It’s a summer Friday and still hot in the Northeast. I hope you’re enjoying your summer. Today my guest is Deborah Blumenthal. She has a wonderful story about a love letter found in a taxi and a woman who a romantic with a fanciful imagination. She also shares why she loves to write.
Three reasons why you love to
write:
write:
What other job can you do in your
bathrobe?
bathrobe?
It’s fun to live in your mind –
at least from 9 to 5!
at least from 9 to 5!
What other job lets you create other, more perfect worlds,
and offers total escape?
and offers total escape?
Fixing Your Wardrobe is a Dream
Job. Fixing Your Life is a Work of Art.
Job. Fixing Your Life is a Work of Art.
Sage Parker has the perfect occupation for a
Manhattanite—she helps the rich and powerful keep their wardrobes current and
suitable for every need. Her sense of fashion is impeccable, her connections
are unsurpassed, and her eye misses not a single well-made stitch.
Manhattanite—she helps the rich and powerful keep their wardrobes current and
suitable for every need. Her sense of fashion is impeccable, her connections
are unsurpassed, and her eye misses not a single well-made stitch.
So when she discovers a love note left in the back of
a cab, Sage admires the card stock and the ink, but also the heartfelt words.
She sets out on a mission to find out who the love note was intended for—and
who wrote it.
a cab, Sage admires the card stock and the ink, but also the heartfelt words.
She sets out on a mission to find out who the love note was intended for—and
who wrote it.
What Sage discovers will broaden her horizons and
change her life, introducing her to an extraordinary woman who is revamping her
entire world midway through life, a dashing Brit with a hive of secrets, and a
free-spirited painter, whose brush captures the light in everything he paints,
including Sage.
change her life, introducing her to an extraordinary woman who is revamping her
entire world midway through life, a dashing Brit with a hive of secrets, and a
free-spirited painter, whose brush captures the light in everything he paints,
including Sage.
Review for Someone Else’s Love
Letter
Letter
“Lush and
glamorous descriptions of a closet mistress and her single adventures in the
city. As a NYC celebrity stylist, I could not wait to turn the pages.” ―Amanda Sanders, Celebrity Stylist at New
York Image Consultant
glamorous descriptions of a closet mistress and her single adventures in the
city. As a NYC celebrity stylist, I could not wait to turn the pages.” ―Amanda Sanders, Celebrity Stylist at New
York Image Consultant
Excerpt from Someone Else’s Love
Letter
Letter
There are things you never expect to find in a taxi. Things like love
letters. This one was easy to miss, wedged under the driver’s seat except for a
tiny triangle of icy blue playing peekaboo. I would never have seen it if a
stretch limo to our right hadn’t turned with no warning, nearly shearing off
the front fender.
letters. This one was easy to miss, wedged under the driver’s seat except for a
tiny triangle of icy blue playing peekaboo. I would never have seen it if a
stretch limo to our right hadn’t turned with no warning, nearly shearing off
the front fender.
When the driver slammed the brakes, I was on my way home after three
hours inside a walk-in closet. My handbag pirouetted over the seat, releasing a
sea of bracelets, beads, scarves, shoulder pads, Miracle Bras, panty hose,
scissors, Scotch tape, safety pins, Velcro, Motrin, tampons, and Red Bull. To
the barrage of expletives from the driver, I tossed it all together like a
crazy salad and stuffed it back into my bag.
hours inside a walk-in closet. My handbag pirouetted over the seat, releasing a
sea of bracelets, beads, scarves, shoulder pads, Miracle Bras, panty hose,
scissors, Scotch tape, safety pins, Velcro, Motrin, tampons, and Red Bull. To
the barrage of expletives from the driver, I tossed it all together like a
crazy salad and stuffed it back into my bag.
That’s when I spotted the envelope.
I tugged at the corner and it slid free. The paper was thick, luxurious,
and addressed in amethyst ink. I lifted the flap, tracing my finger over the
midnight-blue lining embedded with whispery white threads. I held it to my
nose.
and addressed in amethyst ink. I lifted the flap, tracing my finger over the
midnight-blue lining embedded with whispery white threads. I held it to my
nose.
A faint perfume. Two sheets were neatly folded inside.
Dear Caroline…
I was just a block from home, so I slid it into a jacket pocket and
searched for my wallet. After greeting the doorman, I picked up my mail and
rushed upstairs to feed Harry, the man of the house, my yellow lab. It wasn’t
until a week later, when I wore the jacket again, that I thought of the letter.
searched for my wallet. After greeting the doorman, I picked up my mail and
rushed upstairs to feed Harry, the man of the house, my yellow lab. It wasn’t
until a week later, when I wore the jacket again, that I thought of the letter.
When important things happen, your mind has a way of fixing the moments
into your memory. You recall exactly where you were and why, who you were with,
the time of day, even the light. I began reading the letter on the bus up
Madison Avenue, passing Calvin Klein, Donna Karan, Barneys, Yves St. Laurent,
and Ralph Lauren’s flagship store in the Rhinelander Mansion. Only then I
didn’t try to glimpse the clothes as the shop windows fast-forwarded like
frames from a high-fashion video.
into your memory. You recall exactly where you were and why, who you were with,
the time of day, even the light. I began reading the letter on the bus up
Madison Avenue, passing Calvin Klein, Donna Karan, Barneys, Yves St. Laurent,
and Ralph Lauren’s flagship store in the Rhinelander Mansion. Only then I
didn’t try to glimpse the clothes as the shop windows fast-forwarded like
frames from a high-fashion video.
It was a crisp fall day, a time of beginnings. For no particular reason,
everything felt right in my world when I woke that morning. It was Saturday.
The Chinese finger trap of time was looser. My plan was to spend the morning at
the Metropolitan Museum of Art and then walk part of the way back through
Central Park.
everything felt right in my world when I woke that morning. It was Saturday.
The Chinese finger trap of time was looser. My plan was to spend the morning at
the Metropolitan Museum of Art and then walk part of the way back through
Central Park.
I was in navy D&G flannel slacks, a white ribbed Tory Burch sweater,
and Fratelli Rosetti loafers. My jacket was over my arm. On the way to the bus
I stopped at Starbucks and asked for Panama La Florentina, the coffee of the
day, because the barista behind the counter told me it was similar to their
house blend, and anyway, I just liked the way it sounded. Before I left, I put
the coffee down and slipped on my jacket. The only free seat on the bus was the
hot seat in the back, always the last to be taken because it was over some
motor part that turned it into a radiator. I sat anyway, afraid that if the bus
stopped short I’d be faced with litigation. Before I opened the newspaper, I
slid my Metrocard into my pocket. That’s when I remembered the letter.
and Fratelli Rosetti loafers. My jacket was over my arm. On the way to the bus
I stopped at Starbucks and asked for Panama La Florentina, the coffee of the
day, because the barista behind the counter told me it was similar to their
house blend, and anyway, I just liked the way it sounded. Before I left, I put
the coffee down and slipped on my jacket. The only free seat on the bus was the
hot seat in the back, always the last to be taken because it was over some
motor part that turned it into a radiator. I sat anyway, afraid that if the bus
stopped short I’d be faced with litigation. Before I opened the newspaper, I
slid my Metrocard into my pocket. That’s when I remembered the letter.
I opened the envelope and recalled how much I had admired the stationery,
particularly the way the sender put the return address not in the usual
places—on the upper left-hand corner or on the flap—but vertically up the left
side of the front edge of the envelope, in carefully printed block letters.
particularly the way the sender put the return address not in the usual
places—on the upper left-hand corner or on the flap—but vertically up the left
side of the front edge of the envelope, in carefully printed block letters.
Dear Caroline, I know you’re used to reading emails, not letters. I
know you make split-second decisions, and think life’s more black and white
than gray, but I have to explain…and I beg you to listen.
know you make split-second decisions, and think life’s more black and white
than gray, but I have to explain…and I beg you to listen.
He talked about his empty life before they met—the unhappy relationships,
his despair at not being able to find the right woman, his feelings of
isolation. Then they met and everything changed.
his despair at not being able to find the right woman, his feelings of
isolation. Then they met and everything changed.
How can I explain the way I feel about you?
Let me
tell you about a book of letters I read by the physicist and Nobel laureate
Richard P. Feynman. His first wife had moved to Albuquerque to be near him when
he worked on the Manhattan Project in Los Alamos. She later died there in a
sanitarium, from tuberculosis. A year and a half after her death he wrote, “I
find it hard to understand in my mind what it means to love you after you are
dead. But I still want to comfort and take care of you—and I want you to love
me and care for me.” He ventures that maybe they could still make plans
together, but no, he had lost his “idea- woman, the general instigator of all
our wild adventures.”
tell you about a book of letters I read by the physicist and Nobel laureate
Richard P. Feynman. His first wife had moved to Albuquerque to be near him when
he worked on the Manhattan Project in Los Alamos. She later died there in a
sanitarium, from tuberculosis. A year and a half after her death he wrote, “I
find it hard to understand in my mind what it means to love you after you are
dead. But I still want to comfort and take care of you—and I want you to love
me and care for me.” He ventures that maybe they could still make plans
together, but no, he had lost his “idea- woman, the general instigator of all
our wild adventures.”
“You can give me nothing now yet I love you so that you stand in my
way of loving anyone else,” he wrote. “But I want to stand there. You, dead,
are so much better than anyone else alive.”
way of loving anyone else,” he wrote. “But I want to stand there. You, dead,
are so much better than anyone else alive.”
Before you nothing in my life had real meaning. You’re gone now, yet
all I think about is you. I live in the shadow of our relationship, pretending
you’re still with me. Even without you, the memories of our life together mean
more than the reality of being with someone else.
all I think about is you. I live in the shadow of our relationship, pretending
you’re still with me. Even without you, the memories of our life together mean
more than the reality of being with someone else.
Caroline, please, let me see you. At least let me talk to you. Life
without you is unthinkable.
without you is unthinkable.
A heartfelt plea to win a woman back. It was almost Shakespearean. Only
the address wasn’t Stratford-upon- Avon, it was downtown Manhattan. I slipped
it back into the envelope.
the address wasn’t Stratford-upon- Avon, it was downtown Manhattan. I slipped
it back into the envelope.
Whose life had I stumbled on? Where did he live, what did he do? Men
called, emailed, or sent text messages—they didn’t write letters, and if they
did, never on handmade paper with deckle edges, a throwback to the fifteenth
century.
called, emailed, or sent text messages—they didn’t write letters, and if they
did, never on handmade paper with deckle edges, a throwback to the fifteenth
century.
The writer had style. He was smooth, articulate. The wrappings of his
thoughts were as affecting as his words. Just thinking about him set my mind
reeling with the possibilities. Where did that leave me?
thoughts were as affecting as his words. Just thinking about him set my mind
reeling with the possibilities. Where did that leave me?
Captive.
Which made no sense. I was a peeping tom, peering into someone else’s
emotional life. Still, he was a kindred spirit. He knew the importance of
putting things in the proper wrapping too. So never mind Caroline who had
tossed away the letter like a losing lottery ticket; maybe he’d like to meet a
woman of the cloth who judged letters by their covers.
emotional life. Still, he was a kindred spirit. He knew the importance of
putting things in the proper wrapping too. So never mind Caroline who had
tossed away the letter like a losing lottery ticket; maybe he’d like to meet a
woman of the cloth who judged letters by their covers.
I gazed out the bus window, forgetting my plans for the day. When I
remembered to check the street signs, the bus had passed the Met and was
approaching 96th Street. I got off, turned around, and walked the three miles
back to Murray Hill, as if it made perfect sense to ride all the way uptown and
then go directly back home without stopping anywhere at all in between.
remembered to check the street signs, the bus had passed the Met and was
approaching 96th Street. I got off, turned around, and walked the three miles
back to Murray Hill, as if it made perfect sense to ride all the way uptown and
then go directly back home without stopping anywhere at all in between.
About the Author
Deborah Blumenthal is an
award-winning journalist and nutritionist who now divides her time between
writing children’s books and adult novels. She has been a regular contributor
to The New York Times (including four years as the
Sunday New York Times Magazine beauty columnist), and a home
design columnist for Long Island Newsday. Her health, fitness, beauty, travel,
and feature stories have appeared widely in many other newspapers and national
magazines including New York’s Daily News, The Washington
Post, The Los Angeles Times, Bazaar, Cosmopolitan, Woman’s
Day, Family Circle, Self, and Vogue.
award-winning journalist and nutritionist who now divides her time between
writing children’s books and adult novels. She has been a regular contributor
to The New York Times (including four years as the
Sunday New York Times Magazine beauty columnist), and a home
design columnist for Long Island Newsday. Her health, fitness, beauty, travel,
and feature stories have appeared widely in many other newspapers and national
magazines including New York’s Daily News, The Washington
Post, The Los Angeles Times, Bazaar, Cosmopolitan, Woman’s
Day, Family Circle, Self, and Vogue.
Blumenthal lives in New York
City.
City.
Website: www.deborahblumenthal.com
Social Media Links:
Facebook: Deborah Blumenthal, Author: https://www.facebook.com/readthelifeguard/
Twitter: @deborahblu
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