Tale of two novels

Okay, so I have told you I'm writing the Great American Novel. What I have not told you is that I am writing two, and cannot decide which one to go with. So I am going to post the opening paragraphs from each here, and let you help me figure it out. The first one is pretty much straight "chick lit" (for lack of a better term) while the second is a romantic suspense. Your input is greatly appreciated!


Love on the rocks
By Jen McGrath

I leave them together on the well-lighted, airy basketball courts, my husband and our six-year-old son. Their new (and matching) sneakers squeak against the shiny wooden floor as they run, dribble and shoot, together among the other men and boys.

I stand awkwardly at the edge of the courts in my black yoga pants and red t-shirt, watching them. They are two of a kind. Ian, a dark-eyed, intense boy with the same long, lean body as his dad; and Peter – at 28 he is the kind of tall, boyishly handsome, vaguely Mediterranean man whose dimpled grin inspires attractive young women to lock eyes with him in public. I should point out that women do this frequently, even when his much-older (38) wife is in tow; this is probably because they, like most waiters and other strangers we meet in the world, do not automatically assume we’re…together. Me and Peter. Weirdest couple, ever.

Six months ago, a cop assumed I was Peter’s mother.

“Son, let me talk to your mother about this,” he’d told Peter, patronizingly, as the three of us stared at what was left of my shattered windshield. “Ma’am,” he lowered his voice to Peter wouldn’t hear. “It’s about the methheads. They’ve been coming down to the nicer parts of Scottsdale at night and we’re seeing a lot more of this kind of break-in.”

Peter and I had stared at each other in confusion as we both realized the officer did not intend to call Peter’s mom in California. He was talking about me. I was in a pantsuit and heels, my hair styled in a slick bob, on my way to the Phoenix airport to fly to LA for a lunch meeting. Peter was in an Abercrombie ringer shirt, cutoff jeans and baseball cap, preparing for a day of taking Ian to school, prowling Whole Foods for in-season produce, and doing laundry.

Needless to say, that was the day I decided to join the gym, where I stand now, twenty pounds lighter, watching my husband and son shoot hoops. I should be happier, I think to myself. I'm feeling better, looking younger. I have a hot, loving husband, who stays home and takes care of all those things I don't have time to take care of. So why am I still so unsure? I’m not sure this is what I want – and by “this” I mean Peter. Marriage was supposed to mean forever, happily ever after, right? So, why doesn't it? Why do I feel so alone?

A woman passes Peter, and stares, on the prowl. He either doesn’t notice, or he pretends not to notice, for my sake. I used to look at Peter the way I notice other women looking at him now, when we first met. He starred in the script of our singular scandal back then, in the role of horny Los Angeles college freshman. I costarred, in the role of older screenwriting professor. None of my friends, and no one in either of our families, thought it would last. Ten years, a marriage and one kid later, here we are – scarred, but more or less in tact. Why can't I be happy about that?

I watch Peter move now, and force a smile onto my face, for the sake of our son, who is watching me watch his dad, and learning, I fear, how to navigate the emotional world from our lopsided, badly-glued model. He shoots, he scores.

“Wow!” I call, clapping my support. I smile and worry everyone can tell it’s a fake. “Nice job, honey!”

Peter bucks his head in my general direction, mouth open with exertion, and otherwise ignores me as he prances backwards across the court. He’s got the facial expression guys get when they’re playing ball amongst their gender – focused, aware that they are watched, thrilled about it, but not wanting to look like they care. Cocky. And young. So exhaustingly young.

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The Anchor Kiss
By Jen McGrath

Avery Fox was a tall woman of 27, lean, pale and tattooed, with spiked fair hair she kept dyed the black of an 8-ball. In tight classic Levis and a sparkly silver tank top, she leaned into her hip behind the bar, pouring gin and tonic into the thick, short glass, the intricate tribal tattoo flexing along with her pale bicep. She hoped to God Janis Morgan wouldn’t whip out the tarot cards, or try to read her palm again. Janis, a swollen, red-haired woman of about 50, with large neon green eyeglasses seemingly on loan from Elton John, watched the rebellious young woman closely. Too closely for Avery’s comfort.

Avery had never been comfortable around Janis Morgan, and, judging from the fear in her usually confident blue eyes, this state of being showed no indication of changing anytime soon. In the Peace Corps in Africa, Avery had scared hungry lions from her campfire. She’d mediated between rival overlords in water-rights disputes. She’d bravely held dying babies, and comforted their wailing mothers. None of that frightened her as much as Janis Morgan.

Since she was a young child, Avery had feared this oddball friend of her mother’s, who once correctly predicted that the family cat would be squashed on Thompson Peak Parkway, naming the day, intersection, and which side of the road the animal would be found on. Avery had long wondered whether Janis herself had kidnapped the cat and run it over with her olive green Cadillac, just to lend credence to her business as Scottsdale’s resident overpriced soothsayer. Why Avery’s mother had such a wackadoodle friend, Avery did not know. Then again, Binky Fox, the queen social butterfly of central Arizona, collected wackadoodle friends, just as she collected $15,000 paintings. Dozens of such works of modern art which hung on the stark white walls of the enormous home gallery in which Avery tended bar at the moment. She was working for her mother for a little extra money to avoid being late with next month’s rent on her downtown Phoenix studio apartment, as she was currently late with March’s.

Tonight, Binky’s beloved guests wore things like flowing woven textiles, or tailored Italian suits in unusual shades of gray, clothes that screamed “art collector”. The irony, Avery observed wryly, was that none of the bankers, real estate tycoons, media publishers and other assorted elegant swindlers gathered here to praise art would probably ever wish their own children to become artists. They had each paid Binky a sum more than Avery’s monthly rent, for the privilege of coming here tonight, to the 10,000 square-foot Scottsdale home where Avery had grown up isolated from the much-less shiny reality most people lived in. The house itself was a work of art, a modern masterpiece of glass and weathered iron, stabbed into the rocky side of a mountain. Tonight, it would be home to a lecture on French painter Bernard Buffet. Avery had grown up soaking in these art talks that her mother hosted, but she had to admit that tonight’s pained her; after all, Buffet had become famous by the time he was 20 years old, and she herself was still struggling as she inched toward thirty. Salt in the wounds.

Avery added a wedge of lime to the gin and tonic, and handed the glass to creepazoid Janis without making direct eye contact. It was best that way.

“Here you go!” chirped Avery with a massive smile, hoping her aggressive exuberance would alienate grumpy Janis, and make her go away.

“Just remember, choose the rope,” declared Janis, as she sized Avery up, staring particularly at the new stud in her left eyebrow. It was hard to shock the moneyed Arizona arts crowd, but Avery, whose mother wished she would just “try to look normal and marry rich, like everyone else,” did her best.

“And the trees,” said Janis, with a scowl. Then, the woman mumbled: “Odd. No, that’s not right. Odyssey. No, that’s not it either. I’ve got allergies.” Janis shook her head like a dog with a bee in its ear. “The signs aren’t coming in clearly. I do know you’re in grave danger, though.”
“Have a nice evening,” Avery said through clenched teeth.

Janis focused her stare on Avery. “Run away. Scary man.” Janis droned with boozy intensity, as though she were delivering an incoherent sermon atop a mountain, to a flock of stones.

“I wish I could run away,” Avery mumbled, and looked at her pasty arms and her hands with the chewed-down nails. She cultivated paleness as a statement against the excesses of the tanned, golfing class into which she’d been born. Janis had not been born to the same class, but made herself indispensable to them by writing bestselling books about her conversations with an angel named “Bradley”.

“You must run to the trees,” said Janis, rolling her r on “run” like the star of a British comedy. She whipped off the eyeglasses and leaned in, nostrils flared, as if trying to catch a scent on Avery’s skin. Avery backed up a couple of steps, and bumped into a wall of glass. At her back was an expansive wall of windows, with an awe-inspiring 180-degree view of the red rocks, cactus-studded hills and pale green valley of Scottsdale. The slow sinking of the sun had already begun to paint everything lavender and tangerine. Janis reached out with her clawlike hands, to pull Avery back. Desperate, Avery connected eyes with her mother across the room, and gave her a look that clearly said, “Help me”.