Author Matthew Gonder is an actor, singer, dancer, author, composer, playwright who lives in Paris, France with his amazing wife Pamela and Misol, their royal puff, who the unenlightened vulgarly call a cat. www.matthewgonder.com

Sales EQ: How Ultra High Performers Leverage Sales-Specific Emotional Intelligence to Close the Complex Deal

From the Inside Flap Technology has disrupted the traditional sales process by giving buyers unprecedented access to product and industry information, more control over the sales process, and more choices of products and vendors. The traditional selling skill set―controlling the sales process, commanding product knowledge, and nailing a great pitch―is now all but obsolete. To differentiate yourself from competitors and hold the short-lived attention span of distracted buyers, you need to be a master of emotions, interpersonal skills, influence frameworks, and human relationships. Your transformation to an ultra-high performer begins here in Sales EQ . Forget about trying to sell people on products, prices, features, and solutions because you sound like every other salesperson and will be ignored by today’s savvy buyer. The new ultra-high sales performers blow away sales quotas by creating emotionally satisfying experiences for their buyers. In this game-changing guidebook to the next evolution of selling, you acquire psychological strategies for leveraging human behavior frameworks, heuristics, and cognitive biases to influence buying behaviors. You’ll learn how to reach ultra-high sales performance and consistently crush your number. Sales acceleration specialist Jeb Blount, who Forbes named one of the World’s Top 30 Social Selling Influencers, delivers a straightforward, conversational discussion on the ins and outs of his widely proven approach to mastering and closing the complex sale. He brings topics to life with personal stories about his own lessons learned and applying these same techniques to his sales efforts, complete with word-for-word dialogue to prepare you for what you may encounter in the field. There’s nothing else to buy with this complete training program, and by the end you will be able to: Assess, understand, and raise your Sales EQ Assess, understand, and raise your Sales EQ Gain full control over the sales conversation by flipping the buyer script Gain full control over the sales conversation by flipping the buyer script Draw buyers into your space, direct their attention, and keep them engaged by disrupting their expectations Draw buyers into your space, direct their attention, and keep them engaged by disrupting their expectations Wipe out buyer resistance, conflict, and objections with proven influence frameworks Wipe out buyer resistance, conflict, and objections with proven influence frameworks Lock in micro-commitments and next steps agreements to keep your deals from stalling and accelerate pipeline velocity Lock in micro-commitments and next steps agreements to keep your deals from stalling and accelerate pipeline velocity In Sales EQ , you get the key that unlocks the secret to shaking irrational buyers out of their comfort zone and leaving them no other choice but to say, “yes.” From the Back Cover Praise for SALES EQ “ Sales EQ will stun the reader. It presents a pragmatic, easily implementable set of facts, and reverses old world thoughts and sales process with chapters like ‘To BUY is Human.’ Sales EQ will help you understand the new standard of sales. I loved this book. Buy it. Bank it!” ―Jeffrey Gitomer, author of The Little Red Book of Selling “The best sales techniques, tools, and training will take you absolutely nowhere…unless you also have the Sales EQ to engage buyers first. Jeb Blount gets straight to the heart of selling and explains how sellers can get in sync with their buyers at the human-to-human level that matters most of all.” ―Deb Calvert, author of DISCOVER Questions ™ Get You Connected “In Sales EQ , Jeb Blount takes you on an unprecedented journey into what it really takes to master the complex sale. Be prepared to change the way you think about sales.” ―Mark Hunter, author of High-Profit Prospecting Truth! Jeb Blount makes the brilliant and disruptive case that Sales EQ trumps all else and then shows us how to reach ultra-high sales performance in this powerful, game-changing guide.” ―Mike Weinberg, author of New Sales. Simplified . and Sales Management. Simplified “In Sales EQ , Jeb Blount cracks the code on what it really takes to become an ultra-high performer in the sales profession. A must-read for any salesperson.” ―Mark Roberge, Senior Lecturer, Harvard Business School; former CRO, HubSpot; and author of The Sales Acceleration Formula About the Author JEB BLOUNT is CEO of Sales Gravy, Inc. He advises many of the world’s leading organizations and their executives on the impact of emotional intelligence and interpersonal skills on customer experience, strategic account management, sales, and developing high-performing sales teams. He is the author of eight books, including Fanatical Prospecting, People Love You, People Follow You, and People Buy You. Read more