Love All Year Read online

  LOVE ALL YEAR

  A Holidays Anthology

  Love All Year: A Holidays Anthology

  © 2020 Stacey Agdern, Hallie Alexander, Savannah J. Frierson, Felicia Grossman, Farah Heron, Celestine Martin, and Ekaterine Xia

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by reviewers, who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Edited and published by Elizabeth Kahn

  Cover Illustration by Hero Fox

  Cover Layout by Kelly Bee

  Contact: [email protected]

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  INTRODUCTION

  THREE STARS IN THE SKY by Stacey Agdern

  IT HAPPENED ONE YULE by Celestine Martin

  QUEEN ESTHER, UNMASKED by Hallie Alexander

  LEGACY OF LOVE by Savannah J. Frierson

  MAKING UP WITH EID BAE by Farah Heron

  A BRIDGE OF MAGPIES by Ekaterine Xia

  THE SWEET SPOT by Felicia Grossman

  ABOUT THE COVER

  For Corey Alexander. You made this book, like you made everything, better.

  INTRODUCTION

  IT ALL STARTED ON TWITTER.

  I find it frustrating when people say: here is a great list of holiday romance and they are all contemp m/f Christmas romances. Why say holiday when you mean Christmas except to imply that Christmas is the only holiday that matters. —Corey Alexander, 9/18/2019

  Yep, and even we Jewish authors feel pressure to write Hanukkah books as if Hanukkah is the Jewish version of Christmas. —Lynne Silver, 9/18/2019

  Literally every Jewish holiday is a meet-awkward/cute opportunity because there is no holiday sacred enough to take a break from matchmaking, and we should get a romance for all of them. —Me, 9/22/2019

  What I'm saying is y'all should write an anthology. —Me, 9/22/2019

  And that is how the idea for Love All Year was born. Stacey Agdern, Felicia Grossman, and I started talking about how we would love to see an anthology about other holidays. Not just the many Jewish holidays but holidays from all the religions, ethnicities, and cultures not rooted in white European Christian tradition.

  I’m a romance reader. I am not a reviewer; I’m not a writer. I had no idea how to publish an anthology. But I do know how to set up a Discord server, so I did that and invited anyone who was interested in planning an anthology. Without all those people, this would have never happened.

  I would like to give special thanks to many friends, authors, and citizens of Romancelandia. First of all, thank you to Lynne Silver for inspiring the idea for this anthology. Carrie Lomax and Zoe York answered my many questions about self-publishing. They were gracious and kind even when I felt I was badgering them. Kelly Bee found a Grotesk-inspired typeface by a Black designer[1], which was such a specific ask, and I'm thrilled with the result. Melinda Utendorf and Jennifer Prokop read submissions and provided invaluable first-round feedback. Suleikah Snyder named the anthology, and we all know the value of a good title! My personal thanks to Melinda, Jen, and Suleikah for suffering through my countless DMs and to Felicia and Stacey for helping me see this through. And the Romance Sparks Joy admin team has my eternal gratitude for all the things. This anthology would not exist without the Romancelandia community.

  For many reasons, I wish Corey were still here, and not sharing this with them is one. I hope they are proud of what we’ve created.

  Elizabeth Kahn

  September 2020

  THREE STARS IN THE SKY

  by Stacey Agdern

  To Bob DiPero, Victoria Shaw, Gary Burr, and Georgia Middleman for sharing your friends and your stories with audiences for years. Thank you for letting me listen.

  To Rick Recht, Nefesh Mountain, Naomi Less, Joe Buchanan, Debbie Friedman—thank you for sharing your hearts and your music.

  To Corey Alexander—may your memory be a blessing always, and may your inspiration always shine.

  And to Elijah—may you continue to grow up in a beautiful world full of music and light.

  Chapter 1

  THE DRIVE FROM THE city to the Catskills was a long but gorgeous one in late September, filled with leaves that were slowly turning golden. Harvest, fall, of course. Thankfully, there wasn’t that much traffic in the late hours of the afternoon, going into the evening. Lisa Kaminsky had deliberately bypassed rush hour and was practically zooming up 87, at least zooming within the speed limit.

  But she wasn’t taking this drive for fun. Nope. The old familiar highways would lead her to a hugely important work trip. A chance to dip her toes in the growing major label world of Jewish Music. Everybody—from producers to songwriters to genre trailblazers who’d been slogging and fighting for years—wanted in. It was only fitting that her entry point came through the grounds of a camp where she spent a dozen summers.

  So much had happened since the first writing workshop she’d taken at Camp Simcha, and as far as Lisa was concerned, it had ended up pretty well. She’d been able to turn what she’d learned into an actual career in Nashville, crafting beautiful melodies and gorgeous lyrics alongside some of the most brilliant wordsmiths she’d ever known.

  Now things were changing, as the recording industry adjusted to the demands and presence of the newly formed JMA. And everybody who’d translated their skills to fit the industry BS, before Streit, were, like her, trying to reclaim the musical identity she’d fostered at Simcha.

  It felt like coming full circle. Definitely not the way she’d envisioned that happening, at least not before David Streit’s first MusicAward changed the industry’s landscape. Even after, in the back of her mind, she’d pondered teaching a songwriting workshop and giving the newest generation of songwriters the benefit of her years of experience.

  But this?

  All she had to do was write a brilliant song, in a week, in a genre of music she hadn’t seriously thought about as a songwriter since she was sixteen, for someone with whom she had a . . . history.

  The phone rang and announced the number and the name of the person who was calling. And all she had to do was manage to get through a phone call without telling Tommy Horowitz, the guy she trusted most in this slowly growing segment of the market, what she really thought of all of it.

  “Lisa,” he said. “How are you? What’s your ETA?”

  “Hey, Tommy,” she said, “I’m about halfway up 87, so I’ll get to the house in a bit. I want to stop for gas and get a greasy dinner at the rest stop.”

  There was a pause as Tommy cleared his throat. “Good. Good. Label’s excited, so things are going to be good. Though I still can’t believe how new this whole segment of the industry is. So much to figure out, so many systems to put into place. Sometimes I’m overwhelmed, you know, so if you are, you know, it’s okay. You can be honest with me. “

  “I’m excited, not to mention it’s gorgeous up here.”

  There was a long, extended pause. “For what it’s worth, heading up to yennenvelt wasn’t my idea. You get takeout from Abe’s Kitchen, sit in the studio in the city, and make magic. But this is Weisler’s show.”

  “What?” That was news.

  “Label likes Weisler,” was his answer. “What Weisler wants, Weisler gets. He’s blocked, going on his second album for us at Zmirah, needed a good songwriter, so he picked you. And again, his process.” br />
  Zack Weisler. Picked? That was news. She’d come assuming they were two names shoved into a lottery, their shared past was happenstance. Clearly, that wasn’t the case.

  “What?”

  “Oh yeah. We sent him a bunch of sample tracks from songwriters we liked. He picked yours. So.”

  So. An offhand comment, like it was nothing that she’d be thrown together with him after all those years.

  “You have a problem working with Zach Weisler? I mean, I know he’s still tied to that boyband . . . LastKnights or whatever fakakta name . . .”

  Problem? “Um, no . . .”

  It wasn’t exactly the working that would be the problem.

  It would be everything else.

  Because she remembered the song; everybody did. Maybe if it hadn’t been so inescapable, she’d feel differently about the guy. Instead of being forced into remembering the girl she’d been, stood up by a guy, at her senior prom, every single time she heard that song on the radio.

  And if she had to admit it, her first thought needed adjustment. Being in the same room with him, for the first time since they were both sixteen, writing songs for the end of camp games was going to be difficult. Working with him was going to be impossible.

  “I take it that you’re unsure about all of this. You guys went to camp together, right?”

  Lisa blew out a breath. Unsure was definitely an understatement, now that she knew all of this was Zach’s idea. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’m a professional. That’s the most important thing.”

  “And you will be fine if you keep it professional. I promise you.”

  As she ended the call, she decided that as long as she focused on the present and the music, she’d be fine. She’d be professional.

  Then she wondered how long she’d have to spend convincing herself to believe it.

  ZACK WAS NERVOUS. HE sat on the edge of a house of cards, convinced one misstep would bring it all down. That was what happened, after all, when you tried to manipulate yourself out of a bad situation. You ended up forgetting the difference between the truth and a lie.

  Fortunately, it was easier to ground himself in physical sensation than grapple with emotional tumult. The couch was comfortable, which was a plus. Unfortunately, the callouses on his fingers were starting to heal, something he chalked up to the consequences of cutting himself off from his favorite form of stress relief. Playing guitar was an outlet he couldn’t afford, especially when he was pretending he was blocked. He only hoped the effort to fix the broken pieces of his past would be worth it.

  No. Fixing, making up for the promises he’d broken.

  Work, his career, the album. Those were important things. But the opportunity to mend fences with Lisa as best as he could was too powerful to give up. So, he was going back to the beginning, to fix as much of their past as he could. He only wished he had the background of the High Holidays and the natural patterns of apology and forgiveness they carried. What he had to work with now, as he had back then, was Sukkot, a holiday celebrating the harvest.

  Unfortunately, forgiveness was definitely an illusion in a place where so many memories of his time with her were visible through the window. His hope was that those dangerous memories would work in his favor.

  The ringtone managed to chase away the tentative oasis of calm he’d managed to pull together in his brain. But a conversation with his A&R guy was unavoidable at this point.

  Tommy Horowitz was one of the best guys in the business. He was one of the reasons he signed the Zmirah contract. Horowitz, and the label group head Bonnie Hardwick, believed that there was still music in him.

  All he had to do was not let him down. “Hello?”

  “How’s it going up there?”

  That was a question. But humor was the order of business. “I’m not sure.”

  “Why not sure?”

  “Only me and my guitar. We’re not that great company these days.”

  “You’re in good hands,” Tommy said.

  “I know,” he replied.

  “Lisa Kaminsky will make magic for you. She’s one of the best in the business. You’ll make magic together.”

  “I know how good she is,” he said, debating and then deciding against disclosing exactly how well he knew Lisa. That information was on a need to know basis. “Anybody who’s listened to her songs knows how good she is.”

  There was an extended pause, a long moment; Tommy wasn’t stupid. He judged talent and words. He could see through people. “This is why you wanted this, huh?”

  “What?”

  “To work with her?”

  He had to be as honest as he could, to hedge a little bit without giving away his endgame. “I mean,” he managed, “I need help. I need a sounding board that can bust through this block, who can take ideas, memory, or snatches of melody and turn them into something.

  “But I gotta tell ya. She’s not a yes person if you’re looking for one of those.”

  He laughed. Back on safer ground. “Definitely not in the market for one of those. I want someone who knows their stuff and doesn’t need to impress me.”

  Tommy took a long time to answer. “Good thing. You know yourself and your process. I like that. Makes me think you’re more prepared than you think.”

  He wasn’t sure how to take it. “Thank you,” usually worked.

  “Good. Looking forward to hearing what you come up with.”

  And as he ended the call, he realized that he was too.

  IT WAS DARK WHEN LISA pulled into her part of the tiny shed behind the house that served as a garage. The tires ran over the stones, passing the little SUV that was also parked there. She shook her head, adjusted her ponytail, and turned off the engine.

  She pulled out the key and opened the door. The night air swirled into her nostrils and made her heartbeat against her chest. It had been so long since she’d been up here that she’d almost forgotten how stunning the scenery was.

  She opened the trunk and headed to it, pulling out the backpack, the rolling suitcase, and who knew what else. Overburdened, over packed, and underprepared. Ticking clock started now.

  Would she even be able to get a song together that would work?

  Would she be able to write a good song for Zach? With him?

  That was going to be difficult, the Zach factor. She hadn’t seen him since camp. The place they’d met. The last place they’d been together.

  Ugh.

  Lisa dragged her brain away from that ridiculous path. She reminded herself that what she wanted out of this week was a credit, an award, and a place in the major label CJM world. In short? A song that zinged, not an experience that was going to break her heart in pieces. Again.

  She hefted the keyboard case and the bag that held her stand.

  What was going on?

  All she could think about was the fact that Zack had orchestrated this whole thing.

  What did he want?

  The label had rented them a house steps away from the gates of Camp Simcha, for a secret songwriting session. Because he’d asked for it. What was going on?

  Lisa could find no answers she actually liked as she headed closer to the house, stopping only to hear the . . . music? Wasn’t he blocked? She took a deep breath and listened further to the guitar. Guitar. Consistent, constant, guitar.

  On closer listen, there was some longing there, a bit of sadness in those chords.

  Was this what he wanted? An aching ballad?

  She could wrench her heart through her fingers and write him an angsty ballad. But a song was all she was giving him. Once her work was done, she’d pack up and drive away, not leaving him any time to put any personal plans into place.

  But the notes seemed all over the place. He wasn’t making music yet, which meant she’d have to get him there without dredging up any memories. Not an easy task and definitely not something neither she nor her heart could afford.

  There was no getting out of this, so she continued along, br
acing herself to see what awaited her inside, whatever it was.

  When she arrived at the door, she put her hand on the knob and twisted. The door opened with a slow, soft noise, and the music stopped.

  Chapter 2

  ZACK LOOKED UP FOR the first time in what felt like hours at the sound of the creaky door.

  He stood and rushed into the kitchen, only to see Lisa, standing hesitantly just on the porch.

  His heart stopped.

  She was gorgeous. She’d always been gorgeous.

  But seeing her in person after following her career from a distance was such a strong shock that someone could have knocked him over with a feather. Long brown hair framed her face, brown eyes focused on him. Pale cheeks, a bunch of bags arrayed on her shoulders, and even more, including a guitar case, in front of her.

  “Hi,” he managed, walking a bit closer, making sure she still had space. “Do you need help?”

  “No.”

  And as if to prove her point, she gathered up all of the items. “I’m fine.”

  He nodded. “Okay.”

  “Can you move out of the way?”

  He did as she asked, forcing hands he didn’t know what to do with into his pockets and giving her even more space to bring her bags and cases into the house.

  “If you’re going to be a creep about this, or bring up our past in any way, shape, or form,” she said as she came past him, “I’m turning around, going back to the car, and leaving.”

  He shook his head. He was, of course, a complete schmuck. “I’m sorry,” he said. “No creepiness, no weirdness. No past.” He paused. “I took the . . . no. There’s a room down here and a few upstairs. The one down here’s smaller. I figured I’d take that one.”

  Better. Not completely selfish. Also, making it very clear that she’d have her own space upstairs, by herself, away from him.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Which was the first second of breathing room she’d given him.