Thursday, March 28, 2024

Spotlight of Childless Mother by Tracy Mayo

PHOTO SOURCE:
TYPORAMA

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CHILDLESS MOTHER
TRACY MAYO
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ALL INFORMATION IN THIS POST IS COURTESY OF SIMONE JUNG | PUBLICIST | BOOKS FORWARD.

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Mother reconnects with son years after forced adoption.


Debut author Tracy Mayo had a successful career, but one choice from her past continued to haunt her: forcibly giving up her baby at the age of fifteen.


Now she’s sharing the inspiring story of her impossible journey to find him during the pre-Internet era in her memoir.

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March 28, 2024
Vanguard Press
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PRAISE FOR CHILDLESS MOTHER:

Tracy Mayo breaks ranks with the institutionalized secrecy, shame, and silencing that shattered countless pregnant girls and young women prior to legalized abortion and open adoption.” - Kate Moses, author of “Wintering, Cakewalk: A Memoir, and Mothers Who Think”

"Mayo creates a compelling nonfiction narrative that effectively conveys her feelings as a child and as an adult dealing with the fallout of choices her parents made…examines the complexities of reuniting with children given up for adoption—including birth parents’ acceptance of, and by, the families that raised their children—in a nuanced and insightful manner." - Kirkus Reviews

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ABOUT CHILDLESS MOTHER:

Before Roe v. Wade, Tracy Mayo found herself pregnant at the age of fourteen and exiled to a maternity home.


There, she bore not only a child but also the weight of the culture’s shame.


She was required to surrender her newborn baby boy – the only child she would ever have. “You’ll forget it ever happened,” she was told. 


She didn’t.


Twenty-two years later,  her longing undiminished, with no internet, DNA testing, and not even knowing his adoptive name, Tracy set out to find him – and in her search she finds more than just her son, but herself.


In a world drifting back to where women have no agency, Tracy’s story of one frightened, grief-stricken young mother who was ‘ordered to forget’ is more important to remember than ever. 

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

TRACY MAYO has two degrees from Duke University. After a homesteading experiment, she embarked on a thirty-year career in commercial construction management, as a trailblazing woman in a man’s world.


She is a 2020/2021 artist-in-residence at Craigardan and an alumnus of the Bookgardan writing program.


Her writing has appeared at Aspen Summer Words’ juried workshops, in Heimat Review, and in The Ocotillo Review.


Tracy lives in Boulder, Colorado, with her husband and Flat-Coated Retriever.

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SOCIAL MEDIA:

Instagram: @TracyMayoAuthor

LinkedIn: @TracyMayo

Facebook: @TracyMayoAuthor

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AN INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR:


1.  In your writing, you discuss the military culture that you grew up in? How did this experience affect your life as you became pregnant? 


I think in part, the experience helps explain why I became pregnant. The constant moves, the ever-changing landscape (eight moves in my thirteen short years) made me long to have friends, to feel rooted. When I met Ken Locke, a kindred navy spirit, I found someone who understood what it feels like to pack up and start one’s life over every year or two. Additionally, the military culture – in which we were expected to appreciate protocol, conformance, obedience, and discipline – was a prime target for adolescent rebellion, especially for an only child like myself, long the focus of my parents’ intense

aspirations.


2.  During your search for David, what aspects did you find the most challenging?


The simple answer to this question is a question itself: How do you find someone whenyou don’t know who  you are looking for? All I had to go on was his place of birth and his birth date. His real birth certificate (with his given name at birth) was in a sealed file in the state capitol and an “amended” one issued with his new name and his adoptive parents’ names. Birth parents have no rights to information in Virginia, other than the very rudimentary “non-identifying information” I was provided at relinquishment.


Because I had been told  that he was adopted by a military family, I assumed he had moved around like I had. Where might he be and who might he be? It was a daunting

challenge.


3.  When you and David first met, you discovered that the two of you had many similarities despite being raised very differently. Did this surprise you?


Upon exchanging photos, we realized we looked very much alike. But I think both of us were surprised to discover our many common interests: bird-watching, in-line skating, tastes in music, and an abiding interest in wildlife and the natural world. I learned that my university would have been his first choice if money had been no object. And when younger he was interested in becoming a naval aviator, like the birth grandfather he hadn’t yet met. The synchronicities kept crashing down. Does this mean there is a genetic component to personal preferences?


4.  You discuss a lot of heavy topics when recalling your past experiences. What effect did writing this story have on you? 


I did a lot of healthy grieving while unearthing long-buried painful memories. And in taking charge of my own search, I felt empowered for the first time in decades. On a few occasions during my search when I came across written documentation of what had

happened, I had this flush of feeling that I hadn’t imagined my son, hadn’t dreamed him up. After being instructed “To Forget,” and not allowed to speak of his birth around my own parents, I finally was receiving validation – which for so long, in almost every context, I had not. Recounting this process in writing has proved to be healing.


5.  In terms of your son, his adoptive parents, as well as your own parents, did you find yourself taking risks while recounting your story?


It’s difficult to write about people who are still alive. I waited to start this memoir until my parents had died, as I knew I would struggle to speak my raw truth if they were hereto read it. But observing the close  relationship that David had developed with them, I felt

a great measure of forgiveness and compassion. I took a risk re my son – would he view his upbringing differently from my perception of it? How would he view my take on our relationship? And on behalf of his adoptive parents, who passed away before this memoir was published, did I properly reveal the depth of my gratitude to them, for loving him as they so fully did?


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Wednesday, March 27, 2024

Showcase of Lines of Deception by Steve Anderson and Giveaway of the Book

Lines of Deception

by Steve Anderson

March 18 - April 12, 2024 

Virtual Book Tour

Lines of Deception by Steve Anderson Banner


Synopsis:

The Kaspar Brothers Series


A West German nightclub owner goes behind the Iron Curtain on a desperate mission to save his brother, in this Cold War thriller by the author of Lost Kin.

West Germany, 1949. Former actor Max Kaspar suffered greatly in the Second World War. Now he owns a nightclub in Munich—and occasionally lends a hand to the newly formed CIA. Meanwhile, his brother Harry has ventured beyond the Iron Curtain to rescue an American scientist. When Harry is also taken captive, Max resolves to locate his brother at all costs. The last thing he expects is for Harry to go rogue.

Lines of Deception by Steve Anderson

Max’s treacherous quest takes him to Vienna and Prague to Soviet East Germany and Communist Poland. Along the way, dangerous operators from Harry’s past join the pursuit: his former lover Katarina, who’s working for the Israelis, and former Nazi Hartmut Dietz, now an agent of East German intelligence. But can anyone be trusted? Even the American scientist Stanley Samaras may not be the hero Harry had believed him to be . . .

Praise for Lines of Deception:

"In this convincing and atmospheric spy tale set on the haunted landscape of postwar Europe, the engaging Max Kaspar leads us into deepening shadows in which the certainties of loyalty and morality grow dimmer at every turn. An intriguing and satisfying read."
~ Dan Fesperman, author of Winter Work

"Steve Anderson brings the past to life… As close as you'll get to a historical guide to the vagaries and treacheries and to the hidden byways and ratlines of post-war Europe."
~ Luke McCallin, author of the Gregor Reinhardt series

"If you like international intrigue on a grand and gritty scale written in language that moves like the wind, this is your read."
~ Mary Glickman, National Jewish Book Award Finalist for One More River

"Kept me on the edge of my seat, and the unexpected twists left me guessing until the final pages."
~ Roccie Hill, author of The Blood of My Mother and other novels

"Readers who know the Kaspar brothers from Anderson’s other tales will not be disappointed, and those who are new to the brothers’ exploits will be faithful hereon."
~ NCR Davis, author of For the Boys: The War Story of a Combat Nurse in Patton’s Third Army

Book Details:

Genre: Espionage, Historical Thriller, Cold War Thriller
Published by: Open Road Media
Publication Date: March 2024
Number of Pages: 200
ISBN: 9781504086134 (ISBN10: 1504086139)
Series: Kaspar Brothers (#4)
Book Links: Amazon | Barnes & Noble | BookShop.org | Goodreads | Open Road Media

Read an excerpt:

MUNICH

Tuesday, May 17, 1949
12:01 a.m.

Max Kaspar learned about his brother, Harry, from the little man who brought him the severed ear. The nasty fellow even had the gall to bring it to the Kuckoo Nightclub, keeping it in a small purple box on his table along the wall.

Up on the club’s small stage, Max had just finished belting out a recent jump blues hit from the States, “Good Rockin’ Tonight,” everybody clapping along. He flubbed a couple lines but his few fellow Germans had no idea and the Americans were too drunk to care.

The little man never clapped along. He’d just stared at Max. Max used to be fairly certain that a man watching like that was either a talent agent or a producer. But that was before Total War, before fire bombings, and concentration camps, stranded orphans, souls scarred for life. Before his own rehabilitation.

As the applause died, Max kept the man in a corner of his eye. Small head on narrow shoulders, an outdated curly greased mustache, and a frenzied glare like Peter Lorre, his eyes bulging, never blinking.

Max forced out a grin. “Thank you, folks, meine Damen und Herren,” he said in that mix of English and German everyone used to please both occupier and occupied.

Then he pulled their young waitress Eva onto the stage.

Eva gasped. “Now, Herr Kaspar?” Between them, they embraced speaking their native German.

“You said you want a chance, my dear, so now’s your shot,” Max told her.

Eva beamed at him. Their four-piece band made anyone sound good since they had a hepcat GI playing drums and another on piano, a former Swing Kid from Cologne on the horn, and a steady old Kabarett veteran on bass. Eva’s dimples and curves and sweet voice did the rest. She launched into a rousing version of “Slow Boat to China” festooned by her thick accent and the crowd cheered her on.

Not bad for a Tuesday. But Max was creating diversions. He’d needed to surveil the man, which meant throwing him off. He made for the bar. Then he disappeared into the kitchen and went down into the cellar, passing under the dance floor and tables above.

What could the little man want? He threatened to throw Max’s shaky world spinning out of kilter. The day had started like any other here in Schwabing, that Munich quarter once home to pioneering artists, then to a small-handed, fatheaded blowhard named Adolf, and now to free-spending American occupiers. Max had peacetime, normalcy, a cozy routine. Fresh white bread from his American friends, toasted, with real butter and orange marmalade. Real coffee. He was finally forgetting what ersatz coffee tasted like, thank god or whoever was responsible. He’d arrived early at the club like usual, before noon, before anyone. Drank another real coffee. He went through the ledgers and checked the earnings stacked in the cellar safe, if only to confirm all truly was well and normal. Then he wandered the Kuckoo, his Kuckoo, wincing at the few dirty ashtrays and beer glasses left out from the previous night. He rolled up his sleeves, emptied the ashes and cleared the glasses, and wiped things down. His staff could do this, but a little chore always gave him something like peace of mind. A part of him was even hoping that Eva would arrive early and see him doing it. He went through his mail, finding the usual inquiries from bands and singers, and bills he had no problem paying now, at last. The occasional letter came from Mutti und Vati in America. But, still nothing from his brother, Harry, here in Europe. The void of letters, postcards, or even a surprise visit had been growing, swelling, prickling at him low in his gut. Just this morning, Max had gotten that creeping feeling he knew from combat: Things were all too quiet.

Down in the Kuckoo cellar, Max now felt a shudder, deep in his chest, and the normalcy dwindled as only a memory, a fog. An opened bottle of American rye stood atop the safe and he thought about taking a shot for courage, then decided he didn’t need it. He needed to move.

He came back upstairs on the other side, behind their red curtain at the back of the stage. He eyed the little man closer from the shadows while Eva gave it all she had. The man was now watching the bar, craning his compact noodle for any sight of Max. That purple box stood in equal proportion to his short neat glass of Fernet, to his fresh pack of Chesterfields, to his sterling jeweled lighter, his gnarled knuckles revealing him to be older than his shiny face let on.

Why show off, Max thought, when any secure communication would do? This peacock was certainly not CIA. The Munich desk was more likely to send some new kid with a crew cut.

Eva was bowing now, the crowd whooping and stomping. As if sensing Max, the man slowly swiveled Max’s way, still not blinking.

Max rushed out along the wall and sat down next to the man. They waited for the crowd to quiet, silent like two passengers aboard an airliner off to a rocky start.

“Good evening, Herr Kaspar,” the man said in German, his accent as inscrutable as Max expected. “I enjoyed your routine.”

“It’s not a routine,” Max blurted, sounding more annoyed than he’d wanted.

The man smirked, which released a sniffle. “You did not know all the words, yes? Tricky, keeping up with these Americans.”

“What in the devil do you want?”

His waiter came over, Gerd. Max sent poor Gerd away with a snap of fingers.

The little man lost the smirk. He slid the small purple box over to Max.

It was larger than a ring box, smaller than for a necklace. Max pushed the box open with his index finger. He saw one human ear, lying on its side, with a neat cut and cleaned up.

“Harry Kaspar,” the man said. “Perhaps he hears too much.”

“My brother?” Max’s head spun. Everything blurred and he shut his eyes a moment. “Just tell me what you want.”

“Harry Kaspar is your brother, yes?”

The man had said brother like a curse word. Hot pressure filled Max’s chest, and he wiped away the sweat instantly sopping his eyebrows. He grabbed the man by the collar. He could smell the man’s toilet water, and possibly a bad tooth. “Why, you . . .” he roared.

“Now, now. Listen. You will find instructions with the ear, which I leave with you. You deliver the ransom soon? Perhaps the ear can be reattached, yes?”

Max had to assume it was Harry’s ear. He realized he didn’t know what his brother’s ear looked like, not exactly, and the thought made his heart squeeze a little. He let go of the man.

“Why Harry?” he asked.

“I told you: He hears too much. But I suppose it could’ve been an eye—”

“Listen to me. You don’t know who you’re playing with. Harry’s an American.”

The man gave the slightest shrug. “Naturalized American. Unlike you. Still a lowly German . . .” He gave a tsk-tsk sound. “But with means now, I see.”

Max’s jaw clenched from loathing. “Who are you? I thought kidnappers were supposed to be anonymous.”

The man pressed a hand to his chest. “Oh, we’re better than kidnappers. And we’re confident that you will comply. Because Harry told us that you would pay.”

“He did? Why?”

The man smiled. “I don’t think he wanted his embassy involved, and certainly not the Soviets.”

“The Soviets? Hold on. Where did you come from anyway?”

The man gave another slight shrug. He nodded at the box. He scooped up his Chesterfields and lighter, stood, straightened his black crushed velvet blazer, blinked around the room, and left.

Harry smoked Chesterfields, Max recalled, and the thought stiffened his neck with worry. The ear box remained on the table. He pulled it closer, glanced around for privacy, and then opened it again. Tucked up into the lid was a note, typed on a small white square of paper:

Ransom: $1,000 or equivalent.
Come alone. No tricks.
9 Lessinggasse, Vienna

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Excerpt from Lines of Deception by Steve Anderson. Copyright 2024 by Steve Anderson. Reproduced with permission from Steve Anderson. All rights reserved.

 

Author Bio:

Steve Anderson

Steve Anderson is the author of numerous novels, mostly historical thrillers about gutsy underdogs. In an earlier life he earned an MA in history and was a Fulbright Fellow in Germany. Day jobs have included busy waiter, Associated Press rookie, and language instructor. He’s also written historical nonfiction and translated bestselling German novels. A hopeless soccer addict, he lives in his hometown of Portland, Oregon with his wife René.

Catch Up With Steve Anderson:


www.StephenFAnderson.com
Goodreads
BookBub - @SteveAnderson
Instagram - @steveawriter
Twitter/X - @SteveAwriter
Facebook - @SteveAndersonAuthor

Check out his Substack Newsletter: @steveawriter


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Tuesday, March 26, 2024

Spotlight of Cheater by Karen Rose

PHOTO SOURCE:
TYPORAMA

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CHEATER
KAREN ROSE
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ALL INFORMATION IN THIS POST IS COURTESY OF STEPHANIE FELTY, ASSOCIATE PUBLICIST | BERKLEY & ACE | PENGUIN RANDOM HOUSE
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A must-read for fans of Lisa Gardner and Tami Hoag, the San Diego Case Files by New York Times bestselling author Karen Rose are high-octane romantic suspense novels full of sun, surf, sand…and serial killers.

The first series installment, Cold-Blooded Liar, was praised as “an un-put-downable romantic thriller” (Publishers Weekly) and selected as one of Amazon’s best suspense novels of 2023.

In book two, CHEATER, the slow-burn romance building between a detective and a criminal psychologist ignites as they must work together to solve a shocking murder case.

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March 26, 2024

Berkley Hardcover

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PRAISE FOR KAREN ROSE:


“Effortlessly balances romance and crime…an excellent example of how far-reaching and varied romance can be. The plot is complex, the characterization sound and the boundaries of the genre pushed.”The New York Times


“The kind of high-wire suspense that keeps you riveted.”
New York Times bestselling author Lisa Gardner

 

“Karen Rose owns this genre-she combines an accurate, vivid sense of place with believable, sympathetic characters.”—Criminal Element on Cold-Blooded Liar

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EXCERPT OF CHEATER:

CHEATER by Karen Rose

Berkley Hardcover | On sale March 26, 2024

Excerpt

Chapter One

Shady Oaks Retirement Village
Scripps Ranch, San Diego, California
Monday, November 7, 11:20 a.m.

Kit McKittrick allowed herself a moment to feel pity as she stood over the body of the elderly man lying dead on his apartment floor in the Shady Oaks Retirement Village. Then she squared her shoulders and proceeded to do her job.

The mood in the dead man's living room was subdued. The ME was examining the body while CSU took photos and Latent dusted for prints, but there was little of the normal scene-of-the-crime chatter to which Kit had become accustomed in the four and a half years she'd been in Homicide.

Everyone spoke in hushed whispers, like they were in church. Because it kind of felt like they were. Haunting melancholy music from a single piano was coming from the speaker mounted on the victim's living room wall. The music wasn't loud, but it was overwhelming nonetheless. Kit wanted to turn it off, because the music was so sad that it made her chest hurt and her eyes burn.

But neither the speaker nor its volume controls had been dusted for prints, so she couldn't touch it yet. Until then, she could only square her shoulders, ignore the music, and focus on getting justice for Mr. Franklin Delano Flynn.

The cause of death of the eighty-five-year-old white male was most likely the butcher knife still embedded in his chest. But she'd learned long ago not to assume. Still, a butcher knife to the chest was never good. It was a long wound, the gash in the man's white button-up shirt extending from his sternum to his navel. Whoever had killed him had to have had a lot of strength to create such a wound.

The victim had been dead long enough for his blood to dry, both the blood that had soaked the front of his shirt and the blood that had pooled on the floor around his torso.

His eyes, filmy in death, stared sightlessly up at the ceiling. His arms lay at his sides, his hands slightly curved. Not quite flat, but not quite fists, either. It wasn't a natural pose for the victim of a homicide who'd fallen after being stabbed. She wondered if his killer had repositioned his arms.

Mr. Flynn had been a hardy man, broad-shouldered, tall, and still muscular. Not in bad shape for eighty-five, she thought. He wore dark trousers, the pockets turned out, as if he'd been searched.

His shoes were black oxfords, buffed to such a shine that she could nearly see her own reflection. She wondered if he'd come home, surprising his attacker, or if he'd welcomed his killer into his home.

His living room had been ransacked, books knocked off shelves, knickknacks strewn on the floor. The sofa cushions had been slashed open, foam stuffing on the floor as well. The man's bedroom was in a similar state. The drawers in the kitchen had been opened and emptied, their contents dumped on the counters. Flour and sugar containers had been dumped on the kitchen's tiled floor. Someone had been looking for something and had left a terrible mess.

Kit wondered if they'd found what they'd been looking for. She wondered if Mr. Flynn had fought back.

Kit crouched on the victim's right side, leaning in so that she could better examine his hands. The knuckles of his right hand were scraped and bruised, but his fingernails were what caught her attention. They were mostly gone, clipped way past the quick, down into the nail bed.

That he'd fought back was a decent assumption, then. His killer hadn't wanted any evidence to be found under the man's nails.

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Excerpted from Cheater by Karen Rose Copyright © 2024 by Karen Rose. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Karen Rose is the award-winning, #1 international bestselling author of more than 25 novels, including the bestselling Baltimore and Cincinnati series.

She has been translated into twenty-three languages, and her books have placed on the New York Times, the Sunday Times (UK), and Germany's der Spiegel bestseller lists.

**AUTHOR PHOTO TAKEN FROM HER AMAZON BOOK PAGE**

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Monday, March 25, 2024

Spotlight of Maya's Law of Love by Alina Khawaja

 

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MAYA'S LAW OF LOVE
ALINA KHAWAJA
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ALL INFORMATION IN THIS POST IS COURTESY OF JUSTINE SHA | PUBLICITY MANAGER - PARK ROW BOOKS, HANOVER SQUARE PRESS, MIRA BOOKS, GRAYDON HOUSE, INKYARD PRESS.
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Murphy’s Law is simple: anything that can go wrong will go wrong, and no one knows that better than Maya Mirza.
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March 26, 2024

Trade Paperback

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ABOUT MAYA'S LAW OF LOVE:

Maya Mirza’s unlucky-in-love past seems to be turning around when she ends up in an arranged marriage to the on-paper perfect man. But as she heads to her wedding in Pakistan, she finally meets the man of her dreams—and what could be more unlucky than that?


Maya Mirza has always been unlucky in love. When she was in grade one, one of the mean girls told her crush that she liked him and he loudly proclaimed he hated her because she had cooties. When she was in grade six, she wrote her new crush an anonymous love letter, only to realize later she signed her name without realizing it. In grade twelve, she gathered the courage to ask out her crush, only to hurl all over him. Bottom line—romance sucks.


However, it seems like Maya’s luck may finally be turning up when she secures a marriage proposal from Imtiaz Porter. Imtiaz has everything—good family, great job, charming personality; everything, except Maya’s heart. But that’s okay. Love can grow after marriage, right?

Just when Maya thinks she’s finally broken her curse, it all comes crashing down when she gets on a plane to go to Pakistan for her wedding and ends up sitting next to Sarfaraz, a cynical divorce lawyer who clashes with her at every possible turn. When an unexpected storm interrupts her travel plans, Maya finds herself briefly stranded in Switzerland, and despite their initial misstep, she and Sarfaraz agree to stick together until they reach Pakistan.

Over the several days they travel together, disaster after disaster happens, from their bus crashing to having to travel on foot to getting mugged. However, the more time they spend together, the more Maya realizes she and Sarfaraz may have more in common than she thought. But of course, this is when she realizes her unlucky in love curse will always be with her—because how unlucky is it that she may have finally met the man of her dreams while on her way to her own wedding?

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EXCERPT OF MAYA'S LAW OF LOVE:

1

Maya’s Law #1:

Anything that can go wrong will go wrong.

“Dr. Khan, you know how desi families are when it comes to weddings.” I lift my head from the back of the loveseat I’m lounging on. “Everything is an emergency. I feel like I spent all my breaks during the school year planning for this wedding. Once this whole fanfare is over, I’ll be able to focus on me for a change.”

My therapist’s office is very Zen, which I suppose all therapist’s offices should be. Three pale blue walls, with the last wall behind her desk being white. The desk, which she rarely sits behind during sessions, is long and gray. There’s some clutter: stray pens, a file stuffed with papers, a coffee cup that’s half-empty and looks like it’s been sitting there for a while. Hanging on the white wall are three white canvases with gorgeous Arabic calligraphy in shades of cerulean and gold. The only thing that seems out of place is the bright orange loveseat; it’s such a strange color for an office scheme, but according to my therapist, Dr. Zaara Khan, it was a gift from her uncle who leases the place, so she couldn’t refuse it. I hated the color when I first started coming here, but it’s grown on me so much I would defend it to anyone.

“Well, you know how much I love it when you take ‘me time,’” Dr. Khan says. She pushes her dark brown hair over her shoulder, and the fading sunlight streaming in through the window gives it a golden glow. “You need to be more aggressive about it.”

“Dr. Khan, I’m the daughter of a Pakistani,” I say, disbelief underlining my words. “I was raised to be a people pleaser.”

Dr. Khan winces, but she can’t contradict me. Her understanding of how Pakistani Muslim families work is exactly why I picked her over the other therapists my family doctor recommended. Dr. Khan knows what our culture is like, so she knows not to recommend certain things, and she also knows how to navigate situations when I barge into her office frantic about whatever my mom did this week to push my buttons. She straightens up. “And how are you feeling about the wedding?”

I bite my lip. “I’m excited.”

She flashes me a look of disapproval. “Maya, every time I ask you how you feel about your wedding—or about the details of your relationship—you brush it off.” She taps her pen against her notebook. “Now, as your therapist, I can’t push you to talk about it before you’re ready to, but we’ve been seeing each other for three months now, and nothing.”

“That’s because there’s nothing really to tell,” I insist. I sit up straighter in my seat. “Imtiaz and I met at university. We were in the same sociology class because we both needed a social science credit, and we were friendly to each other for the whole semester. But we weren’t great friends or anything; we sat next to each other and occasionally texted to ask for notes. He went on to med school, I went to teacher’s college, and then two years later when I wanted to teach abroad in South Korea, Ammi wouldn’t let me unless I got engaged first. And by a wild coincidence, Imtiaz was the first suitor my mom found. We remembered each other from school, and we remembered getting along well enough, so we went for it. It’s not exactly a fairy-tale romance, but it’s good enough for me.”

“And why isn’t it a fairy-tale romance?” Dr. Khan wonders, setting her chin on top of her fist. “By your own admission, you and Imtiaz met at a time in your lives when you were trying to figure out who you were as people and then went in two different directions, and then he ends up being the first rishta your mom finds for you.” She tilts her head. “Doesn’t that sound like fate to you?”

I squirm in place. “I guess,” I allow. “That doesn’t matter now anyway. Imtiaz is great. He’s kind, funny, and he’s going to be a surgeon, so job security.”

“I’m sure the security must make you feel really good,” Dr. Khan says. “I know how committed you are to having a plan for everything.”

“Of course.” I square my chin. “When you’re cursed like me, you have to think of every disaster scenario first.”

Dr. Khan’s sigh fills the office. “Maya, what did we talk about?”

I bite the inside of my cheek, but at her incessant stare, I give in. “It’s not the power of the curse, it’s the power you give the curse,” I recite.

Dr. Khan grins. “Exactly. You can think your bad-luck curse is real, but it all depends on how much you allow it to control you.”

I barely refrain from an eye roll. At least Dr. Khan didn’t try to dissuade me from my personal affirmation that I was cursed. My older sister, Hibba, thinks it’s all in my head, but I’ve grown up with the worst luck anyone could ever have.

Especially when it comes to romance. I’m twenty-eight, and I’ve never been in a real relationship. Okay, that’s also because dating is technically haram in Islam, so any time I even tried thinking about a boyfriend when I was a teen, Ammi would shut me down. Then, somehow, she was confused when I entered my twenties and couldn’t make conversation with boys.

“That’s what I have my laws for,” I remind Dr. Khan.

My laws—which all started with Murphy’s Law, the idea that anything that can go wrong will go wrong—are the only things that kept me sane while growing up. When I was a kid, it was mostly a joke; it was the only way I could make sense of all the bad stuff that happened to me. But eventually as I got older and bad things kept happening—especially in my love life—they were all I had.

“Why don’t we change the subject?” she suggests in a polite tone. “Tell me about Imtiaz. He must be excited to see you.”

“He only left a few days ago,” I start. “I’ll see him in a couple of days. My flight leaves on Sunday, so I’ll be in Pakistan by Monday.”

My therapist quirks a brow. “And are you ready to get married?”

I wrinkle my nose. “Of course I am. I wouldn’t be getting married if I weren’t. I thought that was obvious.”


“I’m being serious, Maya,” Dr. Khan says with a deep frown. “In the few months we’ve been together, you’ve rarely mentioned Imtiaz. You only talk about him when I bring him up. Don’t you wonder why that is?”

“It’s because I’m happy and comfortable about that area of my life,” I respond. “Why shouldn’t I be? If I had a problem with it, I’d talk about it.”

“And you don’t have a problem with it?”

“No!” I swallow back my frustration. “After spending my whole life wanting love but thinking I’m cursed to be alone forever, I found this great guy who, for some reason, wants to be with me.”

“Why is it for some reason?” Dr. Khan questions. “Usually, that reason is because he loves you. Does Imtiaz not love you?”

“He…does,” I say, though I don’t know how true that statement is. He’s said it to me, but sometimes it feels like it’s more out of obligation than anything, or else it feels platonic. “Plus, love isn’t always necessary in brown marriages. My mom always told me she fell in love after she got married.” I set my jaw. “Not that it did her any favors when Dad left.”

“Your dad may have left, but from what you’ve told me, it seems like she managed just fine raising two daughters,” Dr. Khan points out.

A smile graces my face. “Oh, yeah, she did a great job. My mom worked two jobs to keep the lights on and keep us fed. And even despite working all the time, she still found time to come to school events and spend time with Hibba Baji and me. She had to put providing for us first, yes, but she also prioritized being present in our lives. It must’ve really worried her to think that I was going to end up alone as I got older and had no success in finding a husband.”

Dr. Khan tilts her head. “And what’s so wrong with being alone?”

I snort. “You’re kidding me, right?”

When she stares at me in an I’m-not-kidding way, I gnash my teeth. “Dr. Khan, in the desi community, if you don’t get married, there’s something wrong with you.”

“What could possibly be wrong with someone not wanting to be married?” she asks.

“It reflects badly on you and your parents. My mom already doesn’t have the greatest track record in our community thanks to the whole spousal-abandonment thing. Do you know the kind of rumors people spread about her?” Heat rushes to my face. “That my mom was a cheater, that she was so annoying she drove him away, that there was something wrong with her for a man to have left her alone with two young daughters.”

I clench my hands into fists, my nails biting into the soft skin of my palm. “All of that aside, I just don’t want to be alone.” I sink back into the cushiony couch. “As much as I hate when she’s right, Hibba Baji mentioned once that Ammi isn’t going to be around forever, and I can’t stick to my sister’s side. She has her own family, and I want one, too, someday. And I don’t want to do it alone.”

Dr. Khan clicks her pen. “I think before you start worrying about other people loving you, you should consider loving yourself.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. “I love myself.”

She gives me a dubious look. “When’s the last time you did something for yourself?”

“I gave my mom a head massage yesterday.”

“And how was that something for you?”

“It meant I had a couple hours of quiet while she napped on the couch.”

I expect Dr. Khan to be upset with me because I am very obviously dodging her question, so I’m surprised to see her curl her lips inward while her breath hitches, like she’s trying hard to keep a laugh in. After a beat, she’s back to being professional. “Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing. Be serious, please.”

I set my jaw. “I’m doing absolutely fine. I’m going to Pakistan in a couple of days. I’m having a destination wedding. I’m getting married. I’m the happiest I could ever be.”

Dr. Khan leans back in her seat. “Who are you trying to convince? Me or you?”

I open my mouth, but no sound comes out. Just as a stutter bursts from my throat, the timer on Dr. Khan’s phone goes off, signaling the end of our session. Dr. Khan sighs, but she presses Stop on the alarm.

I get to my feet before she can speak. “I’ll book another appointment when I get back from Pakistan.” I don’t make eye contact as I gather my things. “But I’ll be so wrapped up in postmarital joy that I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again.” 

“That’s fine,” she assures me. “I hope all goes well with the wedding.”

“Thanks,” I mumble in her direction. I grab my purse and head for the exit.

Dr. Khan’s voice stops me at the door. “But remember this, Maya,” she says. I steel myself, then look over at her.

She offers me a kind look, her fingers laced together. “No one is incapable of love, but we all have the ability to sabotage our own happiness, even if we don’t realize it.”

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Excerpted from Maya’s Laws of Love by Alina Khawaja, Copyright © 2024 by Alina Khawaja. Published by MIRA Books.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Alina Khawaja is an author from Ontario, Canada, with a never-ending love-hate relationship with the snow.


She is a graduate from the University of Toronto, where she majored in English and double minored in History and Creative Writing, and is now pursuing a Master’s degree in the Literacy of Modernity at Ryerson University.


Alina can be found studying, writing, or bingeing k-dramas when she is not sleeping.

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