Stacy Alesi's BookBitch.com™

Author, C.L. (Jim) Hoang has recently released Once Upon a Mulberry Field,  a multicultural love story set during the Vietnam War.

A mesmerizing debut novel, Once Upon a Mulberry Field tells a heartrending tale of American and South Vietnamese love at a time when both countries were torn apart by war. Set at Bien-Hoa Air Force Base near Saigon in 1967, at the height of the war and the Tet Offensive, the novel explores the blossoming romance between a U.S. Air Force doctor, Roger Connors, and Lien, a young Vietnamese widow working as a hostess at a Saigon club. As the war progresses and political offensives set the country in turmoil, Roger and Lien are forced into circumstances that tear them apart. Many years later, Roger receives a cryptic note from a long-lost Air Force buddy announcing the visit of an acquaintance from Vietnam. The startling news resurrects ghosts of fallen comrades and haunting memories of a decades-old secret that Roger and Lien once shared.

Q&A

1. What inspired you to write Once Upon a Mulberry Field?

I started the book as a nostalgia project for my father so that we could capture memories of our family’s earlier life in Saigon, Vietnam, during the war. As I researched that time period to ensure accuracy, I discovered another perspective of the war—as experienced by American service people who fought over there and by their families in the States. I ended up merging these two contrasting points of view, in hopes of providing a more complete picture of that turbulent chapter in the history of both countries. But rather than being a “war book,” Once Upon a Mulberry Field is first and foremost a love story—an ode to the old and the new homelands, and a celebration of the human spirit and the redemptive power of love. 

2. In Once Upon a Mulberry Field, the main character, Roger Connors, is a U.S. Air Force physician sent to Vietnam during the height of the war. Why did you decide to tell the story from an American point of view? 

In an attempt to be objective and to view things from a different perspective from the one I had known growing up, I chose to recount the events through the voice of an American soldier. Needless to say, it was an eye-opening experience.

3. Roger and his fellow USAF buddies have differing views about the war in Vietnam. What can you tell us about the atmosphere surrounding the war and the way it was viewed in both America and South Vietnam?

In South Vietnam, the war was about preventing communism from destroying the budding and fragile democracy—a matter of crucial survival. In America, it was a controversial and misunderstood war, with the unpopular draft and the constant drumbeat of violence and gore shown nightly on TV news heightening the tension and anxiety among the public. There was widespread misinformation and confusion, fanned by undeniable passions on all sides. 

4. There are two women in Roger’s life: the beautiful Vietnamese widow, Lien, and his fiancée at home, Debbie. How would you characterize his relationship with each of these women? In your view, does he feel differently toward one or the other?  

The two women symbolize the clashing worlds confronting Roger. Debbie represents the familiar, secure home setting where things are as they seem—tangible, comforting, as lovely and dependable as the sunny California weather. Lien, on the other hand, is the daughter of an exotic tropical land, beautiful and tragic, who appears and vanishes without warning, like a monsoon thundershower. Roger thus finds himself constantly in the grips of a struggle between stormy passion and lifelong friendship. 

5. You interviewed a number of Vietnamese and American civilians and veterans as part of your research for this novel. What did you learn in these interviews and how did they influence the story you tell in Once Upon a Mulberry Field?  

I learned that nothing is ever as black-and-white as we like to assume, and that truth is often inconvenient and blinded by the passions of the time. This insight gave me a more compassionate understanding of the characters and what they went through, no matter what their feelings about the war. 

6. Are you working on another novel? If so, what can you tell us about it? 

Vietnam is a beautiful country with a rich cultural heritage. I’d like to capture in writing some of that heritage as I still remember it—ancient folklore that highlights the universal human condition and spirit. It may come in the form of a new novel, or a collection of short stories.

If you’d like to win a copy of Once Upon a Mulberry Field —

If the name seems familiar, maybe it’s because you read  Quiver, Trust Me, Voices of the Dead or All He Saw Was the Girl. Or maybe it’s because his father was the late Elmore Leonard. Author Carl Hiaasen said about Peter’s work, “Clearly, great storytelling runs in the Leonard family’s DNA.”

If you’d like to win a copy of EYES CLOSED TIGHT, send an email to contest@gmail.com with “EYES CLOSED TIGHT” as the subject. You must include your snail mail address in your email.

All entries must be received by April 10, 2014. One (1) name will be drawn from all qualified entries and notified via email. This contest is open to all adults over 18 years of age in the United States only. One entry per email address. Subscribers to the monthly newsletter earn an extra entry into every contest. Follow this blog to earn another entry into every contest. Winners may win only one time per year (365 days) for contests with prizes of more than one book. Your email address will not be shared or sold to anyone.

Here’s an excerpt – enjoy!

Excerpt from
EYES CLOSED TIGHT
by Peter Leonard

Excerpted from the book EYES CLOSED TIGHT by Peter Leonard. Copyright © 2013 by Peter Leonard. Reprinted with permission of The Story Plant. All rights reserved.

O’Clair got up, put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, glanced at Virginia’s cute face and naked shoulder sticking out from under the cover, and went outside. It was seven twenty-five, big orange sun coming up over the ocean, clear sky; looked like another perfect day. O’Clair had moved to Florida from Detroit three months earlier, bought an eighteen-unit motel on the beach called Pirate’s Cove; it had a friendly pirate on the sign surrounded by neon lights.

The Motel was at the corner of Briny Avenue and SE Fifth Street in Pompano Beach. Four-story condo to the north and public beach access immediately south, and next to that, a massive empty lot that a developer was going to build a twenty-five-story apartment building on.

The idea of living through two years of heavy construction had O’Clair concerned, but what could he do about it?

He’d brought a paper grocery bag with ihm and walked around the pool, picking up empties, a dozen or so lite beer cans left by a group of kids from Boston University who’d been staying at the motel the past three days. There were nine of them, three girls and six guys. They’d caravanned down from snowy Massachusetts a week after Christmas.

He fished a few more beer cans out of the pool with the skimmer, picked up cigarette butts that had been stamped out on the concrete patio and threw them in the bag with the empties. O’Clair straightened the lounge chairs in even rows, adjusted the back rests so they were all at the same angle, and noticed one of the chairs was missing. He scanned the pool area, didn’t see it, glanced over the short brick wall that separated the motel from the beach and there it was, twenty yards from where he was standing.

O’Clair kicked off his sandals, opened the gate and walked down three steps to the beach. As he got closer, he could see a girl asleep, stretched out on the lounge chair, one leg straight, the other slightly bent at the knee, arms at her sides. She was a knockout, long blonde hair, thin and stacked, wearing a white T-shirt and denim capris, early twenties. He didn’t recognize her, but figure she was with the group from Boston. She looked so peaceful he didn’t want to wake her.

“You should go to your room,” O’Clair said, looking down at her.

The girl didn’t respond. He touched her shoulder, shook her gently. Either she was a heavy sleeper or something was wrong. He touched her neck, felt for a pulse, there wasn’t one. Her skin was cold, body starting to stiffen, definitely in the early stages of rigor. He looked at the sand around the lounge chair, surprised it was smooth, no footprints. Glanced toward the water at the joggers and walkers moving by. O’Clair went back up to the patio, wiped the sand off his feet, and slipped his sandals on.

Virginia was standing behind the registration counter, yawning, eyes not quite open all the way, holding a mug of coffee.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“There’s a dead girl on the beach.” O’Clair said, picking up the phone and dialing 911.
Virginia’s face went from a half smile, thinking he was kidding, to deadpan, seeing he wasn’t. “What happened?”

The cruiser was white with gold and green stripes that ran along the side, light bar flashing. O’Clair watched it pull up in front, taking up three parking spaces. Two young-looking cops in tan uniforms got out and squared the caps on their heads. O’Clair went outside, met them and introduced himself.

“You the one found the body?” Officer Diaz, the dark-skinned cop said.

O’Clair nodded.

“You know her?” Diaz pulled the brim lower over his eyes to block the morning sun, the top of a crisp white T-shirt visible under the uniform.

“At first I thought she was with the group from BU. Now I don’t think so.”

“What’s BU?” the big, pale one, Officer Bush said, showing his weightlifter’s arms, uniform shirt bulging over his gut.

“Boston University. Nine kids staying with us, units seventeen and eighteen.” O’Clair didn’t know the sleeping arrangements and didn’t care. They were paying $720 a night for two rooms, staying for five days.

An EMS van pulled up and parked facing the police cruiser. Two paramedics got out, opened the rear door, slid the gurney out, and O’Clair led them through the breezeway, past the pool, to the beach. The paramedics set the gurney next to the lounge chair, examined the girl and pronounced her dead.

Officer Bush said, “What time did you find her?”

“Around twenty to eight.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I looked at my watch,” O’Clair said, like it was a big mystery.

Diaz grinned, showing straight white teeth, reminding O’Clair of Erik Estrada, his tan polyester uniform glinting in the morning sun. “Did you touch the body?”

“Her neck, felt for a pulse.” O’Clair saw Virginia wander down, standing at the seawall with her cup of coffee, watching them. Officer Bush went back to the cruiser and got stakes and tape, then set up a perimeter around the dead girl, protecting the crime scene. The paramedics picked up the gurney and left, leaving the body for the evidence tech.

Diaz took a spiral-bound notebook out of his shirt pocket, wrote something and looked up at O’Clair. “Ever see her before? Maybe lying in the sun, walking the beach?”

“I don’t think so,” O’Clair said. “Someone like that I would remember.”

Diaz said, “You see anyone else?”

“College kids out by the pool.” He almost said drinking beer, but caught himself, he doubted they were twenty-one and didn’t want to get them in trouble.

“What time was that?”

“Around eleven o’clock.”

“Then what happened?

“I went to bed.”

Diaz said, “Anything else you remember? Any noises?”

“No.”

The evidence tech arrived carrying a tool box, set it on the sand a few feet from the lounge chair, opened it, took out a camera, and shot the crime scene from various angles. Diaz searched the surrounding area for evidence and Bush questioned the morning joggers and walkers wandering up toward the scene. O’Clair watched from the patio, learning against the seawall. Virginia had gone back to the office.

A guy in a tan, lightweight suit walked by O’Clair and went down the steps to the beach. He had to be with homicide. The evidence tech, wearing white rubber gloves, was swabbing the dead girl’s fingernails. He glanced at the guy in the suit.

“What do you got?”

“Fatal.”

“I figured that unless you were doing her nails.”

“Not much here,” the evidence tech said, “couple hairs, maybe a latent, and something you’re not going to believe.” He whispered something to the suit that O’Clair couldn’t hear.
“Jesus, I’ve seen a lot, but I haven’t seen that.” The homicide investigator shook his head. “Where’s the blood?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“How’d she die?”

“You want a guess? That’s about all I can give you right now. She was asphyxiated, been gone about four hours.”

“Who found her?”

The evidence tech turned and pointed at O’Clair above them on the patio. The detective came up the steps and stood facing him.

“I’m Holland, Pompano Beach Homicide.” He has a goatee and a crooked nose, early thirties. “What’s your name, sir?”

“O’Clair.”

“I understand you found her.”

“That’s right.”

“You down here for a vacation, or what?”

“I own the place, bought it three months ago.”

“Where you from, Cleveland, Buffalo, someplace like that?”

“Detroit,” O’Clair said.

“Even worse,” Holland said, breaking into a grin. Just kidding. I got nothing against the Motor City.”

“Well that’s a relief,” O’Clair said.

Holland wore his shield on his belt and a holstered Glock on his right hip.

“You married?”

“Living with a girl named Virgnia, helps me run the place.”

“The hot number in the office?”

O’Clair fixed a hard stare on him.

“How’d you arrange that?”

“I must have some hidden talents.”

“You must,” Holland said. “Tell me what you saw this morning.”

“Same thing you did—dead girl on a lounge chair,” O’Clair said. “Know who she is?”

“No ID. No idea. Have to check with missing persons. Was the chair left on the beach?”
“It shouldn’t have been. The lounge chairs are supposed to be kept in the pool enclosure. It’s one of our rules here at Pirate’s Cove.”

“Your guests break the rules very often?”

“Oh, you know how it is. Get in the Jacuzzi with a beer, without taking a shower, and you’ve broken two right there.” O’Clair paused, playing it straight. “The rules are from the previous owner, guy named Moran. I keep them posted ‘cause I think they’re funny. Someone sat down and wrote them in all seriousness.”

“What do you think happened? This girl was walking by and got tired, saw your place, went up, got a lounge chair, brought it to the beach, lay down, and died in her sleep?”
“I’d ask the medical examiner.”

The evidence tech was taking off the rubber gloves, closing the top of the tool box.
Holland said, “What else did you see?”

“You’re asking the wrong question,” O’Clair said. “It’s not what I saw, it’s what I didn’t see.”

“Okay. What didn’t you see?”

“There were no footprints in the sand. Like she was beamed there.”

“So the wind erased them,” Holland said.

“You really believe that?”

“It’s the only plausible explanation I can think of.”

“What else didn’t you see?”

“No obvious cause of death. No evidence of a struggle. In fact, no evidence at all.” O’Clair looked at Holland, caught something in his expression.

“You sound like you know the trade,” Holland said.

“What’s you do before you became an innkeeper?”

“Worked in homicide in Detroit.”

Holland grinned. “I had a feeling. Then you must’ve seen her eyes were missing right? Bulbs removed, empty sockets.”

“But no blood,” O’Clair said. “So it was done somewhere else. Find the primary crime scene, you’ll find the evidence.”

“You weren’t going to say anything?”

“It’s not my case,” O’Clair said. “I figured somebody was going to notice sooner or later, it wasn’t you or the evidence tech it would’ve been the ME.”

“Why do you think the girl ended up here?”

“I have no idea. Why don’t you roll her over, maybe you’ll find something.”

Occasionally there was a crucial piece of evidence under the body, a lead. IT could be a round that would be tested for ballistics comparison against other homicides. It could be money or drugs, suggesting a possible motive, or it could be a cell phone that would lead to the possible killer or killers.

But there was nothing under the dead girl. No ID. No cell phone. Her body was bagged and the remains taken to the Broward County Medical Examiner’s Office. They took O’Clair’s lounge chair too.

“It’s evidence,” Holland said. “You’ll get it back eventually.”

O’Clair doubted it. He knew what happened to evidence.

Bush and Diaz went upstairs, woke the BU students and brought them down to the pool, nine kids looking hung over, yawning. Eight twenty in the morning was the middle of the night for them. O’Clair had noticed they usually didn’t get up till after noon. Holland questioned them one by one, showed photos of the dead girl, took statements, and sent them back to their rooms. No one knew or had ever seen the girl before. No one had seen anything suspicious or heard anything during the night.

The MacGuidwins from Mt. Pearl, Newfoundland in unit two, who had complained about the students making too much noise, were questioned next by Holland. O’Clair watched the fair-skinned, red-haired couple shaking their heads.

As it got hotter, Holland commandeered unit seven for his makeshift interrogation room and brought the other renters in two-by-two for questioning. There were the Burnses, Susan and Randy, from Troy, Michigan; the Mitchells, Joe and Jean, from San Antonio, Texas; the Belmonts, John and Shannon, from Chicago, Illinois; and the Mayers, Steve and Julie, from Syracuse, New York. Steve Mayer woke up with four-alarm heartburn at three-thirty a.m., got up, took a Nexium, walked out by the pool and remembered seeing the lounge chair on the beach, but didn’t think anything of it. None of the other renters saw or heard anything.
O’Clair walked Holland out to his car at eleven twenty, glad to finally get rid of him.
“Miss the life?” Holland said.

“Are you kidding?”

“Some things about it I’ll bet.” He handed O’Clair a card. “Call me if you think of something.”

me & Jane

I am delighted to have Jane Green guest blogging today as her new book arrives in stores!

I’ve been a fan of Jane’s since my bookselling days at Borders when I discovered JEMIMA J, and have read everything she has written since. I recently got to meet her for the first time, which was such a thrill for me. Jane was kind enough to give a talk at the Wellington Branch Library (Palm Beach County Library System) for Writers LIVE!, the premier series of author events in Palm Beach County.

One of the things I love about her books is that as I’ve grown up over the past 18 years, so have her books – she started off writing chick lit, stories of thirty-somethings and their lives and has graduated to wonderfully angst ridden family tales that keep me turning the pages. Jane’s gifts are creating warm, engaging characters and completely engrossing stories. TEMPTING FATE is her latest.

A Place To Write

By Jane Green

WHEN I wrote my first book, I had a tiny second bedroom, more of a closet, at the top of a dark, narrow staircase, with a large picture window that overlooked the garden.

I was twenty seven and living in the first apartment I had bought, in London. I loved everything about it, the bright living room, the eat-in kitchen, the sunny garden, and most of all that second bedroom at the top of the stairs.

When I moved in, I planned to get a room-mate. I was a full-time journalist at the Daily Express – it never occurred to me to have an office at home. Soon, I had left my job in order to write a book, so the room-mate left, the bed was removed, and a professional-looking desk and chair installed. Those were happy days. I would wake up every morning, and still in my pajamas would head up the stairs with a large cup of coffee and excitement in my heart, the words pouring out through my fingertips day and night.

I moved to a larger apartment, thanks to my book deal. Again, my office was the second bedroom, overlooking the garden. And then, after I got married, to a house, where I took over the loft, and listened to the birds sing on our leafy street.

We moved to the United States, a place I had always loved, to the bustling New England suburb of Westport, Connecticut. By then I had one child, and one on the way. My single girl apartments had been quiet, peaceful, perfect environments in which to write. Suddenly there was a baby, and a babysitter, and noise, and I found I could no longer work at home.

I bought a laptop, and took it to my local library. I found a large table on the top floor, and happily wrote the next few books at one end of the table. Often, others would join. Immersed in their work, we never spoke, merely exchanged polite smiles, but after a while, a tutor started bringing his pupils up there, loudly going over French vocabulary, and I knew it was time to make another change.

I was, by then, a mother of four. The children were all in school, and theoretically I had the house back again. Theoretically I could easily have worked at home, just as I did in the early days.

But it wasn’t the same. The internet had taken a firm foothold in my life. I tried to write at home, but it was always the same. Three paragraphs, check email. Two paragraphs, online shopping. One paragraph, online newspaper. I got little done, and realized I had to find something else.

I didn’t want to rent an office by myself. Writing is so solitary, and as much as I loved my endless days in my first apartments not seeing anyone, I had come to realize that I needed to be around people, to be able to observe, to be in and of the world.

As Thoreau said: ‘how vain it is to sit down to write when one has not stood up to live.’

A small writer’s room opened up in my town. They held workshops to teach the craft of writing, and had a room dedicated to writers – pay a small fee and you could use their desks, sofas, wifi, and most importantly, coffee.

It is painted a bright, sunny yellow, the tables a warm maple, the chairs a bright red. Everything about the room is welcoming and comfortable.

I have written my last few books at the writer’s room. Students come and go, and whether or not I choose to talk depends largely on how the writing day is going. I have invested in huge noise-cancelling headphones, and when those are on, I am never disturbed.

I have a beautiful office at home, with a squashy sofa, and huge desk. Still, I cannot write at home. I edit, make phone calls, update my blog, facebook, but I still can’t get the words on the page when I’m in my own home.

I thank God, every day, for the writer’s room, a place that has made it so easy, for me to write.