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"A book is a gift you can open again and again." Garrison Keillor

Literature is a textually transmitted disease, normally contracted in childhood.” Jane Yolen

"It is what you read when you don't have to that determines what you will be when you can't help it." Oscar Wilde

"Books have furnished, burnished, and enabled my life." Julia Keller

Monday, June 30, 2014

Book Showcase: THE WALK-IN CLOSET by Abdi Nazemian



The Walk-In Closet by Abdi Nazemian
ISBN: 9780615988689 (paperback)
ASIN: B00KHZ8CQ2 (Kindle edition)
Publication date: June 3, 2014
Publisher: Curtis Brown Digital


Kara Walker has never found much glamour in her own life, especially not when compared to the life of her best friend Bobby Ebadi. Bobby, along with his sophisticated parents Leila and Hossein, is everything Kara always wanted to be. The trio provides the perfect antidote to what Kara views as the more mundane problems of her girlfriends and her divorced parents. And so when the Ebadis assume that Kara is Bobby’s girlfriend, she willingly steps into the role. She enjoys the perks of life in this closet, not only Leila's designer hand-me-downs and free rent, but also the excitement of living life as an Ebadi.
As Kara's 30th birthday approaches, Leila and Hossein up the pressure. They are ready for Kara to assume the mantle of the next Mrs. Ebadi, and Bobby seems prepared to give them what they want: the illusion of a traditional home and grandchildren. How far will Kara be willing to go? And will she be willing to pull the Persian rug out from under them when she discovers that her own secret is just one of many lurking inside the Ebadi closet? 

Read an excerpt:

1
"I have the perfect shoes for you." Leila said with a smile. "They are just a little tight on me, so they should fit you perfectly." We were in her enormous walk-in closet, really more like a wing in the Ebadi house. It had once been an exercise room, but Leila got rid of the Solorflex and converted the gym into an immaculately organized, white-lacquered dressing room. The clothes were arranged by color. Sharp white suits on one end, slinky black dresses on the other, with yellow tanks, red skirts, and navy blazers between.
Leila popped open a white-lacquered panel, revealing rows and rows of shoes. Pumps. Stilettos. Boots. Herm├Ęs sneakers in every color. "You know you're like a daughter to me," she said. Music to my ears. Now, I loved my mother Harry. She had her endearing qualities, like the fact that she never cheated at online Scrabble, and that she made me matzo ball soup when I was sick even though we're not Jewish. But who wouldn't have traded in Harry for a mother who conducted spring cleaning by giving last season's couture to you? I'm not sure Harry even knew what couture was. Born and bred in Thousand Oaks, Harry lived in a world (not coincidentally, the world in which I was raised) of strip malls and outlet stores.
"Has Babak played you the new Omara Portuondo CD?" Leila asked.
"I don't think so," I responded.
"It's incredible, the music that comes out of Cuba. Repression always makes for such moving art." Leila pondered her statement and then added, "Of course, when we were in Havana a few years ago, the people didn't seem repressed at all. They actually appeared quite joyful. Ah, here they are." Leila handed me a pair of Prada flats adorned with lavender gemstones. "Aren't they pretty? Try them on."
"Leila, I can't."
"Just one week until Nowruz," she said. "You know it's customary to conduct an extensive spring cleaning before the New Year and replenish the closet."
"I just feel like you're spoiling me."
"What am I going to do? Give these clothes to somebody who will not appreciate them? Give me your foot," she ordered. She was a difficult woman to disobey. I kicked off my ratty old Steve Maddens and lifted my right foot, worried that she would make note of my chipped pedicure. Gently, she slipped the right flat on my foot. It fit flawlessly. As stylish as a stiletto, as comfortable as a slipper.
"Who needs Prince Charming," I joked, "when I have you?"
Never one to dwell on a sentimental moment, Leila immediately noticed an imperfection. "One of the amethysts fell off. I forgot."
"I don't care. They're beautiful."
"Here." Leila dug through a drawer full of old buttons and thread until she pulled out an amethyst and placed it carefully into my hand. "Rosa Maria can re-attach it. She was a seamstress before she came to us. She's very talented."
"You're too good to me."
"Do you wear Chanel, or is it too old for you" she asked.
"I'm turning thirty in less than a month. I think I can rock the Chanel now."
Leila flinched at my use of the word rock. To her, a rock was something you either kicked on the beach or put on your finger. She pulled a pink Chanel suit off the rack. Very Jackie O. "I never wear it anymore."
"I can't, Leila, you've given me enough."
"Stop with the tarof," she said.
Tarof was one of the untranslatable Farsi expressions I had picked up from the Ebadis and their friends. Basically: don't bother arguing when offered something, just accept graciously.
"Well, okay then. No more tarof. I'll take the whole closet."
"That's more like it, Kara djoon." I love when she speaks that beautiful endearment after my name.
I slipped the suit on in front of her, and it fit perfectly. It did make me look older, but in a sophisticated way. I assessed my reflection. My blond hair had recently been layered and highlighted at Leila's favorite salon. My skin was still glowing from the oxygen facial that Leila had treated me to the week before. And my body was looking firm from the Pilates session of Leila's that I'd crashed. For a single woman on the precipice of earliest middle age, I was looking pretty good. Of course, I wasn't single in Leila's eyes. I was abruptly reminded of that when "Gimme More," Britney's latest hit, rang from the cell phone in my purse.
Leila looked inside and pulled it out. "It's Babak," she said as she handed me the phone. On its screen was a photo of Bobby, reclining on the blue Astroturf of the Standard Hotel, palm trees reflected in his Aviator shades, his wavy jet-black hair almost blue in the glare of the sun.
"Getting impatient?" I answered.
"What are you two doing up there? Bobby whispered urgently.
"Trying on clothes."
"Well, hurry up. You know I can't stand this much one-on-one time alone with my dad. He's making me watch golf."
"Where are you calling from?"
"The guest bathroom. Just hurry." Bobby hung up.
"What does he vant?" Sometimes Leila slips and her Ws come out as Vs.
"Nothing."
"I don't see why he can't do without you and just watch golf for thirty minutes while we try on a few things. His father was never so possessive, thank goodness." She ran her hands along one of the immaculate white-lacquered shelves. "When we built this house, it was the beginning of the eighties–Babak was five when we were renovating it, so it was 1982. I always knew I wanted a large closet, and I wanted the shelves to be white lacquer, because it allows the colors of the clothes to dominate the room. There was one day–it was when the house was still under construction–the closet was one of the first rooms to be almost done. Maybe that's because I knew exactly what I wanted it to be. I sold the gym equipment that was in it and redesigned it immediately. So one day, we were walking the children in to choose their bedrooms, and Babak walked into this closet, and he shouted, 'This is mine.'"




About the author:



Abdi Nazemian is the screenwriter of The Quiet, Celeste in the City, Beautiful Girls, and the short film Revolution, which he also directed. He is an alumnus of the Sundance Writer's Lab, a mentor at the Outfest Screenwriter's Lab, and has taught screenwriting at UCLA Extension. He lives in Los Angeles with his two children and his dog, Hedy Lamarr. The Walk-In Closet is his first novel. 





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