Guest Post: Rebecca Branch

 Hello Readers! I am always eager to share the work of other authors I admire, and I am delighted to do so again today with Rebecca Branch! Rebecca will be sharing an excerpt from Harvesting the Turnip, a romantic memoir. But first, a little about the author....

 

 

Rebecca Branch's novels are available on Kindle

Welcome, Rebecca! Tell us about yourself!

My name is Rebecca Branch, and I am the mother of two outstanding young women, one a scientist working on her Ph.D. at McGill and the other an educator working on her Ph.D. at Oxford. I live in the Catskill Mountains in a little town called Hudson and on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, one hundred miles south. I am an architect by trade but an art historian by education. My father was an American archaeologist and my mother an Italian artist, writer, and socialite. I grew up in Rome and New York, shared by divorced parents, attending UC Berkeley for my undergraduate work and Columbia University for my Ph.D. I worked as an assistant to the curator of Greco Roman arts at the Metropolitan Museum in my youth before leaving to earn a livable wage. I entered the design community and was the interior designer for Donna Karan, Calvin Klein, Revlon, Chanel, Hugo Boss, Armani, Danskin, and J. Crew. I also modeled through my college years and into my early thirties.

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I started writing romance novels on a dare in 2013 while in-between jobs. My first novel was Summer of 71, a story of romance and discovery set in Rome, a city with which I am very familiar, and a place where I lecture on Roman history, architecture and Italian culture bi-annually. My second book is Great Caesar’s Ghost which continues the story with my hero Maximilian DuPont, and is a time-travel romance skirting periods from the first century BC through the modern day and even into the future. My third work is A Roman Holiday and continues the series, adding Julius Caesar to the time-travel team.

 

Then my life changed. My husband suffered a near-fatal auto accident in 2004 and lost his memory for several months and his ability to walk for two years. When he returned to the family, he was mad at the world over his lack of memory. He focused his anger on me. I cared for him for the next twelve years, but we both suffered his recovery. On October 26^th, 2016, he decided to leave me and move to Florida where he was offered work. Both my daughters were gone at college. I’d lost my job. My house was deep in foreclosure. That night, I attended a function at the United Nations where I am a board member. Seated beside me at the dinner table in the secretariat was the most beautiful woman I’d ever met. She was a celebrity swimsuit model, using the alias Jessica Rossi, but I knew who she was. I’d seen her pictures in my husband’s Sports Illustrated swimsuit issues. We were both suffering the men in our lives. We were both miserable with where life had taken us. We connected so quickly and had the best evening together and we met again the next day.

 

I was married for twenty-four years and fell in love with this woman who was half my age. She moved in three months later when we finally stopped kidding ourselves and became lovers. Jess and I have been living together since July 2017. It’s been the best time in my life. I am renewed. I am half of a team. She inspired me and I wrote The Resurrection of Griffin Ballard. It is my shortest work and is a contemporary romance between an older man and a younger woman. Jessica is the inspiration for Bethany Lambert, the heroine who saves Griffin’s life, much as Jess has saved mine.

 

I have been inspired ever since and several books followed. I continued the time-travel series with Out of Time’s Abyss and take my audience to renaissance Florence. Then I changed direction and wrote about my life and meeting Jessica in a memoir titled, The Girl Who Fell Off the Turnip Truck. It felt so good to write about ourselves that Jess, who never wrote anything in her life, agreed at my request to write about her modeling career and the time leading up to meeting me. She completed Harvesting the Turnip and I edited it. It was an amazing collaboration and I kept it true to her voice. Then we wrote a book together, again about us, but this time a fictional account about what if we had met when we were both young before I was married and had children. The book is titled A Modern Roman Holiday.

 

In May 2021, amid the Covid lockdown, I wrote Hey Alexa. It’s a heartwarming story of a terminally ill man who finds true love at the end of his life. But it’s also an adventure, exciting, sexy and a happily ever after affair. I am now writing my next time-travel sequel and Jess is writing a futuristic science fiction. She was just accepted at a prestigious New England college and will enter in the fall of 2021 as a twenty-nine-year-old freshman.

 

Although sometimes placed in the erotic category, my work is far more about self-awareness, relationship building, coming of age, loss of innocence, personal development, reclamation, the culture of Italy, art and architectural history, an examination of the passage of time, food, and humor. I write as an adult to an adult audience and do not hide physical relationships behind closed doors. But what I write is loving and respectful of both genders, light and upbeat, fulfilling and satisfying. No one gets hurt, no one degraded. You should walk away from each of my books with a smile and an increased knowledge of the western world, Rome’s influence, politics, the social revolution, religion, and the inimitable wonder of a loving relationship between a good man and woman…and more recently…two good women.

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This excerpt from Harvesting the Turnip is the true story of how Jessica and I met four years ago. This book is biographical and can best be described as a memoir. I wrote The Girl Who Fell Off the Turnip Truck and asked Jess to write her own version of the same period of time, from 2017 to 2020. Read on…

The Dinner Date

            I was late. I’m always late. I didn’t even want to go to the event at the UN, but I’d promised my friend from CNN. He said he would make a big fuss over me, and we’d be sitting with the Secretary-General and a bunch of corporate CEOs. That was definitely not what I wanted, and I told him so. “Put me at a table towards the rear so I can make a quick getaway,” I asked. I knew he had to sit with the Secretary-General and the inductees to the awards they were handing out for corporate environmental responsibility.

I wore a white Valentino dress, which went down to my ankles and showed just a hint of cleavage. I even wore a bra. I really didn’t want to draw attention to myself. Coming into the entrance hallway, I could hear the festivities of a large crowd as I approached the kids working reception. Pretty people aged fifteen to eighteen, I guessed. Young boys in tuxedos and girls dressed for prom. I smiled and gave my name. Well, I gave my alias, Jessica Rossi.

I was at table twenty-eight, two tables left of center stage. Jimmy was the emcee and was already giving his welcoming speech, coming to an end just as I started winding my way to my seat with an intern guide ahead of me. There was one seat left and a card which read Ms. Rossi. I was glad to have chosen an alias this evening. I didn’t want to be Mrs. Anybody.

There was a couple speaking head to head on my right who hadn’t noticed my arrival, but the other seat, on my left, was occupied by a slender brunette, decked out all in black. She was looking away as I pulled out my chair, and I looked over her exposed shoulders to steal a glance at her immense bust. I stood above her for a sec to judge if they were real. Her skin was tanned and clear, her arms long and slender. She wore a beautiful necklace of amethyst and gold. Damn, she has the most beautiful hands and nails. I realized I was gonna be sitting beside the competition, another model strategically placed to keep me company, I guessed. I sat, placed my napkin in my lap, and instantly a waiter asked, “Red, or white, Mademoiselle?”

What was I doing here? I don’t belong. This is not my crowd. God, I hope no one speaks to me, especially this knockout sitting in the next seat over. She’s probably French and sophisticated and educated. I could have remained at home. I could be watching a National Geographic episode about lemurs. Why did I accept this invitation? Jimmy is a friend, not a love interest. He’s not even seated near me. He’s aware there’s no spark between us, and heaven only knows, I’m so disinterested in men right now that the next guy to fall in my crosshairs was doomed in any case.

My knee brushed up against Coco Chanel beside me, and I tried to think of the words for hello in French, for that was where she came from. I could hear her accent, although I had no idea what she was saying. She had a deep voice and spoke her French in a sing-song kind of way.

I looked at her place card, and it read Mrs. Margaret Anderson. She turned to greet me. Holy shit! She’s not a model. She’s a designer or a celebrity, maybe a movie star.

Look at her! I suddenly felt so small and out of place. Why the fuck am I here? This place needs no decoration, it needs no additional talent, it has her.

                        “Hello, and welcome to the U.N.A. event,” she said in that musical voice, now directed at me. “Hey, you’re…”

“Shhh,” I interrupted. “Don’t say anything. I’m here, incognito.” I used the longest word in my vocabulary. Now, what more could I say to impress anybody?

“Oh, come on. Everybody here knows who you are.” She pointed to my place card and spoke the name slowly, “Ms. Rossi?” She laughed. “You look about as Italian as a girl from Stockholm.”

I explained that I couldn’t imagine this demographic knowing any swimsuit models, and that was my claim to fame. What amazed me was between the laughs and smiles she gave me was the knowledge that she had recognized me immediately. Couldn’t imagine many women who thumbed through the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue. I was so glad to have been able to use the word demographic. That’s two long words to keep her from thinking I’m an idiot!

She told me that my hiding in plain sight was bullshit, then covered her mouth with her hand and apologized for the profanity, saying she’d already had two cocktails. I laughed. She was so cute, but I also knew I’d have to watch my choice of words. This woman was classy as hell.

She introduced herself and gave her name: Molly. She spoke, and I listened. Her voice was melodic, and I suddenly realized I was listening to the music of her speech, not the lyrics. I watched her face. She had a mouth that spanned the globe. Perfect teeth, nose, and those eyes! Oh my God, those eyes were black. What a knockout.

I’m rarely intimidated by the competition. I check out other models as they look me over. It’s the biz. But my fears are usually regarding age and height. At twenty-five, I was already losing work to girls of sixteen. This image before me was no child or stick figure. This was a woman at the height of her attraction. She exuded sex appeal, grace, and charm. I tried to refocus on what she was saying. Daughters? She was telling me she had two daughters, one almost my age. What the fuck! No way!

Then she dropped the bomb. She was forty-nine years old. I was flattened. How could anyone look like this at that age? Looking her over, I knew I’d never be able to keep up. She’s sophisticated and accomplished, no doubt. She obviously speaks French, but her English is so articulate. I loved hearing her speak.

Our salads were taken away, hardly touched, as we were so engaged in meeting. Then a lump of raw meat was placed before us.

“What’s this?” I asked the waiter.

“Your tartare, mademoiselle.”

“Aren’t you going to cook it?”

Molly thanked the waiter and laughed gently, and I knew right away, I’d said something stupid. Somehow, I wasn’t as embarrassed in front of her as I thought I might be. I looked in those black eyes, and she swept a tendril of hair from my cheek.
                        “This is meant to be eaten raw,” she said. “It’s called steak tartare and it’s ground filet with capers, olives, anchovies, cornichons, onion, mustard, oil, and vinegar. It’s a French delight.”

“Is it?” I poked it with my fork.

She took the fork from my hand, wiped the prongs with her napkin, and placed it on the table. “Here,” she said. “Use this smaller fork,” and she lifted hers from her place setting. Always use utensils from the outside-in. By the time the main course comes, you should be using your large fork and knife.”

I just stared down at the lump of raw meat in front of me. She picked up her smaller fork and took some of the tartare in front of me and lifted it to my lips. I smiled and opened my mouth hesitantly.

She held the forkful in front of me for the longest time while I kept my mouth open. “Don’t think of it as raw meat. Think of it as sushi, or something entirely unknown but worth the tasting.” I chewed. Damn. This is good. This is really good! I liked my steak rare, so it wasn’t such a stretch for me, after all. We ate, watching one another. I couldn’t take my eyes off her, and I copied everything she did, her handling of silver, napkin, how she drank; everything I did was one step behind her.

I stood for a moment to arrange my dress. Suddenly, I felt I had to look my best. She stood too, and I looked up three or four inches. Holy shit! She’s over six feet tall. I’m five-ten, and she towered over me, even though feminine and delicate. Now I was confronted by her bust. It was right in front of my chin, and her dress showed it off, the curve of her breasts so perfectly round and upright. Wow, what a figure. I could probably stash my clutch between her boobs! I guess I was staring because she laughed as she asked my age, watching my eyes focus on her tits.

I immediately added five years subconsciously, before she guessed me as thirty. All I had to do was agree, and I did. Why? Why did I just lie about my age? Not only did I lie, but I added five years. We sat again, and I apologized for checking her out. She looked amused, and that smile killed me. “I was a model once, and we both know that models always check each other out,” she said.

“Well, what do you think about me?” I asked.

“Are you kidding, you’re delicious! You’ve got to be one of the most breathtaking women I’ve ever met!”

Oh, my God. She called me delicious! No one had ever called me delicious before. I reached over and stroked her arm and smiled my delight that she liked the way I look. “I’m glad you’re my date,” I told her. Everyone at the table was a couple, and that left us together. I was so happy.

She told me she was an architect and an art history teacher, and I gulped. This friendship would last until I ran out of things to say in five fucking minutes. But that didn’t happen. Somehow, she drew me out. It was an art, the way she drew the words out of me. I was sure she’d be the only one talking, but her questions and tangents moved the conversation to nearly anything and everything. I’d never felt so comfortable with someone in my life. We spoke of travel and modeling, youth and parents, fashion and money, and finally…husbands.

We were both in pain regarding men. That was clear. But she was married for more than twenty years, and he was leaving her. Who the fuck would leave her? She spoke around the subject, being faithful and kind to a man who was ditching her the next morning. No complaints, no anger, just excuses for failing him! Kindness and beauty don’t often run hand in hand, but this woman was a giver. She was sweet and devoted and wholesome beyond belief, all in the hottest wrapping I’d ever seen. Why the heck wasn’t she on the cover of every fashion magazine? And why was she being so nice to me?

Soon, the entire story of her failed marriage came out, and I realized she was a survivor. The man she loved had suffered a brain injury in an auto accident. It had left him angry and frightened. She’d enjoyed six years of a blissful marriage to the perfect guy, and then he’d changed. She’d cared for him for sixteen years and did everything she could to bring him back from the hell he was living in his mind, but to no avail. Molly was convinced he was leaving her as a ‘beau geste’, she said; a ‘kind gesture’ to remove himself from her care so she could begin a new life. If this was true, he was the most gallant man I’d ever heard of. But God was she in pain. I was so happy to let her unload on me, and the speed with which she took me into her confidence was revealing. I think she has no one to talk to, no one who’d understand.

He was leaving for Florida the next morning. I told her I was free if she wanted to talk. Both her daughters were away at college and the thought of her being alone broke my heart. I felt like I was crossing a line, making such an offer after so short a time. But she smiled and suggested we meet for a tour of the Met the next day. Oh, my God. She wants to walk me through the Metropolitan Museum? She doesn’t want this evening to end. She really likes me! I touched her some more as we spoke. Nothing outrageous, but I couldn’t help myself. I stroked her arms and held her hands in her lap. She raised her brow and confronted me on it with a devilish smile. She had black magic, this one. Damn.

“Are you gay?” she asked, a look of amusement in her face, delivered with a tilt of her head and raised brows.

“I wasn’t until this evening,” I blurted out, and we both laughed and laughed.

I’m not gay. I’m not gay at all, I thought. Fuck! I’m hardly hetero. But I’m attracted to her. I’ve been hitting on her the way men hit on me all evening, and she apparently likes it. Not once in my entire life had I felt this kind of attraction. It wasn’t physical really, or maybe it was in part. I was attracted to everything…the way she looked, the way she spoke, the way she made me feel…it was ridiculous. Every part of her seemed exaggerated, too good to be true. Her facial features were huge, brows, lashes, lips, eyes. No photoshop necessary for this chick. Her neck and arms and hands were all perfect, big bust, tiny waist, round hips, and those legs! But it was so much more than a two-dimensional evaluation I was conducting. She was elegance defined. She could teach poise and manners. I had watched her handle her silver and was immediately self-conscious about my own ability. Then she taught me how to do the same without ever judging me. I went nuts over the way she tilted her head and moved so slowly, always straight as a board, her back rarely touching the chair, her chin up, and the way she looked into my eyes without ever breaking contact. God damn!

When the evening was coming to an end, she stood, took my hand, and walked me over to the main table, introducing me to Ban Ki-moon, the Secretary-General of the United Nations. He introduced me to his wife, and others extended their hands. He asked what I do, and Molly answered. “Jessica is famous in the world of fashion and wants to start a foundation in a few years to help children. She’s here for the first time to see what we do at the UN.”

Suddenly I was surrounded by corporate CEOs, asking if I’d ever been a spokesperson or fund-raiser. Now I was speaking to ambassadors and government representatives – both foreign and domestic – asking me to take a look at their foundations. And there she was, just feet away from me, looking me over with a huge smile on her face. What the heck? She’d had me ambushed and was smiling with great amusement. I looked at her with astonishment, and she laughed quietly into her hand, covering her lips.

“You set that up!” I accused, as she led me away from this group of world leaders, making excuses that I had to go as if I was the important person in this crowd.

“No set-up, sweetie. I just had to prove to myself that you’re an idiot, saying you can’t mix with important people. You were wonderful! You made me proud to be the one to introduce you.”

I looked at her, and damn it, she did look proud. I swear I’d never come so close to someone in such a short time. She stepped up to me and gave me a hug, pressing her tits into my face as I struggled to look up. Holy shit! These boobs are definitely real. Someone could be asphyxiated in here if not careful.

“Now, I’m really sorry,” she said. “but I have to clean up and dismiss the interns. Tomorrow, at the Met, then?”

“Can I stay? Can I help you clean up?” I asked.

“Of course, you mean, may you stay? May you help clean up?” she corrected my grammar. “And the answer is, you may.” She smiled at me and reached for my hand. We collected all the centerpiece bouquets and handed them to some of the guests, then said goodbye to the interns, several of whom recognized me and asked for selfies. I was mystified. I’d never been anywhere out of the spotlight. She stole the show, and the people at this party were more interested in my intentions for do-gooding than in my appearance.

She collected her wrap and we strolled the long hallway to the lobby. I reached over and put my arm around her waist as we walked, and she did the same. We had the same rhythm, the same step. I loved holding her waist and slid my hand up and down her hip. The doorman flagged a taxi with his whistle, and I reached in my purse and turned, telling her to hold still. Pulling out a folded napkin, I slid it down her neck.

“Oh dear, did I spill something?”

“Nope. Just want a record of the smell of you, that’s all,” I answered. Her eyes opened wide, and she smiled as I brought the paper cloth up to my nose.

We hugged once more, and I whispered in her ear. “You are fucking amazing, Molly. I had the best time tonight!”

Kissing her goodbye on her cheeks at the taxi, I turned to take a final look as the car pulled away. This was my first time looking at her from a distance. She was easily six inches taller than the doorman. Oh, my God, she’s Jessica Rabbit! Look at that figure! What a magical night! I came here, so depressed, and left feeling like a princess departing a ball.

I got home and lay in my bed, thinking of all that had happened this evening. Clutching the napkin to my face, I took a breath and smiled. Holy shit! I’m really attracted to another woman. What the fuck? Am I gay? Had I simply found a best friend? Will she still treat me this well and be interested in me tomorrow at the Met? Or was she just riding high from the alcohol?

Shit, we didn’t exchange numbers or emails. What if she’s a no-show? Bullshit. She’ll be there. I know she will. Our meeting was just fantastic for the both of us. I couldn’t stop thinking about seeing her again. What would I wear?

I jumped out of bed and started to go through my wardrobe. After a half-hour of pointless activity, I settled on a simple white dress, thigh length, shoulders exposed.

Learn more about Rebecca Branch by visiting her page!