Hi,
everyone. Welcome back for the continuation of the Character Blog Hop, which
focuses this month upon heroines. Last week was Arla Dahl’s turn, and we met her intriguingly complex and seductive
Mercy Paine from her historical erotic trilogy Immoral Virtue. If you missed it, you can find her interview here: http://wp.me/p4ueZD-mM
Today
I’ll be speaking with Francesca Bousquet,
leading lady and editorial aide extraordinaire, star of the mystery Frannie
Buckets. In that story, she’s
visited by her half-uncle Walter, who’s driven her crazy for most of her life –
and Fran reluctantly helps him solve a cold case murder. Unfortunately,
Walter’s well-intentioned antics also send the murderer after her.
Now,
several months and some slick defensive moves with a tazer later, Fran’s agreed
to meet with me. She was present for a portion of her uncle Walter’s interview
in February, but “circumstances” led to her early departure. She’s happy to
participate today if only to have the last word when it comes to perspective on
their adversarial relationship. I do have to keep on my toes with Fran, however;
she’s more intelligent and astute – and guarded—than I am.
We’ve
settled in her kitchen while she heats water for tea. The room is lovely –
white enameled cabinets, sunny south-facing window over the sink, and a
pristine antique table and chairs circa 1940s. The bullet hole and the knife
mark that were made over the stove and the phone, respectively, have been
spackled and painted, so even though I know where they were anyone else might
think this was not the kitchen where she threw a k-bar or averted a killer. I
take out my notebook as Francesca places a floral print, fragile teacup before
me on the Formica-topped table.
“Oolong?”
she asks.
I
agree; Fran prepares the pot, gathers sugar and (real!) cream. All very
civilized. Outside there are birds singing and the soft sounds of an arcing
sprinkler in the neighbor’s yard next door.
Fran settles with a sigh into her chair and gazes at me expectantly.
“I’m
ready for your questions when you’re ready to present them,” she says directly.
“No caveats or cover image
negotiations?” I cannot resist teasing. Uncle Walter
had made some requests when he went through this process with me earlier.
Francesca smiles and shakes her head.
“You’ll
find I’m much more amenable and confident in whatever choices you make about
our future. Would you care for any cookies or fruit?”
She’s
also better prepared than I was when a hungry Walter arrived to speak with me.
However, I demur; Fran indicates with a nod to proceed then. Gazing down at my
notes, I ask, “What is your greatest
fear?”
There
is absolutely no hesitation to Francesca’s reply. “Well. Hands down I’d have to
say having to let my uncle Walter move back into my home is currently the most
horrifying thing I can come up with.”
She
and Walter did go through some difficult episodes when he came to stay with her
while he was in town for his friend Tommy’s funeral, so I completely understand.
“Have you told this to anyone?”
Fran
pauses with her cup in mid-air. “Of course I have. I’ve told my mother, my
sister, several cousins, his friend Sollie…
I even had to explain my reasoning to my dog Marie (It’s for her own
good, really, but how do you explain something like that to her?)… and Tim next
door, since Walter’s parked his keister on Tim’s sofa for the time being.” She
smiles quickly then, confessing, “Tim’s an angel.”
Not
that I don’t understand her concerns, but further explanation might be a good
idea. “Why?”
“Well,
let’s see.” Fran says, ticking her points off on her fingertips after she’s
placed the teacup back upon its saucer on the table. “There’s the snoring, the
firearms, the flatulence, the way he insists
upon taking a ninja approach and scaring the bejesus out of me for his own
amusement. Taking three or four baths a day – my water bill, which arrived
shortly after Walter departed, was extraordinary. You might have heard he also
managed to send all of his notes and conclusions about a murder case to the actual murderer, which nearly got
us both killed. That’s only in the past few months. The stories I could tell
about how he’s tortured me for most of my life could fill entire shelves at any
good, independent bookstore.”
Hmm.
Apparently I’ve touched upon a nerve or two. I check my notes. “Is there anyone you would never tell this
to?”
Fran
nods. “I would never tell Olivia, the widow whose husband’s demise brought him
here. I might get lucky and they’ll finally figure out they’re perfect for each
other. If she hears what a pest he is, she’ll never let him live with her. She’s a dear woman, but I must
prioritize, and self-preservation has to be at the top of my list.”
Stunned
by her vehemence, I follow my notes. “Why?”
Francesca
sits back in her seat, gazing at me levelly. “Darling, you really do need to
pay better attention to my responses before you ask your next query.” She must
realize she sounds a little intimidating, because she continues in a quieter
tone. “Although I did omit mention of the state of my kitchen if I leave Walter
alone in it for more than five minutes. One morning I went out for a few
errands and when I returned he had no less than five guests in here playing poker, stinking drunk! It was barely
lunchtime. If Olivia knew he was up to such antics, I’d never be rid of him.”
Clearly
Walter will not be residing in Fran’s house in the future. We each sip our tea,
and Fran nibbles on a lemon cookie. I change course. “Tell me about one person who made a positive difference in your life.”
This
question seems to give her pause. Surely she can think of someone…
She
finishes her cookie before she speaks. “Hmmm. Well, I must admit, I haven’t
really encountered anyone recently who’s made a positive difference in my life.
A long time ago, I was married to a philosophy professor named David. He was
extremely intellectual and expanded so much of my knowledge and my curiosity
about the world around me. Unfortunately my curiosity also led to the discovery
that David was carrying on an illicit liaison with a cashier named Mimi at our
local car wash. It was rather embarrassing at the time, but I have come so far
intellectually that I now am able to wish them both w—.”
She
stops herself, takes a breath, continues.
“Actually, I have come so far intellectually, due to David’s earlier
reassurances that I would continue to grow almost
as smart as he was, that I would now be able to say this: ‘David, you are an
insufferable prick.’”
She
blinks, her expression thoughtful. “That felt better. Next question?”
“Where do you go when you need time
to yourself?”
Francesca
smiles. “I take Marie to the park for a
long stroll. Nothing like stretching our legs near the lakeshore. We have our
best discussions there, and Marie’s a wonderful listener.”
“Do you have a secret? If so, why do
you feel the need to keep it secret?”
Fran
grins now. “Well. I really don’t like to brag. It’s not in my nature, you see.
But shortly after David made his departure, I had a – well,
let’s just call it a transitional period. I gathered up my belongings and took
myself on a well-deserved vacation. I fancied myself a fledgling screenwriter at
the time, and I did have some very good ideas. Where better to practice this
art than in La-La Land, so I moved to Los Angeles.
“Well,
the screenwriting did not take off as planned and I worked for a short time at
an animal shelter because I’m a lover of all creatures great and small. One
day – you’ll never believe this, but it’s true. We held a fabulous adopt-a-thon
and Michael Jackson showed up! He brought along his chimp Bubbles of course,
and made a generous donation. He even demonstrated a selection of his dance moves. At
one point I held Bubbles so he could do some of his signature twists and turns,
and when I told him how well-behaved the little primate was, he was so pleased
he offered to teach me some steps.
“So
that’s my secret. I know how to moonwalk.
“I
would never want Walter to know. He would never cease teasing me about it; I’d
never be able to go to family functions again. I’d probably have to move back
to LA just to get a little peace. Please, if you could keep this just between
you and me.”
“Oh, well… I’m not sure if I can do
that. You’ve agreed to be interviewed for the blog, which is public, so…” I can see this is a dilemma for her. After several
moments, she seems to come to a resolution.
“How
about we just don’t remind Walter that I’ll be on your blog?”
I’m
not sure that’s going to work, and my expression might betray my reservations.
Fran pats my hand. “Otherwise he’d only
read it if we told him not to; trust
me.”
Hmm.
This is true. We move on to the last question. “What is your fondest childhood memory?”
And
here I am finally surprised as Fran reveals something even I did not know before.
Her smile is wistful.
“It
has to do with my father, actually. I was only four, but I have this very vivid
recollection of him in what I suppose was a tuxedo, very dark and handsome. One
night he was getting ready to take my mother to some event or other, and he
danced with me. I must have barely come to his knees, and I remember his shiny
black shoes because my mother scolded him about letting me step on them – I in
my pajama gown, standing on my father’s shoes while he slow danced us around
the room. He did that so I could follow the steps, you see.
“He
was a very beautiful, smiling man – I can’t recall his entire face anymore,
just his dark eyes; isn’t that sad? but I recall the sense of … a very warm
feeling with him. I remember he used to throw his head back when he laughed,
but I don’t remember what that sounded like.”
“I’m so sorry. You’ve never
mentioned him before. What happened to him?”
She
waves me off, not meeting my gaze. “Oh… I have no idea. My mother has never
spoken of him, and he was out of our lives by the time I went to school. She’s
remarried at least four times since then. I suppose I used to ask about him,
for him, but she always changed the subject. After a while I thought it best to
cease asking. My mother has not had the best luck in relationships so it’s
possible he left us for some reason. We just don’t talk about it.”
But
then she smiles teasingly. So brightly one would think I didn’t just see that
vulnerability Fran never, ever shows.
“You’re
sure I can’t talk you out of publishing that reminiscence about Michael Jackson….?”
***
Next
week, be sure to look for Deb Druzy’s latest interview, with her heroine Lily Lane, Scenic View's lonely
local sweetheart from her Contemporary Romance novel, Sleeping With Santa. You
can find her interview here on her blog – https://debradruzy.wordpress.com/posts/
Debra Druzy is a lifelong Long Islander, writing
contemporary romance while caring for the hubby, two daughters, and the dog.
Her debut novel, SLEEPING WITH SANTA, a spicy romance, is available on Amazon,
Barnes and Noble and other notable booksellers. To get to know Debra visit her
website - http://www.debradruzy.com/, and be sure to visit her blog https://debradruzy.wordpress.com/posts/, where you’ll meet lonely local
sweetheart, Lily Lane, her heroine from SLEEPING WITH SANTA.
Thanks for stopping by! I'll be back soon to talk about writing, or life, or writing about life....
