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  Praise for

  Shake Down the Stars

  “Yes, I know you hear it all the time, but get ready for an absorbing story told with a unique and compelling voice. Shake Down the Stars is a treat. Renee Swindle’s writing is funny, sharp, heartbreaking, and quirky, and her non–stock characters wonderfully memorable. . . . Enjoy the ride.”

  —Lalita Tademy, New York Times bestselling author of Cane River and Red River

  “Renee Swindle’s Shake Down the Stars is a rich, savvy exploration of the many kinds of love, loss, and dysfunction that can unearth us or save us, bedevil us or deliver us . . . as complex and hilarious as it is surprising and lovely. Shake Down the Stars holds a mirror up to our best and worst selves, and Swindle writes with unflagging compassion and irresistible humor.”

  —ZZ Packer, author of Drinking Coffee Elsewhere

  “I love, love, love Renee Swindle’s Shake Down the Stars! It’s fresh and unfamiliar—which is quite the trick these days! I love the protagonist and the very unlikely yet charming love interest. The novel manages to be both light and heavy all at the same time. I cannot tell you how much I like it. Well, I can. . . . I loved it. Seriously. One of my favorite reads of the past couple years.”

  —Nichelle D. Tramble, author of The Dying Ground and The Last King

  “You are about to get a big treat. . . . Renee Swindle’s novel Shake Down the Stars is funny, bitter as coffee, sweet as sugar, and as moving as an earthquake. Enjoy!”—Farai Chideya, author of Kiss the Sky

  “I love this story of a woman trying to pull herself together after a tragic incident. Renee Swindle is a great writer and storyteller. Her characters are smart and witty and will stay with readers long after the novel ends. I hope you love Shake Down the Stars as much as I do!”

  —Jacqueline E. Luckett, author of Searching for Tina Turner and Passing Love

  “Renee Swindle’s novel Shake Down the Stars has lyrical, poignant prose that promises to resonate with readers. The characters are emotionally and culturally charged, and their lives remind me of my own. While reading, I was transported inside an unbelievable world of crazy, wonderful folks.”

  —Deborah Santana, author of Space Between the Stars: My Journey to an Open Heart

  ALSO BY RENEE SWINDLE

  Please Please Please

  New American Library

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

  First published by New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Renee Swindle, 2013

  Readers Guide © Penguin Group (USA), Inc., 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:

  Swindle, Renee.

  Shake down the stars/Renee Swindle.

  p. cm

  ISBN 978-1-101-59644-9

  1. Divorced women—Fiction. 2. Self-realization in women—Fiction. 3. Daughters— Death—Fiction. 4. Friendship—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3569.W537S53 2013

  813'.54—dc23 2012043576

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Contents

  Praise

  Also by Renee Swindle

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  About the Author

  A Conversation with Renee Swindle

  Questions for Discussion

  For my parents, James Swindle and Lucille Swindle

  For my agent, B. J. Robbins

  And for Todd Foster

  acknowledgments

  For her constant support and encouragement, I’d like to thank my agent, B. J. Robbins. Thanks for standing by me over the years, B.J. Here’s to many more.

  For her keen eye and invaluable feedback, I’d like to thank my editor, Ellen Edwards. Every writer should be so lucky. I’d also like to thank everyone at NAL for helping make this book possible.

  For their support and friendship, I thank the women of the Finish Party: Farai Chideya, Alyss Dixson, Jacqueline Luckett, ZZ Packer, Deborah Santana, Lalita Tademy, and Nichelle Tramble Spellman. I am so blessed to have you in my life.

  Thank you to the writers I’ve worked with over the years, with a special thanks to: Heather Collins, Molly Thomas, Eric Pfieffer, Kelly Allgaier, Emily Morganti, Joseph Garrett, Cecily Sheppard, Beth Desmonti, Kelly Damian, Jonathan Seyfried, Kelly Tanner Jones, Emma Talbott, Elizabeth Nix, Max Delgado, Alex Dolan, Kay Spencer, and Miki Kashtan.

  Further thanks to Jane Chandler for taking the time to speak with me; my beloved meditation instructor, John Osajima; and Boniford Burnett, whom I look forward to seeing graduate from UC Berkeley. Thanks as well to all my students at Solano Community College and Diablo Valley College, San Ramon Campus.

  For helping me stick with my initial idea and for their friendship, thanks to Chris Faber and Claudia Guerra. Thanks also to my longtime friends and early readers, Liz Gonzalez, Luna Calderon, and Susan Carpendale.

  I’m grateful to everyone who contacted me on Facebook or sent an e-mail asking when the next book was coming out. Your messages kept me going.

  Thanks to my parents for supporting me in my dream. One day I hope to pay you back!

  Finally, thanks to Todd Foster and Grace Foster for opening their home and hearts. Love to you both.

  one

  It’s two in the afternoon, and I’m already nursing a bottle of scotch I took from the banquet hall where my sister’s engagement party will take place. I’ve spent the last thirty-two hours with my family and figure if anyone deserves an early-afternoon drink, it’s me.

  Mostly I’ve been hanging out in one of two libraries. Margot’s party is being held in an actual mansion: a now-defunct gentleman’s club high up in the Oakland hills. The place is straight out of The Great Gatsby with its expansive lawns, indoor swimming pool, smoking room, the aforementioned libraries, and lookout tower covered in ivy. There are thirty rooms in all, two stadium-sized banquet halls, and a twenty-four-hour butler for VIP guests like my sister and her football player fiancé.

  A
fter filling my glass, I go to the window and spy my sister outside on the lawn, bitching at the gardener and his assistant. It’s late September, and the sky is turning a foreboding gray; the wind is in a foul mood, lashing out at all the carefully placed freesias and gerbera daisies strung around the gazebo and attached to the back of every single chair on the lawn—all three hundred of them. Margot has it in her head that her guests will be distracted by the lopsided bushes just behind the gazebo, when, frankly, I suspect they’re going to be more distracted by the rain that will surely fall on their heads if a storm breaks out.

  Whatever.

  I turn from the window and begin scanning the library’s massive leather-bound collection until I decide on The House of Mirth. I’m about to sit at a small table near one of the stained-glass windows when a man the size of a troll walks inside. He steps directly up to me with an expectant grin on his face as though we know each other, but I’ve never seen him before in my life and have to assume he’s with the wedding party that’s rented the east wing of the estate. He’s built like a wrestler and wears a silver suit that strains against his Popeye-like biceps; his chest bubbles out from his shirt like a growth. He looks, in fact, like a baby shark standing on its dorsal fins.

  He runs his tongue over his upper lip while staring at me. “You. Are. Lovely.”

  “And you,” I say, waving my hand at the alcohol-induced stench rising between us, “are. Shit. Faced.”

  “No shame in it. I’m here to celebrate, after all. I see you’re not holding back either,” he adds, nodding toward my scotch.

  I raise my glass and take a sip. “Touché.”

  “Name’s Selwyn. And you are?”

  “About to read my book, if you don’t mind.”

  He points at me with the same hand that’s holding his glass. “You’ve got spunk. I like that.”

  “Spunk?”

  “Yeah. Gotta little fire going on.”

  I look him over while taking another pull from my drink. He’s not exactly troll-sized, probably five foot seven at best, but I’m five foot nine and in heels, so from my vantage point he may as well be a Lilliputian. An Oompa Loompa. A hobbit. “How tall are you exactly?”

  “Five-six-and-a-half and proud of it. Never let a man’s height fool you. Height is never an indicator of a man’s sexual prowess.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  He studies my face briefly. “I don’t remember seeing you at the wedding rehearsal last night. You a friend of the bride or the groom?”

  “Neither.”

  “Neither? You with the other wedding party?”

  “Yeah. But it’s an engagement party.”

  “Wooooo. Having an engagement party up here? Must be some engagement. So, you gonna tell me your name or what?”

  “Why should I?”

  “Because I’d like to get to know you better. Seriously, girl, I’m here all alone, and I have a feeling we’d hit it off. I’m the groom’s cousin. I’m here for the wedding tonight, and I’ll be on my way home tomorrow morning. I’m a good guy. I live in Livermore. I work for the mayor. No kids. No wife. What do you say we spend a little time together before I leave? Celebrate this weekend of . . . amore . . . with a private celebration of our own. You. Me. A bottle of Dom?”

  I stare at his finger as it’s making its way up and down the side of my arm. I can only hope that he’s behaving like a throwback to 1970s bachelorhood because he’s drunk. Otherwise, there’s no excuse.

  “We can take advantage of my room,” he says. “The view is something to behold. Come on, baby. You look like you could use a little fun. And trust me: Selwyn P. Jones is a whole lotta fun. Ow!” He jumps back with a yelp.

  Startled, I jump back, too. “How drunk are you?”

  “You like James Brown?”

  “I—”

  “I love James Brown. Check this out.” He kicks his leg and jumps into a furious spin. “Ow!” he yelps. “Hit me!”

  I consider doing just that—hard over his head—but instead I look around the room for hidden cameras. Surely Margot is playing a joke on me. But no. No cameras. Just me and a drunk troll imitating James Brown.

  I take two swigs from my drink as I watch him dance. It’s probably the alcohol distorting my judgment, but from the little footage I’ve seen of James Brown, Selwyn’s imitation seems pretty good. After another gulp, I’m smiling.

  “Good gracious me,” he says, “look at that smile. Baby, you’ve got a five-hundred-kilowatt smile.” Seeing that he has me, he speeds up—pushing his pelvis out and back, swiveling his small hips this way and that. “Ow!” he yells. “Hit me two times.” He kicks, but, suddenly winded, he bends over at the waist with one hand resting on his knee while clutching his stomach with the other.

  “You okay?”

  “I sure am feeling those crab cakes I had earlier.” He pauses long enough to gaze up at me. “Come on, baby. What do you say? Let’s spend some time together.”

  I kind of half shrug and half smile. “Okay. Sure.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Why not?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Yeah, I’m serious.”

  “Serious serious?”

  “Is there another kind of serious?”

  “Wow,” he mutters. “I can’t believe my luck. Hey, we don’t have to stay here, you know. We can go into the city if you want. Have a real night together. This is great. What time should I pick you up?”

  “I think you misunderstand. I’m not interested in a date, but if you want to come up to my room, you’re welcome to.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m in the Queen Anne. Give me ten minutes and you can come up.”

  “Hold on, now. Let me get this straight. You’re inviting me . . . up to your room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes. Now. Only thing, you have twenty minutes from the time you arrive. After that, I want you out.” I go for the bottle of scotch on the table, leaving him with a dumbfounded expression hanging off his face. Four years ago, during my short stint in therapy, my therapist told me that my drinking and sleeping around served as nothing more than Band-Aids that would only cause deeper pain in the long run. She added that my wounds ran deep and were crying out for my attention. I dumped her soon after, telling myself that I couldn’t take another second of her banal metaphors. Deep down, though, I know she must have been right on some level. I’m not an idiot, after all, and know perfectly well I’m acting out. What I don’t know is how to make myself stop—or even if there’s a point to stopping.

  Selwyn claps loudly. “Goodness gracious. I am one lucky man. I have to tell you, though, twenty minutes isn’t gonna be nearly enough. You’re gonna want more soon as I—”

  I hold up my hand. “Twenty minutes, and then I don’t know you and you don’t know me.”

  “Okay, okay. Fine, baby. But I should warn you: The ladies go crazy over Selwyn P. Jones, and you’re gonna want way more than twenty.”

  I pick up the bottle and head toward the door. “Doubt it.”

  I change into a pair of short sweats and an old Cal T-shirt and take another look out the window. The sky is still storm gray, but the wind has died down. Margot stands on the lawn, talking to the manager of the club while staff members adjust the flowers laced around the gazebo. The gardener and his assistant work on trimming the bushes. Margot: 1; Gentleman’s club: 0.

  The football player sits in the last row of chairs doing his best to . . . teeeext aaaaa meeeeessssssage, his massive fingers pounding Frankenstein-like against the tiny keyboard. The width of his back and small, peanut-sized head give him the shape of a walrus. Ask him a question about the meaning of life and the exchange goes something like the following:

  Me: So, tell me, Curtis, what’s the meaning of life?
<
br />   Curtis: I don’t know about any of that. I just try to stay focused on the game and my team. I’m a Christian, though, if that’s what you mean.

  Me: Do you fear global warming will destroy life as we know it?

  Curtis: I don’t know about any of that. I just try to stay focused on the game and my team. I believe in God, though, if that’s what you mean.

  Curtis is the Oakland Raiders’ star quarterback and is slated to help them win the Super Bowl. If that’s not enough, he made a chart-topping R and B album last year and earned a recent book contract; plus there are the countless endorsements coming out of his football player’s ass. It’s been a recurring dream that I can somehow get ahold of a mere quarter of his earnings and give it to the fledging school district where I teach.

  I hear a cautious knock at the door, and assuming it’s the troll, tell him to come in. When he sees me in my shorts and T-shirt, he gawks as though I’m wearing a negligee. “You look amazing.”

  “Could you do us both a favor and drop the gigolo act?”

  “Who’s acting? You look good, girl.” He claps his hands together and steps farther inside. “Nice digs. I likes.”

  He wears a patterned silk robe and brown slippers; his calf muscles bulge beneath the black trim of his robe as he struts around. “I try to work out at least four times a week,” he announces before disrobing. He flexes his muscles. He’s naked except for the slippers and a pair of black silk boxers. “May I?” he asks, eyeing the various bottles of booze on top of the antique bar.

  “Help yourself.”

  He pours a shot of bourbon and downs it with a quick shake of the head and smack of the lips. He then flicks off his shoes and leaps kiddie-style onto the bed, giving the empty space beside him a few pats. “We don’t have much time, baby. I want you to experience what many have said is the best love they’ve ever had.”

  I take a sip of my own drink, and then another. “I’m sure I’m about to experience something.”

  I keep my eyes trained on the ceiling as he kisses me. He’s a surprisingly good kisser, but I realize I’m not drunk enough to do what we’re about to do, and all too soon his tongue feels more like a wet mass of wiggling flesh, and my own tongue, horrified, begins to retreat.