Say hello to Jenny Gilliam and Roxy!
BLURB:
Roxy Palmer is a walking, breathing cliche. And darned tired of it.
Working as the assistant librarian in her small, Southern home town, Roxy also
anonymously pens the local love column, Ask Paula Rockwell Thorton, Georgia's answer to
Dear Abby.
But when the door leading to Roxy's lifetime dream is slammed in her face by
one of the good ol' boys, Roxy brings out the big guns--and turns the genteel
town upside down with her racier, feminist, home-wrecking new format.
Paula Rockwell is making Sheriff Noah Kennedy's life crazy. He's got angry
husbands lined around the block, demanding the cancellation of the column,
fights breaking out and women catching their boyfriends' trucks on fire. If he ever
gets his hands on that woman...he's got his hands full of Roxy at the moment, and if he ever discovers
the truth about Roxy, all hell will break loose.
EXCERPT:
HERE'S THE LETTER THAT IS RELATED AND SENT ROXY OVER THE EDGE:
Dear Paula,
I am a fifty-one year old housewife. I'e always felt that raising a family
and making a home was what I was put on this earth to do. I'e always taken
pride my duties, even as I see other women my age grabbing life and living it
outrageously and to the fullest. Lately, however, I'e been feeling restless.
My children are grown with families of their own. I see my daughter beginning to
follow in my footsteps and I am overcome with fear that her life will turn out
as thankless as my own. I no longer find joy in any of the things that used to
comfort me; not entertaining, not cleaning, not making a home. I feel resentful
towards my husband, who expects me to keep on this way for the rest of my life.
I feel trapped. Please help me.
Restless in Primrose Valley.
Dear Restless:
I have two words for you: Women' Liberation.
Women were not put upon this earth to play housewife to a man. Raising children
and keeping a home is an admirable job that many women commit their lives to. But, how
many Southern women actually want this? How many of those women follow blindly
on a path chosen for them by someone else? Just who are you living your life
for? From what I understand, it certainly isn' for you. You'e done your
job; you'e raised good children who have turned into productive adults,
provided a clean house and a hot supper every night for a husband who takes you
for granted. Is this what you want? Now that the kids are off living their own
lives, isn' it time you began living yours?
Try discussing your concerns with your husband. But, if he is like most men in
Thorton, which I suspect he is, he will probably be stunned by such a statement
from his meek wife, who he expects to fall into line. And why shouldn' he?
You'e done it every time before, correct? Well, this time, you are calling
the shots! Do you want to spend the rest of your days kow-towing to a man who
doesn' appreciate you? I sure wouldn'. If you want to go dancing at a honky-tonk on Saturday night, by all
means, GO! To hell with what everyone else thinks! If your husband can't
handle it, tell him to go to hell. I'm tired of women in this town putting
their own needs on hold just so some man can have his already enormous ego
stroked. Ninety-nine percent of the men in Thorton need that kind of reassurance
because keeping their women chained to the stove restores confidence in their
manhood. And let's face it, ladies, if they were real men, the need to debase
us as women wouldn't supersede our need to be treated as equals. So, how about
it? This is the twenty-first century.
I think it's about time we claimed
what's rightfully ours.Paula Rockwell
As they loaded the heavy bags into the back of the Honda, a shout rent the air.
Roxy looked up, her eyes tracking the sound. Next door, Merle Granger stood in
his Saturday golfing best, hands on his hips while articles of clothing rained down
on him and the lawn.
"Now, Charlene, honey, be reasonable."
"I'll show you reasonable, you controlling bastard!" From the second-floor
window, a golf club went sailing, missing Merle's head by mere inches.
"Damnation, woman!" Merle shouted. "That's my best nine iron!"
"You can take your nine-iron and shove it up your ass!"
"Oh, my," Mary Lou breathed, coming around the back of the Honda. She stood
next to Roxy. "Looks like that rumor is true."
"What rumor?" Roxy asked, mesmerized by the sight of Charlene Granger
tossing a stuffed fish out the window. It bounced off the hood of Merle's brand new
Expedition and caused the banker to spew another litany of curses.
"You know," Mary Lou said, "that Charlene is Restless in Primrose
Valley."
Oh. That rumor.
At the time, Roxy had written it off as grist for the mill. After all of the
publicity her article had generated, she figured any married couple within the city limits
had the potential to be used as fodder. But, now, as Charlene sent a package of
golf balls raining down the street, Roxy wondered if the universe could really
be that kind.
"Is this about that silly little column?" Merle shouted to his wife.
This seemed to throw Charlene into a rage, since items began sailing from the
window with increasing speed, each punctuated by fierce words from Mrs. Granger.
"That." A shoe landed out in the street. "Article." Here came its mate.
"Was." Antlers.
Antlers? "Not." Picture frame. "Silly." A vase came crashing down,
clipping Merle in the shoulder. He howled in pain. "Or." A dozen roses rained down.
"Little!" This last statement was followed by the obvious coup de grace: the mounted head of a
buck.
Roxy didn't know how Charlene managed to wrestle the large animal's head out
of the window, but apparently rage gave people all kinds of strange powers. Roxy
slapped a hand over her mouth as the buck landed on the hood of the Expedition with a crash.
The windshield buckled inward from the impact.
"I wonder what the insurance company will have to say about that," Mary Lou
commented.
A crowd had gathered across the street to watch the display. Old men stood next
to their wives, whispering behind their hands. Kids in the middle of summer play
stopped to stare, awestruck by the screaming and destruction.
In the distance, Roxy heard the sharp song of a police siren. "Uh, oh. Here
comes the heat." She hoped Noah wasn't the one behind the wheel. One altercation
with the police a day was enough for her. "Maybe we should go."
Mary Lou stared at her like she'd gone batty. "Are you nuts? This is like an
episode of Cops."
As the police cruise pulled up, not Noah, thank goodness, Mary Lou started
singing, "Bad boys, bad boys; whatcha gonna do? Whatcha gonna do when they come for
you?"
"You know what you can do with your fancy dinner parties, Merle?" Charlene
shouted. "You can stick 'em! I am done with you! You hear me? I was not put on this earth
to play housewife to some man!"
O-kay. She'd just paraphrased the Paula response. Definitely Restless in
Primrose Valley. Roxy eyed the mounted head on the hood of the Expedition and the pile of
clothes on the front lawn. Well, she's not restless anymore.
"I'm calling the shots now!" Charlene leaned out the second-story window
and did the unthinkable. Well, the unthinkable for a society wife in Thorton, Georgia,
that is. She climbed up on the windowsill and dropped her slacks, baring her behind
for the world to see. She twisted her head around and yelled, "You can kiss my
ass, Merle Granger!"
Who would have known one little article would incite such bedlam?
Buy the book on Nov 7th at:
The Wild Rose Press.
BIO:
Jenny began writing at the age of twelve, when she realized the voices talking
in her head were characters, not a result of pre-teen induced psychosis. She's
been writing on and off for almost twenty years, but actively pursuing publication for
the last three. She lives in Oregon with her husband and two children. She is
the author of four novels.
Jenny loves to hear from her readers. You can visit her at
Jenny's website.
