Voting has ended for the next read for the CBS New York Book Club with Mary Calvi
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It's decision time! Anticipated books for fall are your choices for the next read!
Three new novels.
Bestselling authors.
The latest "Top 3 FicPicks" from the CBS New York Book Club with Mary Calvi have compelling plots centered in the Tri-State Area. Now it's up to you to make a choice and cast your vote for which book the club will read next. Will it be "Bright Lights, Big Christmas" by Mary Kay Andrews, "The Leftover Woman," by Jean Kwok, or "12 Months to Live" by James Patterson and Mike Lupica?
The CBS New York Book Club reads books that have plots and/or authors based in New York, New Jersey, or Connecticut. Below you'll find more information about the books, including excerpts. These books may have adult themes.
Voting closed on Sunday, Oct. 8.
Join us when our readers' choice will be announced on the CBS New York Book Club with Mary Calvi show, featuring "Broadway Butterfly" author Sara DiVello, streaming Tuesday, Oct. 10 at 1pm.
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"Bright Lights, Big Christmas" by Mary Kay Andrews
From the publisher: When fall rolls around, it's time for Kerry Tolliver to leave her family's Christmas tree farm in the mountains of North Carolina for the wilds of New York City to help her gruff older brother & his dog, Queenie, sell the trees at the family stand on a corner in Greenwich Village. Sharing a tiny vintage camper and experiencing Manhattan for the first time, Kerry's ready to try to carve out a new corner for herself. In the weeks leading into Christmas, Kerry quickly becomes close with the charming neighbors who live near their stand. When an elderly neighbor goes missing, Kerry will need to combine her country know-how with her newly acquired New York knowledge to protect the new friends she's come to think of as family. And complicating everything is Patrick, a single dad raising his adorable, dragon-loving son Austin on this quirky block. Kerry and Patrick's chemistry is undeniable, but what chance does this holiday romance really have?
Mary Kay Andrews lives in Atlanta, Georgia
"Bright Lights, Big Christmas" by Mary Kay Andrews (Hardcover) $17
"Bright Lights, Big Christmas" by Mary Kay Andrews (Kindle) $12
"The Leftover Woman" by Jean Kwok
From the publisher: Jasmine Yang arrives in New York City from her rural Chinese village without money or family support, fleeing a controlling husband, on a desperate search for the daughter who was taken from her at birth-another female casualty of China's controversial One Child Policy. But with her husband on her trail, the clock is ticking, and she's forced to make increasingly risky decisions if she ever hopes to be reunited with her daughter. Meanwhile, publishing executive Rebecca Whitney seems to have it all: a prestigious family name and the wealth that comes with it, a high-powered career, a beautiful home, a handsome husband, and an adopted Chinese daughter she adores. She's even hired a nanny to help her balance the demands of being a working wife and mother. But when an industry scandal threatens to jeopardize not only Rebecca's job but her marriage, this perfect world begins to crumble and her role in her own family is called into question.
Jean Kwok divides her time between the Netherlands and New York City
"The Leftover Woman" by Jean Kwok (Hardcover) $27
"The Leftover Woman" by Jean Kwok (Kindle)$15
"12 Months to Live" by James Patterson & Mike Lupica
From the publisher: Tough-as-nails criminal defense attorney Jane Smith is hip-deep in the murder trial of the century. Actually, her charmless client might've committed several murders. She's also fallen in love with a wonderful guy. And an equally wonderful dog, a mutt. But Jane doesn't have much time. She's just received a terminal diagnosis giving her twelve months. Unless she's murdered before her expiration date.
James Patterson lives in Florida and spends a few months a year in Briarcliff Manor, NY. Mike Lupica lives in Connecticut.
"12 Months to Live" by James Patterson & Mike Lupica (Hardcover) $21
"12 Months to Live" By James Patterson & Mike Lupica (Kindle) $15
Excerpt: "Bright Lights, Big Christmas" by Mary Kay Andrews
Kerry Clare Tolliver couldn't remember a time when the smell of a Fraser fir tree didn't make her smile.
Tollivers had been growing this particular variety of Christmas tree, in this particular patch of farmland in the mountains of western North Carolina, for four generations.
But today, standing in front of the flatbed trailer loaded with hundreds of freshly cut and baled fragrant firs, she wanted to cry.
"Mama, please don't ask me to do this," she whispered.
Her mother wrapped an arm around Kerry's shoulders. "I'm sorry, honey, but there's nobody else. Your daddy is coming home from the hospital tomorrow, and somebody's got to be there to make sure he eats and takes his meds and gets his sorry butt up to do physical therapy. Like it or not, that somebody is me."
"What about his sorry wife? Seems like it shouldn't be his ex-wife who has to play nurse."
Birdie-short for Roberta Tolliver-gave a short laugh. "Come on. You know Brenda is the human equivalent of a potted plastic plant. Cute, but useless. Anyway, I'm not supposed to know, and I'm sure as hell not supposed to tell you, but Murphy says she's flown the coop. Moved out right before Halloween. Honestly, I really don't mind. But that means you've got to step up and take Jock's place. We've already missed out on the first week of the selling season. Either you go toNew York and run the tree stand with Murphy, or it doesn't happen."
Kerry shrugged. "Would that be such a bad thing? I mean, can't we sell the trees to our local retailers, like always?"
"No."
Kerry turned to see Murphy, her older brother, who'd walked up behind them. He was an imposing figure-six-four, with a beefy build, dark bristly beard, and weather-beaten skin. Dressed in a quilted plaid flannel jacket, jeans, and muddy work boots, with a chain saw slung over his shoulder, he looked like something straight off a wrapper of paper towels.
"That late freeze in May wiped out a quarter of the trees. Locals won't pay the premium prices to make up for the loss. Anyway, the New York trip accounts for seventy-five percent of our revenue, and like Mama said, we're already a week behind."
Murphy stowed the chain saw in the toolbox in the back of his pickup truck and slammed the lid for emphasis. Now Kerry was eyeing her father's truck-the rusting 1982 Ford F-150 with the vintage fifteen-foot travel trailer hooked up behind it. Like the pickup, the trailer had seen better days. The teardrop-shaped body with faded two-tone turquoise-and-white paint looked like a discarded canned ham.
Spammy, as the Tollivers called the 1963 Shasta trailer, spent most of the year parked in a barn at the tree farm. But every November, for nearly four decades, on the day after Thanksgiving, the trailer got hitched to the truck and then driven the seven hundred miles to New York City, where the Tollivers set up their Christmas tree stand in the West Village. This year, Jock's heart attack and hospitalization had delayed the trip by a week.
"I can't believe you expect me to live in this hunk of junk," Kerry said, walking around the trailer and peering in through the door, which was draped with spiderwebs.
"Have a little respect," Birdie said, patting the trailer's mud-splattered door. "Spammy is practically a family heirloom."
Kerry pointed at the curtained-off cubicle that contained the dreaded chemical toilet. "There's no way I'm using that gross thing."
"It don't work anyway," Murphy said.
"Then where . . . ?"
"We use the bathroom at the café, or at the deli on the corner," her brother said. "Neighbors let us use their showers."
He grabbed a broom and thrust it at her. "Might want to sweep it out before you hit the road. I think there's a squirrel's nest in the bunk where you'll be sleeping." He looked at his watch. "I'm leaving outta here five minutes from now, which should put me in the city by tomorrow, noon, at the latest. I need to know now right now, whether you're coming. Otherwise, the trip's off. We can't afford to hire help this year."
Birdie's calm gray eyes seemed to bore into Kerry's soul. Birdie had been only seventeen when she had Murphy, twenty-one when she had Kerry. She and Jock had split up when Kerry was seven.
Murphy had stayed on the farm with Jock, and Birdie and Kerry had moved into a small cottage in town. The two were more like sisters than mother and daughter. Kerry knew Birdie would never order her to make this trip. Not in so many words. She'd kill her with that pleading look, slay her with silence. Birdie Tolliver was a ninja master at guilt.
"It's not that I don't want to go. I do. I'm willing to help. But I'm terrified of towing the trailer."
"Don't be such a scaredy-cat," Birdie said. "You used to tow the boat to the lake every summer, growing up. And what about all those years you towed the horse trailer when you were show jumping?"
Kerry sighed. She knew she was beaten. "Okay. I'll do it." Birdie beamed. "It'll be almost like old times. You used to love it when the four of us would live in Spammy in the city. You thought it was like living in a dollhouse." A dreamy look crossed Kerry's mother's face.
"New York at Christmas is magical. Walking down Fifth Avenue to see all the store windows decorated. Getting hot chocolate at the market at Union Square . . ."
"Won't be time for any of that with just the two of us working the tree stand this year," Murphy said bluntly.
He pointed at Kerry, taking in her fashionable slim jeans, lightweight sweater, and suede flats.
"Hope you got warmer clothes than that. We got a space heater in the trailer, but it gets cold...
From Bright Lights, Big Christmas by Mary Kay Andrews. Copyright © 2023 by the author and reprinted by permission of St. Martin's Publishing Group.
Excerpt: "The Leftover Woman" by Jean Kwok
Jasmine
Fifteen years earlier
I stood outside the Manhattan Chinatown teahouse and laid my palm against the windowpane. It was littered with advertisements. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered in between a colorful flyer for a self-defense class and a Help Wanted ad. I ignored my reflection. I had always longed to be invisible. The Chinese believe our fortunes are written in the physiology of our faces, that the breadth of a forehead, the droop of a lip can seal our fates. For me, this was true. My visage had determined my path in life. Ever since I was a small girl in our village in China, I'd hated my face.
The customers inside were warm and laughing, pouring steaming oolong tea into small porcelain cups, scooping up fish balls with their chopsticks. Waiters and waitresses pushed loaded dim sum carts between the round tables as patrons picked out their favorite delicacies. There, a young father bounced his daughter on his knee as he blew on a wonton to cool it down for her. When the mother smoothed back the child's wispy hair with a gentle hand, I was homesick for a past I'd never experienced.
A man pushed past me to enter the restaurant. I hurried in behind him before the door shut. A burst of warmth greeted me, along with the luscious smells of soy sauce chicken, orange-scented beef, and scallion pancakes. The chatter was all in Chinese and for a moment, I could pretend I was back home.
My jacket was too thin, and I realized how cold I was, even though it was already the beginning of March. I only had five more months before I'd have to repay the snakeheads who'd arranged my passage to New York. I pressed a hand to my icy ear. My plastic-framed glasses fogged so badly I had to remove them. The moment I wiped them clean, they clouded up again. I dropped them into my large, weather-beaten canvas bag next to my sketchbook. I'd clipped my thick hair into a bun. Messy strands had escaped. I could feel them plastered to my face and neck.
"Can I help you?" There was an edge of impatience to the plump, middle-aged hostess's voice. This might have been the second time she'd addressed me. She'd spoken Chinese instead of trying English first like she should have with someone my age. It must have been clear that I was fresh off the boat. She ran her eyes over my threadbare coat, and I could sense her inaudible sigh.
I spoke over the pulse tripping in my throat. "Can I please see the manager?"
"What?" she said, impatiently. "Speak up."
"I'm looking for a job."
She gestured for me to follow her to the back, where the kitchen was located. This restaurant must have been four times the size of the one back home. Would I ever get used to the extravagance and wastefulness here? Plates shoved to the side, filled with discarded leftovers: partly bitten pieces of lotus root, cilantro and radish garnishes, a salt-baked chicken leg, much of the meat still on the bone.
Weaving through carts and customers, I saw friends and relatives using their chopsticks to drop delicacies like spicy tripe into each other's rice bowls. We stopped next to a table with two beautiful women around my age. What were they—twenty-four, twenty-five? They were impossible to miss in this room filled with families. It was like there was a spotlight focused on them and they knew it, preening and giggling over their tall red bean ices.
I took in the way they held their shoulders back to accentuate their graceful necks, the slender fingers that posed and enticed. They were both wearing too much makeup but instead of diminishing them, the colors seemed a signifier of power, like the way poisonous creatures clad themselves in bright hues instead of camouflage. I was envious. Not of their pulchritude but of their fearlessness, the way they'd seized their genetic peculiarities—because that's what beauty really is, when you think about it—and decided to wield them.
A small man wearing a wrinkled gray suit much too big for him exited the kitchen and approached me. He looked as tired as his faded eyes. "You're looking for work? What's your name?"
I started to push my glasses up my nose, then realized I'd taken them off. I felt exposed without them, especially with the two women watching us. How many times had I already had this conversation? Could I trust him not to report me? I stared at his shoes. "Umm, I'm . . . I'm a very hard worker—"
He barked out a laugh. "Let me guess, you don't have the right paperwork and you want me to give you a job even though you're too scared to even tell me your real name. Forget it." He waved a dismissive hand and turned to leave.
"I can clean tables, waitress, serve dim sum. I'm dexterous and have a good memory." My heart was racing. I was talking too quickly. I couldn't return to China and my disastrous life there. I closed my eyes. I had passed the menu board on the way in—what had it said? "Your specials today are braised pork in gravy, shrimp with vermicelli and garlic, and vegetarian crystal dumplings."
He paused. "Can you come in full-time?"
"A few nights a week."
He shrugged. "I have people lining up to work twenty-four hours a day, especially if they're in your situation."
In my peripheral vision, I noticed both women perk up as a young man stepped past us on his way to the kitchen. He was hunched over, his head averted, as if trying to make himself less conspicuous. He wore a navy jacket with an elaborate emblem on the sleeve. A worn guitar case was slung over his back, an incongruous sight for a person heading into the depths of a restaurant where there were vats of boiling oil and flustered cooks, not to mention live lobsters.
The manager spotted him and erupted like a bulldog confronting a Doberman in the street. "What do you think this is, a storage area?"
The beleaguered man took a deep breath but didn't stop. "I'm so sorry, I'll stash the guitar. You won't notice—"
There was something familiar about his warm tenor that called to me. I didn't recognize the voice, rather the inflection of his Chinese, the rhythm of his words. I tended to avoid young men, with their grabby hands and clinging eyes, but I was riveted to this one. His hair was dark and silky, the gleam of amber highlights visible even in the fluorescent lighting.
"Come here." The manager actually stomped his foot.
The man slowly turned toward us and when he caught sight of me, he froze.
Excerpted from The Leftover Woman by Jean Kwok. Copyright © 2023 by Jean Kwok. Excerpted by permission of William Morrow, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpt: "12 Months to Live" by James Patterson & Mike Lupica
"FOR THE LAST TIME," my client says to me. "I. Did. Not. Kill. Those. People."
He adds, "You have to believe me. I didn't do it."
The opposing counsel will refer to him as "the defendant." It's a way of putting him in a box, since opposing counsel absolutely believe he did kill all those people. The victims. The Gates family. Father. Mother. And teenage daughter.
"Rob," I say, "I might have mentioned this before: I. Don't. Give. A. S***."
Rob is Rob Jacobson, heir to a legendary publishing house and also owner of the biggest real estate company in the Hamptons.
Me? I'm Jane. Jane Smith. It's not an assumed name, even though I might be wishing it were by the end of this trial.
"Stop me if you've heard me say this before, but I was set up."
I sigh. "Now, you stop me if you've heard this one from me before. Set up by whom? And with your DNA and fingerprints sprinkled around that house like pixie dust?"
"That's for you to find out," he says. "One of the reasons I hired you is because I was told you're as good a detective as you are a lawyer. You and your guy."
Jimmy Cunniff. Ex-NYPD, the way I'm ex-NYPD, even if I only lasted a grand total of eight months as a street cop, before lasting barely longer than that as a licensed private investigator. It was why I'd served as my own investigator for the first few years after I'd gotten my law degree. Then I'd hired Jimmy, and finally started delegating, almost as a last resort.
"Not to put too fine a point on things," I say to him, "we're not just good. We happen to be the best. Which is why you hired both of us."
"And why I'm counting on you to find the real killers eventually. So people will know I'm innocent."
I lean forward and smile at him.
"Rob? Do me a favor and never talk about the real killers ever again."
"I'm not O.J.," he says.
"Well, yeah, he only killed two people."
I see his face change now.
"Sometimes I wonder whose side you're on."
"Yours."
"So despite how much you like giving me a hard time, you do believe I'm telling you the truth."
"Who said anything about the truth?" I ask.
*****
GREGG McCALL, NASSAU COUNTY district attorney, is waiting for me outside the courthouse.
"Are you here to give me free legal advice?" I ask. "Because I'll take whatever you got at this point, McCall."
"I want to hire you and Jimmy, even though I can't officially say that I'm hiring you," he says. "And even though I'm aware that you're kind of busy right now."
"Remember the three people who got shot in Garden City?" he asks. "Six months before Jacobson is accused of wiping out the Gates family."
"I do. Brutal."
Three senseless deaths that time, too. The Carson family. Father, mother, daughter, a sophomore cheerleader at Garden City High. I don't know why I remember the cheerleader piece. But it's stayed with me. A robbery gone wrong. Gone bad and gone tragically wrong.
"Months later, the father's mother told me her son gambled. Frequently and badly, as it turns out."
"And not with DraftKings, I take it."
"With Bobby Salvatore, who is still running the biggest book in this part of the world."
"But upstanding district attorneys like yourself aren't allowed to hire people like Jimmy and me to run side investigations."
"Grandma liked to plan ahead," he says. "She was ready to go when we found out about the Salvatore connection. When I took it to her, she said, 'I told you so,' and wrote a check. I know we're supposed to be on opposing sides, but if I can make an exception . . ."
I finish his thought. "So can I."
"I'm asking you to help me do something we should have done at the time. Find the truth."
"You ought to know that my client just now asked me if I thought he was telling the truth. I told him that I wasn't interested in the truth." I shrug. "But I lied."
*****
AS SOON AS I get home from court, I decide to take a trail walk in the Springs.
No biathlon training tonight. No gun and no shooting, even if I am feeling an urge to shoot something.
Just a long walk on my private trail. Alone with my thoughts about my life, Jimmy on his way to see McCall.
Right now, this moment, I'm as big as I've ever been, at least professionally. Looking at a huge payday from Rob Jacobson, win, lose, or appeal. The payday for the Carson case won't be as big, I know. If I solve it, though? If Jimmy and I find out who did it and nearly got away with it? My profile goes sky-high, like I launched a rocket in the backyard.
But there's a problem with that:
It's not just the suspicion that the bastard did it.
No, it's something even worse.
It's the fear he might get away with it.
Because of me.
Because I get him off.
So why did I take the Jacobson case? The obvious reason is because that is our justice system. That's the way it works. Everybody's entitled to a defense.
But when I add it all up, looking at it from all possible angles, something I'm doing on practically an hourly basis, I know it comes down to this:
Because the case against him is just too perfect.
The evidence against him, evidence that keeps coming in, is just too frickin' perfect. And the question I can't get out of my head is this:
Why? Why would he kill those three people?
Makes no sense.
I'm at the end of the trail when the first bullet hits the tree above me.
Definitely not a BB.
Excerpted from 12 Months to Live by James Patterson & Mike Lupica. Copyright © 2023 by James Patterson. Excerpted by permission of Little, Brown and Company.
