MARCH 26, 2011
Sometimes you are told something that you know instantly will change your life.
It is a defining moment. A seismic event. The Pangea that is your days and weeks and years will break apart into two distinct pieces.
Before The News. After The News.
On this cold and windy Saturday night, in one of my favorite stores in one of my favorite neighborhoods in one of my favorite cities, Pangea parted with one sentence from a good friend as we passed through Romance en route from Cooking to Art History.
“Did you know there’s a NASCAR series of Harlequin romance novels that you can have delivered to your house each month?”
And with those words–uttered very unexpectedly from a man who, until tonight, I imagined would consider a guilty pleasure to be reading Dashiel Hammett’s novels out of order–I knew I would never again be the same woman.
Confession: I have watched exactly one NASCAR race in my life (that one viewing thanks to an ex-boyfriend who also may count among his accomplishments giving me my first exposure to Natural Light beer, death metal, Sean Hannity, and the joy that is naming your video game avatars after parts of the female anatomy … or “the one who got away” as I like to think of him).
Confession Part II: I have never read a Harlequin romance novel.
And suddenly my life felt empty without them both.
It was a moment of clarity: Watching people drive around in circles + talk of heaving and bulging and thrusting = the key to happiness.
So imagine my disappointment as we scoured the rack of paperbacks only to discover this store carried no volumes in the NASCAR series.
I did enjoy, however, partaking in a game my friend suggested we play called “Find the best Harlequin book title.”
As soon as my eyes landed on Bone Deep, I knew I was to be the victor. I also knew that Bone Deep was to be my first foray into the world of romance paperbacks. While not a NASCAR volume, it is part of the “Count on a Cop” series, and the hunk’s “gun holster” on the cover told me I had made the right selection.
Further affirming this was the sticker on the front proclaiming, “LONGER BOOK. SAME PRICE!”
If that does not inspire confidence in a book’s literary merit, I don’t know what does.
I read all 283 pages of it when I returned home. (Actually, I got a jump start on the subway after hiding it inside a Carlos Ruiz Zafon novel that I had in my bag. Somehow I felt a tad sheepish poring over Bone Deep as I sat across from a man reading Kafka’s Metamorphosis … though I suppose the theme of our texts was quite similar: turning into an animal in bed.)
OK, so I didn’t really read my new purchase so much as I scanned it for “the good stuff.”
I am sorry to say that for a book called Bone Deep, there sure wasn’t much hanky panky. The word “breasts” didn’t even appear until page 16.
To be fair, the few pages that did contain adult relations were nothing short of spectacular … not to mention educational.
I, for example, did not previously know that when doin’ it, men are in their minds trying to conjure up poetic analogies for the color of their partner’s eyes.
“The closest he could come was the twilight sky beyond the fiery reach of the setting sun.”
I also was reminded how even in the throes of passion, love ain’t easy.
“Panting, they stared at each other, and Kat remembered. Only three days ago, her dead husband’s skeletal remains had been given back to her. And this man, the one holding her, still harbored more than a niggling doubt about her innocence in Hugh’s disappearance.”
Don’t I know it, girl. Just try to find a hot man to sleep with who doesn’t suspect you in the murder of your husband whose decaying skull has just turned up on your property.
I won’t spoil the book for you–as I have no doubt that you’re placing your Amazon order right now–by telling you what our hero discovers at the juncture of Kat’s thighs on page 176 … but I will tell you that that particular part of the book is even more awesome after you read the dedication at the beginning:
For Mom, who reads every word before anyone else does. Thank you, Mom, for helping make my writing better.
Gee, and I felt bad asking my mom to review my tax forms recently.
Tonight I discovered that happily-ever-afters with gorgeous men are not, as I once suspected, more elusive than unicorn sightings and Jay Leno jokes that are actually funny but rather accessible to me each and every month for the bargain price of $5.50.
I did something new.
Tags: Harlequin, romance novels
Nicely done. I must confess that when contemplating this type of fiction a lot of heaving does happen. The only thrusting involves two fingers and my throat, which of course assists with said heaving.