Luna Rising Read online

  Dear Reader,

  As I’ve written in previous letters, I do believe in fate, and that I was fated to write this book. But unlike my earlier novels, this one took years to write. Why? Because love takes courage—and courage takes time.

  LUNA RISING is a love letter to myself, and to every woman. One early reviewer wrote, “I think that Castrovilla exposes a deep dark secret that many women share. Sometimes we are so desperate for love that we hold on to any relationship that comes our way. Many women can relate to this book deeply, even though most probably would not admit it.”

  This is is not always an “easy” novel to read—or a “pretty” one, but it’s honest. You know the saying, the truth hurts. Luckily, sometimes it’s damn funny, too.

  Please consider posting a review of LUNA RISING, as this is the primary way authors gain readers these days. Any shouts on social media are hugely appreciated!

  I’d love to have your thoughts. Write to me on my website:

  SeleneCastrovilla.com

  I also have a Facebook fan page:

  Selene Castrovilla (Facebook.com/SCastrovilla)

  and I’m on Instagram:

  Selene Castrovilla

  and Twitter:

  @SCastrovilla

  May you rise, like Luna.

  Love,

  Selene

  Copyright © 2017 by Selene Castrovilla

  All right reserved. Published by Last Syllable Books,

  4251 New York Avenue, Island Park, NY 11558

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the publisher, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews, or as provided by the United States of America copyright law.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. No portion of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without the written permission of the Publisher. Please purchase only authorized editions.

  Castrovilla, Selene

  Luna Rising / Selene Castrovilla. – 1st ed.

  p. cm

  Summary: A middle-aged suburban wife and mom divorces her gay husband and sets out on a quest for love.

  ISBN-10: 0-9916261-9-2 ISBN-13: 978-0-9916261-9-9

  [1. Self-realization in women—Fiction. 2. Psychological fiction. 3. Mothers—Fiction. 4. Love—Fiction. 5. Man-woman relationships—Fiction. 6. Search for happiness—Fiction. 7. Women authors. 8. Domestic fiction.]

  Table of Contents

  BOOKS BY SELENE CASTROVILLA

  Acknowledgments

  Christmas on Long Island

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  TWENTY-NINE

  THIRTY

  THIRTY-ONE

  THIRTY-TWO

  THIRTY-THREE

  THIRTY-FOUR

  THIRTY-FIVE

  THIRTY-SIX

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THIRTY-NINE

  FORTY

  FORTY-ONE

  FORTY-TWO

  FORTY-THREE

  FORTY-FOUR

  FORTY-FIVE

  FORTY-SIX

  FORTY-SEVEN

  FORTY-EIGHT

  FORTY-NINE

  FIFTY

  FIFTY-ONE

  FIFTY-TWO

  FIFTY-THREE

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Enjoy this excerpt from

  Praise for MELT

  Home

  One

  BOOKS BY SELENE CASTROVILLA

  Melt (Book One in the Rough Romance Trilogy)

  Signs of Life (Book Two in the Rough Romance Trilogy)

  The Girl Next Door

  Saved By the Music

  Revolutionary Friends

  Revolutionary Rogues

  By the Sword

  Upon Secrecy

  Selene is pleased to have a piece included in the charitable book anthology

  Travel in the Sixties,

  whose proceeds fund art/music therapy for Alzheimer’s patients.

  For Me

  Acknowledgments

  This book has been over a decade in the making. Thank you to everyone who has supported me—too many to name! (And some would wish to remain anonymous, I’m sure.)

  Christmas on Long Island

  Luna peered through her peephole, watching Trip cut across her yard past the inflated Santa. He was an hour late—early for him.

  Trip tramped raggedly through the pristine snow, leaving gopher-like piles in his wake. He stomped on Luna’s welcome mat and swung the door open without knocking. Trip never knocked. Prepared for this, Luna had already moved to the side when Trip clomped into her foyer. She slammed the door closed behind him to keep the cold out. But the chill Trip carried was inescapable. It shanked her senses like a Slurpee brain freeze.

  Trip looked good, snow boots aside. He’d literally cast them off to drip onto her hardwood floor. He now stood there in thick wool socks, wriggling his toes in a come-hither manner. Everything about Trip’s body signaled “come” to Luna—overriding her distaste for his demeanor and his piecemeal wardrobe. But tonight’s black leather coat was a sexy surprise—and a striking upgrade from the puffy Jets jacket he generally sported although he hated sports. That man wore anything he found at the Goodwill.

  Trip planted a perfunctory kiss on Luna’s lips and pressed a tan Kay Jewelers bag into her hands. She would’ve preferred a warmer greeting, but the bag held promise. What could it contain? Certainly not diamonds. Trip was too cheap for them. Maybe a charm bracelet?

  The bag was rumpled. It had probably been crushed under a mountain of surveillance cameras and digital video recorders in Trip’s car. Trip was a jack-of-all-trades, but providing electronic security to homes and businesses was his mainstay. Luna had always sought protection, but in a more primal, Tarzan/Jane way.

  She reached in the bag, but there was no box. Instead, she touched yarn. What the hell? She extracted two pairs of men’s gloves. One pair black, the other brown – and flimsy ones at that.

  Were they a joke?

  Did Trip have a real gift for her?

  How could the man who’d been so tender also be this cruel?

  Luna stared at Trip, who laughed. His brown eyes squinted even smaller than usual. It was rare to get a good glimpse of his pupils. Unveiled, they were filled with flecks of gold. So alluring—but they had a hunted look, like they belonged on a trembling fawn waiting for the crack of a gun. “Extras,” he said. His voice was warm and soothing—a verbal fleece blanket. It had a mesmerizing effect. “Can you believe three people gave me gloves for Christmas? I kept these.” He reached into his pockets and pulled out a pair that looked suede.

  “But… this bag…,” Luna spluttered. Trip’s vocal hypnotism only carried so far, and the misleading tote was out of bounds.

  He shrugged. “I found it in a dumpster. The gloves fit perfectly. Why waste wrapping paper, right?” He gave her a toothy smile, phony but still endearing. />
  Trip took his coat off. He perched it on her banister; obstructing the tin sign Luna had hung which read, Joy. It wasn’t just a seasonal decoration—it was also her middle name.

  Trip sauntered toward the living room. The leather wasn’t his only wardrobe improvement. Donning a cable-knit sweater (much thicker than the re-gifted gloves) and slacks instead of his typical thermal shirt and worn-out jeans made Trip extra appealing. His face held the lone vestige of the rugged working man he was. He hadn’t shaved. Luna loved Trip’s scruff, especially when it rubbed against her while they kissed…

  Stop thinking smutty thoughts! Don’t you deserve an upgrade? a familiar presence chided inside her head—the voice which had been counseling Luna for over twenty years. She’d dubbed it Jiminy, after Pinocchio’s conscientious cricket. But naming it didn’t mean she heeded it. Speaking of kisses, he didn’t give you a decent one—heck; he didn’t even say “Merry Christmas!” He just handed you a crumpled bag he dug from a pile of garbage. Rats probably slept in it!

  Jiminy always noted the ugly truth.

  The uglier truth was that there was no other present in sight. The gloves were seriously her gift. Why would Trip do this? For Christ’s sake (or, as her best friend, Sunny, would say, Christ on a cracker!), if you were visiting an acquaintance on Christmas night you brought them a nut platter or a ten-buck bottle of merlot. She’d been Trip’s lover for four months.

  Handing her nothing would’ve been better.

  Way better.

  She dropped the gloves on her counter and stepped into the living room. Maybe he’d say he’d been kidding, after all. You’re almost forty, Jiminy said, as though she didn’t know. A little old for kidding, wouldn’t you agree? She ignored him.

  Trip was flopped on the couch. He rested his feet on the holiday-adorned coffee table, shifting aside a ceramic snowman and framed pictures of her children from Christmases past.

  Her kids thought Trip was ancient, but he was forty-nine. His balding head threw them. He should shave it all off and be done with it, she thought – not for the first time. But it was his head and hair, not hers.

  Trip had a great physique, except for his skinny Kermit the Frog legs. It was his sturdy chest that attracted Luna the most. It made her feel protected, more than any of his security cameras ever could.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t say what she’d hoped. “Got any eggnog?” He knew she did. He’d asked her to buy him some, and she always did what he requested. He clicked the TV remote. The Santa Clause was on. She started toward the kitchen, eager for a task that would distract her, however momentarily. “Babe, c’mere.”

  She turned back. This was it! He was going to reveal the joke! “Yes?”

  “Come close.”

  Did he have a gift wedged in his pocket? Perhaps he was going to tell her about it? Trip liked to travel… maybe he’d whisk her off somewhere exotic! She hoped her ex, Nick, wouldn’t be a dick about watching the kids for a week or so.

  She squatted to just under eye level with Trip and looked up at him. His scent was so intoxicating that she almost fell on her ass. Trip touched her crown and ran his fingers gingerly through her hair. It was crazy, the way his weathered, calloused hand could be so gentle. “Aha! Got it!” he proclaimed. “Piece of lint.” A minuscule fuzzy rested in his open palm. Trip pursed his lips, blew, and off the speck flew. Luna thought briefly of Whoville, and its beleaguered citizens, desperate to be heard. It was a story Dylan still enjoyed, while Ben had never liked it. He had nightmares about Whoville being boiled.

  Trip gave Luna a pat on the head and turned back to the show. Luna teetered for a moment, then rose.

  Inflatable Santa’s suit shined red through Luna’s kitchen window. She thought lawn blow-ups were ridiculous, but Trip had insisted on depositing it on her lawn a few days ago. (He had a shitload of Clauses in storage, thanks to garbage-picking behind K-Mart post holiday clearance one year.) “Your kids will love it,” he’d told her. As if he knew what they’d love. The closest he’d come to meeting them was when they caught a glimpse of his male-pattern baldness as he slipped out the front door one morning just after they awoke. And so St. Nick had arrived and now waved incessantly at the Jewish neighbors across the street. They were the only audience on this dead-end.

  The kids, who had in fact been unimpressed with Santa’s presence, were sleeping at Nick’s (her ex-husband, not the saint.) Luna had looked forward to her first holiday with Trip, ignoring the steady decline of their relationship like a child believing in Christmas miracles.

  Maybe things were turning around. After all, they’d just shared an endearing moment. Picking the lint from her hair showed he cared, right?

  Oh, please, Jiminy scoffed. Such a buzzkill. Mister Critic detected a flaw, and then he petted you like a dog.

  “He was being sweet.” Luna countered. Why couldn’t Jiminy give her that? Why couldn’t he leave it alone?

  He’s reduced you to canine behavior, Luna. Don’t you see he’s got you begging for scraps?

  Luna didn’t want to see. She just wanted to pour Trip his eggnog and get through whatever it took before she and Trip climbed under her covers. At least the orgasms he bestowed weren’t re-gifted.

  She’d coined the thing they did in her bed “making half-love.” There was no other term that fit the situation.

  To make love, both parties needed to keep their eyes open and focused. Luna was too well-acquainted with Trip’s wrinkly eyelids. They looked like elephant skin, except they weren’t grey.

  Nor would she concede to tagging it “having sex.” For Luna it was much more than that.

  Technically they were “fornicating”—but that conjured thoughts of something gross involving horns, Formica and cats—while the word “intercourse” sounded like a seminar about cross-country highways.

  “Making half-love” was the most satisfying label she could summon.

  Luna imagined gliding her fingers across the hairs on Trip’s back. They were double-arched, shaped like the wings of an angel. She thought sometimes Trip was a gruff herald, sent to teach her lessons she didn’t want to learn.

  He’s just a jerk in need of manscaping, said Jiminy.

  Doing her best to ignore Jimmy’s comment, Luna turned to open a cabinet—but her gaze met those gloves on the counter. She felt her face redden, then sucked her emotions back. One day your head’s going to burst from all those feelings you’re keeping inside, said Jiminy. Just like a bowl of spaghetti sauce cooked too long in the microwave. Pop! Splat!

  She considered this. It could happen…

  Jiminy wasn’t done. Ask yourself: What would Sunny do?

  Sunny would’ve shoved Trip right back out the door. But then, Sunny wouldn’t have invited him over. “I like to go to their place and then leave,” Sunny once said about her dates. “Let them through the doorway and they want to lie around afterwards, all sprawled out. Nobody likes a lingerer.”

  No one, except for Luna. She wanted more than a lingerer—she wanted a partner who wouldn’t leave. That certainly wasn’t Trip, who would clomp back out the door soon after he woke in the morning.

  She stared at the gloves. If love was for sale, Trip’s knockoff would be in the dollar store. Was she willing to give up her dignity in exchange for a slipshod product?

  The things from the dollar store never held up. You got what you paid for.

  She sighed deeply, and then shivered. “You’re right, Jiminy. I have to break up with him.”

  Hallelujah! Jiminy cheered. Why don’t you go do it right now?

  “It’s not so easy,” Luna replied. She reached into her cabinet and took out a glass. But instead of pouring Trip’s eggnog, she poured herself some pinot grigio. Her hand shook as she gulped. How would she break up with Trip? She hated confrontation, almost as much as she abhorred sleeping solo.

  It is that easy! Jiminy persisted. Remember Dr. Gold’s advice.

  Luna’s chiropractor boiled life down to t
hree rules, which dangled above his adjustment table. They read:

  Breathe.

  Drink water.

  Everything always works out.

  “Note,” Dr. Gold told her during one visit, “it doesn’t say, ‘Everything always works out the way you want it to.’”

  Boy, did Luna know that.

  She took a deep breath and let it out, and then guzzled more Pinot. Water had to be an ingredient, right?

  If you asked Luna about herself and how her life had worked out so far, here’s what she’d say:

  STATS ON LUNA

  Name: Luna Joy Lampanelli (Her middle name was actually Gioia, pronounced ‘Joya’ and meaning ‘Joy’ in Italian, but she had gone to the English version because everyone mispronounced it ‘Goya.’ Luna was not a bean.)

  Ethnic background: Italian (from the north, her mother would always remind her) and Russian.

  Marital status: Divorced.

  Children: Two sons: Ben, age 12, and Dylan, age 7.

  Body: Slim with curves.

  Hair: Brown, subtly highlighted with blonde.

  Occupation: Writer of children’s books.

  Favorite physical activities: Sex and boxing (real, not kick).

  Other likes: What a strange thing it was to classify ‘likes’! Luna wanted to like everything, to appreciate whatever she was doing. This is what she wanted—she hadn’t quite gotten there. It was difficult, training one’s mind to heel, sit and stay in the moment. That said, the things she liked most were books, coffee and the color purple.

  Dislikes: Being left in limbo, travel mugs (she hated that plastic taste), shitty/inconsiderate Christmas gifts.

  Religion: A toughie. Both her mom and her aunt had experienced bad breaks with Catholicism and hammered their stories into her. Luna’s only positive brush with organized religion came from random exposure to her aunt’s subsequent zeal for Zen Buddhism, but it was more confusing than compelling, and saying “Mu” during a meditation didn’t exactly make her popular with her schoolmates. As an adult she yearned for something to believe in, but what? And how? Immersed in their religions, Luna saw people as salmon—immobilized in a frosty lake of dogma. And even if they managed to thaw, how could they swim upstream? She toyed with starting her own ministry: The Church of the Frozen Salmon, but lacked the actual ambition to do it. Twelve Step meetings described a “higher power” less constraining than the gods in theological creeds, but she still struggled with the concept. Even addressing her higher power had been a problem: “God” was so almighty, “Goddess” too glib, and “HP” made her think of Hewlett Packard. Finally she acquiesced to “God,” both for lack of a better idea and because a slight bow to tradition couldn’t hurt. And anyway, as Jiminy reminded her, What’s in a name?