Seeing Me Naked

by Liza Palmer

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

Elisabeth Page is the daughter of Ben Page, yes, that's right, THE world famous novelist. And yes, she's also the sister of Rascal Page, world famous novelist in his own right. So what does Elisabeth do? Much to her family's disappointment, Elisabeth is a pastry chef. And a pretty damn good one, at Beverly, the hottest restaurant in LA. The last relationship Elisabeth had was with Will, a man she grew up with and whose family ran in the same social circles as her family. But Will's constant jaunts around the world have left her lonely and brokenhearted in L.A. That is until Daniel Sullivan bids on one of Elisabeth's pastry tutorials at a charity auction. Daniel is everything her family is not: a basketball coach, a non-intellectual, his family doesn't summer on Martha's Vineyard, and the only metaphors he uses are about passing the ball and being a team player. But somehow they fit. Between her family, Will, and the new cooking show that Elisabeth is recruited to star in, Elisabeth's life is suddenly incredibly new and different--the question is, can she embrace being happy or has her family conditioned her to think she's just not good enough? Liza Palmer expertly depicts a woman trying to come to terms with professional success, personal success, and finally dealing with a family that might love her from the bottom of their heart but doesn't necessarily have her best interest always at heart.

Release date: January 8, 2008

Publisher: 5 Spot

Print pages: 324

Sample

Praise for Liza Palmer’s first novel,
Conversations with the Fat Girl

“Kudos to Liza Palmer.”

—People

“Engaging and poignant and heartbreakingly real . . . a winning conversation.”

—Jennifer Weiner, bestselling author of Good in Bed, In Her Shoes, and Little Earthquakes

“The descriptions of Olivia’s catty pals are priceless.”

—Entertainment Weekly

“Smart, funny, and heartbreakingly honest . . . This is one conversation I never wanted to end!”

—Johanna Edwards, author of The Next Big Thing

“Will connect with women everywhere . . . Palmer’s quick wit keeps you laughing.”

—Pasadena Star News

“Reflective yet riotous, sardonic yet compassionate . . . An accomplished and wonderful debut.”

—Amanda Stern, author of The Long Haul

“Excellent . . . We can’t wait to read Palmer’s next book!”

—BestsellersWorld.com

“Touching, funny, and oh, so human . . . This is a conversation I felt lucky to be a part of!”

—Caren Lissner, author of Carrie Pilby

“A fantastic novel, a heartwarming, funny romantic comedy that breathes new life into the often flooded chick lit genre. I found myself laughing out loud several times . . . I look forward to reading more by Palmer.”

—BookLoons.com

“Filled with deliciousness . . . Liza Palmer has created, to borrow her own heroine Maggie’s phrase, a ‘pink pastry box o’magic.’”

—Gayle Brandeis, author of Fruitflesh: Seeds of Inspiration for Women Who Write and The Book of Dead Birds: A Novel

“A fresh, bold voice . . . excellent characterizations . . . Don’t miss the ending. It’s priceless!”

—MyShelf.com

“In this touching story, Maggie learns to let go, move on, and—finally—trust herself. This is a from-the-heart debut you won’t soon forget!”

—Megan Crane, author of English as a Second Language and Everyone Else’s Girl

“An excellent story . . . you won’t be is disappointed!”

—ChickLitBooks.com

“A powerful novel . . . witty and honest . . . one of those books you won’t want to put down.”

—NightsAndWeekends.com

“A wry, dry, and ultimately winning novel featuring a saucy heroine to whom all girls (fat and thin) will relate.”

—Wendy Shanker, author of The Fat Girl’s Guide to Life

“Brilliant—packed with humor, emotion, and lifelike characters. I can’t wait to see what Liza Palmer comes up with next.”

—RoundtableReviews.com

Acknowledgments

In my first book’s acknowledgments, I recounted my habit of taking time right as I was falling asleep to give thanks, with held breath, for the people in my life. This habit continues to this day. But with age comes a certain seriousness in those seconds, a seriousness that knows how lucky I am and how families and people like the ones in my life just don’t come along that often. Words, my stock-in-trade, can’t seem to ever harness my absolute adoration for the people who follow.

• As with all things in my life, all good stems from my mom.

• For Don—the shoes have been filled, and they’re yours forever.

• For Alex—cups of coffee and early-morning trips to the airport; our yin-and-yang everything seems to only bring us closer.

• For Joe—your success is a testament to the strong man you are. The girlies are lucky to have a dad like you.

• For Zoë and Bonnie—you melt me with your beauty, make me laugh with your luscious quirks (I now say “easy peasy, lemon squeezie” with regularity). My love of you two has actually messed me up a little. I honestly didn’t know I could love like this, that love could be this big.

• For Kim Resendiz (or, as one particular business refers to her, Keen Resendig)—you’ve made me feel a part of something, and not just the New York Times crossword. Your strength is riveting, and I hope to someday come as close as I can to it.

• For Tito, Nico, Ely, Rodrigo, Diego, David, Xavier, Nadine, Antoine, Denise, Kwon, Michael, Bill Gallagher, and Lynn and Rich Silton—you make me walk in this world a little taller, a little less freaked out, and thankful that I belong to such a majestic tribe.

• For Christy Fletcher—I constantly marvel at how it was that I happened upon you—oh, wait, I was querying agents desperately. Okay, let’s rephrase: I constantly marvel at how it was that you happened upon me (better). You took a chance on a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, and by “tracks,” I mean outside of Brooklyn and not named Jonathan.

• For Amy Einhorn—Without your all-important checkmarks, how would I ever know how funny I am? I’ve now taken to just checkmarking everything, particularly my own witty one-liners. I’ll make a sign of a checkmark in the air, accompanied by a little sound effect (a chh-chh of sorts). So, thank you for turning me into a slightly Tourette-ish, highly dependent person who now uses bizarre sound effects, as well as an abundance of ellipses and dashes—just because I can. But not in books, you know, because you’ll just take ’em out. Chh-chh. ← You’re dying to edit that last line, huh?

• For Emily Griffin—Poor, poor Emily. No one . . . no one . . . wants the task of looking at one of my first drafts, let alone wading through it and making some sense out of it. Emily, with Wellies and a machete, somehow made my first drafts into something rather lovely and gave hope to a nation that this dog just might hunt after all.

• For Melissa and Kate—thank you for fielding my e-mails regarding anything from tax questions to urgent directions to your office as I’m in a cab somewhere in Manhattan and . . . well, no need to relive it, you poor dears.

• For Araminta, Sara, Isobel, Emma and Alison—I’m already planning my next trip to the UK. This time I might be able to do more as a tourist than eat biscuits in the Harrods café . . . not that there’s anything wrong with that.

• For Liza Wachter and the RWSH agency—thank you for all that you’ve done, especially letting me have the ultimate joy of saying, “Hi, Liza, this is Liza.” It’s the little things.

• For Elly, Kim, Frances Jalet-Miller, Beth Thomas, Dorothea Halliday, Bill Tierney, and everyone at Grand Central Publishing and Hodder who has been integral to putting this book into some kind of order. Thank you so much.

• For Megan Crane—in this solitary, writerly life, it’s nice to have someone to talk to about all this crazy shit, and doing so driving up the coast of California with a cup of coffee, fighting about the iPod and laughing hysterically, sure isn’t a bad way to do it.

• For Levi Nuñez—the people I’ve mentioned above have no idea how much they are indebted to you. Your ability to talk sense to me about my writing, and not face the full wrath of my ego, is miraculous. It’s like a gift or something. Like a Dr. Dolittle kind of thing—soothing ravenous, shockingly arrogant animals with a combination of Mexican food and the pleasure of knowing that I was going to be able to give as good as I got with your work. Too bad your stuff is as good as it is . . . I haven’t quite gotten the level of merciless delight I was hoping I would.

• For Karen Rawers and Bastide—thank you for giving me a backstage pass to your world. It was so phenomenally important, I can’t begin to thank you. Well, I can begin, but I think it’s the ending that’s a little tricky.

• For Lyn Nierva—the bestest Web site Diva of all time, and not a bad tour guide, either . . . Them ribs are a-calling! You, Cathy, and I have got to hit up Billy Bob’s stat!

• Thank you to Henry Glowa; Norm Freed; Larry, Ricca, Matthew, and Adam Wolff; David Green; Kerri and Erik Einertson; Carrie Cogbill; Kathie Bradley; Delia Camp; Emily, Steve, and Lucy Marrin-Allison; Paz, Philip, and Jacob Stark; Michelle Rowen; Peter Riherd; Dick, Ann, and Sarah Gillette; the Spa Book Club; Sharon Milan; Brandon Dunn; Amanda Herrington; Marilyn Marino; Tasha Brown; and as always, Poet.

• Now, let’s see if I can get through typing this without losing my shit. What’s filling my heart most these days is the love, and immense loss, of my grandfather Captain John Dryden Kuser—Jack, to me. He wouldn’t let me, or any of his grandkids, call him anything but Jack. He passed away March 8, and I just . . . well, I miss him. Thank you to the Carmelite sisters at Santa Teresita who made his final days so beautiful.

Chapter One

The crowd simmers down as the bookstore owner approaches the podium.

“I’m very excited to have such an amazing crowd here tonight for one of L.A.’s prodigal sons. I’m extremely pleased to welcome you to a very special night of literature—a night we hope will be a beacon in these, the darkest of days in publishing. This debut novel is a far cry from the paint-by-numbers, just-add-water types of books that are overtaking our bookshelves and best-seller lists. At just thirty-two years of age, this writer commands the publishing industry to sit up and take notice. Real literature is back with the publication of The Ballad of Rick Danko, by Rascal Page!” I visualize a dazzling shower of pyrotechnics from behind the man as he builds to a climax. A girl in the middle of the bookstore lets out a tiny yelp. Rascal sighs.

I try to push away the insistent drone of my workweek. It keeps bumping up against my consciousness, like a seemingly bottomless hamper of dirty clothes. The perfection of the restaurant is never that far away. Never finished. I can never just sit. But tonight I take a deep breath and try to relax into my brother’s big night with happiness and a splash, a hint, really, of my usual knotted stomach.

I give Rascal a sympathetic smile as the obsequious, cloying introduction drones on. We’re both waiting for the mention of him. Dad. I peek out into the crowd. Mom is beaming. Her long legs are crossed at the ankles and slanted to one side—nothing out of place. The only untidy thing about her is the overwhelming pride she’s feeling right now for her firstborn. Rascal smiles at her. She snaps a picture of him.

“So, without further ado, let me present the heir apparent! Scion of one of the giants of twentieth-century American literature! The successor to the throne!” Rascal and I flinch in unison at each sentence. The man continues with a flourish, “Raskolnikov Page!” The crowd goes wild. Mom winces every time someone calls Rascal Raskolnikov. She lost a bet to Dad for the right to name their first son, and believe it or not, Rascal turned out to be the lesser of two evils. Rascal walks up to the podium and looks out into the crowd. I see his eyes fix on someone. I crane my neck to look past the stacks of books.

A wave of recognition rolls through the audience. He leans casually against one of the bookcases at the back of the store. Mom looks over her shoulder, gives him a small wave, and quickly turns her attention back to Rascal. I watch the people as they slowly realize whom they’re standing next to.

Ben Page. My dad.

The kind of cultural icon that doesn’t exist anymore. I remember for my best friend, Laurie’s, eleventh birthday, her parents took us to Disneyland. Later that year, when my eleventh birthday rolled around, Laurie asked what I was doing to celebrate. I said I was going to New York to watch my father receive his second Pulitzer Prize.

Rascal clears his throat and takes a long drink from the bottle of water set out for him on the podium.

“Thank you for coming out tonight. I’m going to start by reading a passage from the novel, and then I’ll take some questions before we call it a night,” Rascal says as people in the audience shift and contort in their chairs. Who will they look at? It’s an embarrassment of riches. Rascal’s pale skin contrasts with his mop of dark brown curls. His features are delicate: pinkish lips, gentle blue eyes. His build is slight, with thin, long fingers, and his shoulders look as if a wire hanger is poking through his threadbare sweater. People always tell us we could be twins, much to Dad’s chagrin. We both got Mom’s patrician genes. We were built for an aristocratic existence. Neither one of us inherited Dad’s workhorse build, that olive skin, the coarse hair, or his almost black eyes—which, as he grows older, are beginning to turn to sunlit amber and, in the innermost circles, the lightest of blues.

Rascal begins reading.

My body relaxes as my brother’s voice fills the room. The audience is drawn in and can barely keep up. His prose is hot and fast, like a come-on to a one-night stand. He reads only the opening chapter, and even live, it won’t be enough for them. The crowd applauds as Rascal closes the book and looks up.

“Okay. Any questions?” Rascal takes a drink of his water. Several anxious hands shoot into the air. He points to a twentysomething young man in the third row who has more product in his hair than I do, and I believe he’s wearing a velvet blazer.

“I just want to say that, first off, you are like a god, man,” the guy oozes. The crowd titters. Rascal forces a smile. I can see him look toward the back of the room at Dad. Is my brother embarrassed? I glance quickly at Dad. He’s rubbing his eyes like he has a headache. Ahhh—the unwashed masses and their inconvenient adoration of our family. I’ve always wondered why Dad was so bothered by people whose only sin was simply enjoying and connecting with his work. I’ve never made a big fuss to Dad about his writing, even though his brilliance awes me—humbles me. I was afraid it would open up an unwelcome dialogue about what exactly I was doing with my life and, more importantly, what am I doing to change the world? I’ve found the best and safest method in dealing with my father is to keep a safe distance and watch the fireworks from a remote mountaintop.

“I just want to know if, like—you know, coming from the family you did helped you get published. I mean, it probably didn’t hurt having Page as your last name, right?” The guy looks eagerly around at the crowd for validation. Everyone in the room has silently asked this question in his or her mind. But now they all act horrified that this guy had the nerve to ask it, especially as the first question. Rascal is unimpressed. He’s used to it—the constant comparisons to Dad in every area of his life.

“Let’s see.” Rascal draws it out like a pitcher’s windup before hurling a hundred-mile-an-hour fastball. He continues, “My father is perhaps the greatest writer of his generation, and I roll up and say I’ve written this manuscript that I think is pretty good. Now, any other writer, on his best day, doesn’t get constantly measured against my father. But in every single review of my book, I’m compared, head to head, with him. So, yeah, I probably moved right to the top of the slush pile in my agent’s office. But after that, I’m kinda fucked, huh?” The crowd laughs nervously. Everyone checks to see if Dad is laughing. His face is expressionless and focused. The same look is mirrored in Rascal as he points to a woman in the front row who’s raised her hand. I’ve spent so many years trying to free myself from these great shadows. The hitch is, I’m equal parts repulsed and enticed by them.

“Who are your influences, Raskolnikov? Who inspired you to—I mean, besides the obvious, of course—who inspired you to write?” The woman sneaks a coquettish look back at Dad.

“Ma’am, my own mother doesn’t call me Raskolnikov,” Rascal corrects with the slightest of edges to his voice. Mom tenses. In turn, Rascal flashes a conciliatory smile to the woman. The bookstore owner who introduced him shifts in his chair. Rascal continues speaking. “I went through the usual list of rebellious-guy literature—Burroughs, Thompson, Bukowski, Rollins, just like every other zit-faced kid with a constant hard-on. I found Milan Kundera because one of his covers had a naked lady on it. A lot of Richard Ford. I went through a whole Pynchon thing. Hope that answers your question, ma’am . . .” Rascal trails off. Mom is wincing. She didn’t bargain for “constant hard-on” talk. I’m unfazed by it. My brother and I are the truest blend of our two parents: We’ll tell you to fuck off but then apologize profusely, call you “ma’am” or “sir,” and follow that up with some kind of card and/or flower arrangement.

“And your father?” the woman blurts. The entire room gasps.

“I don’t know . . . Dad? Who are your influences?” Rascal casually takes a drink from his water bottle as the entire room shifts in their chairs to get an official look at the great Ben Page. The woman tries to correct the misunderstanding. She tries to spit out that what she meant to ask was whether Rascal was influenced by his father, not who inspired Ben to write. “It’s a misunderstanding,” she yells. Rascal slowly sips. Dad doesn’t move from his languid, leaning position—his arms crossed across his wide chest, his black hair swooping effortlessly over his eyes. His lower lip is forever contorted into a relaxed curl that, when not cradling his beloved pipe, looks like an ominous snarl. How many times have I seen this look? I take a long breath. Finished batting the woman around like a trapped mouse, Rascal has offered the woman up for sacrifice. Dad goes in for the kill.

“Come to the party, Lady. I named my own kid Raskolnikov. You do the math.” Dad’s voice is smooth as he finishes with a benign smile. Rascal is nodding and laughing to himself. The crowd goes wild. Rascal looks up from the podium. There is the sweetest moment between them. Nothing like the evisceration of an overzealous fan to bring father and son together.

Our family: bonding through blood sport.

Chapter Two

While my father is a literary god, and his son is hailed as the second coming, the only place people read my name is on a menu—and that’s only if they read the asterisk: *pastry chef, Elisabeth Page. I am a pastry chef. And while that might lead one to conjure up visions of chocolate éclairs and cheesecake, I like to think that my creations are a bit less run-of-the-mill.

I didn’t learn to cook at anyone’s side. I didn’t stand on a child-sized chair and watch the enchantment of a dash of this and a smidgen of that. When I was a kid, we used to go to a little hole-in-the-wall French restaurant on special occasions. The owner would roll out this massive dessert cart at the end of each meal. He wouldn’t even look at Mom and Dad. He’d just turn to Rascal and me and tell us to choose whatever we wanted. When the check came, our desserts were never included in the bill. I thought this man was as close to magic as there was. He made us all feel so enveloped, so loved. My dream was born then.

One day I asked Mom if I could make my own lunches. I’d come down to the kitchen the night before and stare into the pantry, with its endless possibilities. I loved the snapshot I’d get as I closed the lid over the lunch I’d composed—something that was finished and flawless. The next day at school I’d serve my creations to my friends—little measured offerings of love and acceptance. Envelopment. I knew, even at that young age, that making these beautiful gems every day allowed me to bring comfort and show my love for someone. I could communicate anything I was feeling through food and never have to muddy my hands in the mess of emotion.

I applied to the Culinary Institute after only one week at Columbia University. I was accepted for the following year and giddily told Columbia I wouldn’t be coming back for my sophomore year. I got confused phone calls from my mom, my dad, my academic adviser, and my high school guidance counselor. Rascal finally called two weeks later to ask if he could crash on my couch for a few weeks while he got his head together. Some things never change.

I decided to go into pastry when a visiting chef used the phrase “to taste” in reference to the amount of salt required for the complicated soufflé he was making. It was my second week at culinary school.

“Is it a tablespoon? Teaspoon? Quarter of a tablespoon?” I asked, pencil at the ready. I noticed that the other students were becoming uncomfortable. Well, I thought, a little discomfort now at my expense will certainly pay off when our soufflés don’t taste like a fucking salt lick during exams.

“Chef Page, cooking is about taste—it’s not an exact science. That’s really the beauty of it, don’t you think?” He smiled smugly, certain he’d just given me the nugget of brilliance that would fuel my entire culinary career. I immediately made plans to go into another branch of the culinary arts that didn’t condone such reckless abandon.

Chef Canet recruited me as head pastry chef for Beverly after he tasted my creations at a tiny bouchon in Lyon, France, where I apprenticed after graduating from the institute. In France, “apprentice” meant I was lucky to do anything in the kitchen during the day and extremely fortunate to scour copper pots with lemon and salt late into the night. My culinary instruction consisted of hurried moments when I was herded into the tiniest of kitchens and shouted at in French to slice this, garnish that, or clean that up. I’d never felt so invigorated or alive. I was paid next to nothing. I slept in a closet-sized room in the pastry chef’s house when I wasn’t working and saw very little of Lyon outside of that closet and the kitchen of the bouchon. After close to two years as a kitchen slave, I was allowed to assist the pastry chef on rare occasions. I learned French as quickly as I could, and kept my head down and my hands busy.

Always the trendsetter, Chef Canet opened his first restaurant in Los Angeles. He felt there was an untapped clientele just waiting for him there. That, and his ex-wives and lovers pretty much littered the streets of New York, Las Vegas, and France. L.A. would be a clean slate for him. For me, it meant going home.

I back into the restaurant, balancing the flat of peaches I purchased on the way in this morning at the local farmer’s market, along with another embarrassingly complicated coffee drink containing far too much espresso. My BlackBerry is pressed against my ear as I try to listen to Mom’s message. This could take days.

“Elisabeth? Where are you? Well, give me a call back. It was lovely seeing you the other week at the reading, sweetie. I’m so glad you could make it. We’ve arrived at the Montecito house. I need to know when we can expect you. Will you be joining us for lunch or dinner, darling? Sweetheart, pick up. Okay, well . . . be sure to call so I can have Iris set a place for you. Your brother is already here. He’s brought a girl. This one’s name is Sarah or something. Samantha. Doesn’t matter, I suppose—we won’t have to remember it for long. Dear, are you there? Okay, well, see you soon, darling.” Mom still believes I have one of those old-timey answering machines somehow hooked up to my BlackBerry and that I can listen to it like a speakerphone.

I beep the BlackBerry off and refocus. Saturday night at Beverly, one of the hottest restaurants in Los Angeles. A night of satisfying the bland yet pompous palates of out-of-towners, playing host to birthday or anniversary dinners, and trying not to upset any already awkward first dates. What this means for me: Everyone wants dessert. When the locals come into the restaurant during the week, they don’t usually order dessert. This is L.A., after all.

“Chef Page, come here. Now.” Chef Canet doesn’t look up—his demands are always heeded, his words always heard. I hurry over to him, still trying to balance the flat of peaches, my coffee, and the BlackBerry. When he’s not on a book tour or in a photo shoot or on a morning news show—this breaks down to about once a month—Chef Canet swans into the kitchen, announcing that he must improve the quality of the food in his restaurant. This announcement always leads to a night of displaced chefs, melodramatic (and spectacularly explosive) faux firings, and an amped-up tension that rivals the front lines of battle. Toni. . .