Family Affair
Page 1
Praise for Caprice Crane’s novels
FAMILY AFFAIR
“Perceptive, touching, and always hilarious, this is Caprice Crane’s best work yet. It’s an irresistible story with equal parts humor and heart.”
—EMILY GIFFIN, New York Times bestselling author of Love the One You’re With
“The phrase ‘You don’t marry the man; you marry his family’ has never rung so true. Family Affair is so full of heart and humor, you’ll want to squeeze into the family station wagon and sit shotgun for the ride.”
—STEPHANIE KLEIN, New York Times bestselling author of Straight Up and Dirty and Moose
“With a finely tuned ear for dialogue and a biting sense of humor, Family Affair is another winner. Crane is masterful at creating lovably flawed characters and placing them in hilariously relatable predicaments. I simply adored this book because no one does fiction funnier than Caprice Crane.”
—JEN LANCASTER, New York Times bestselling author of Pretty in Plaid
“An unflinchingly honest, fiercely funny, unexpectedly tender story of a marriage between two very appealing people you’ll root for every step of the way.”
—MELISSA SENATE, author of The Secret of Joy
“Hilarious and sharp, with perfect emotional pitch, Family Affair provides everything Caprice Crane fans have come to expect—freshness, truth, and fun.”
—LANI DIANE RICH, author of Wish You Were Here
“This is a clever and unique take on the romantic comedy—witty, touching, and often laugh-out-loud funny. I loved it.”
—ALISON PACE, author of City Dog
FORGET ABOUT IT
“So funny and wise, I forgot about my own problems while reading it.”
—VALERIE FRANKEL, author of Thin Is the New Happy
“So clever I wish I had amnesia so I could read it again for the first time.”
—JEN LANCASTER
“Another triumph for the author … Jordan’s transformation from subservient to assertive is incredibly fun and empowering.”
—Romantic Times
“Savage wit and breathtaking tenderness … Caprice Crane has romantic comedy in her DNA.”
—JEFF ARCH, Oscar-nominated screenwriter of Sleepless in Seattle
“Hilarious … delightful from start to finish.”
—STACEY BALLIS, author of The Spinster Sisters
STUPID AND CONTAGIOUS
“Definitely not your mother’s chick lit … filled with one hilarious and clever surprise after the next.”
—Romantic Times
“With this winning romantic comedy, former MTV head writer Crane delivers a first novel reminiscent of Laura Zigman’s bestselling Animal Husbandry. Crane makes light comedy, usually so difficult to create and sustain, look effortless.”
—Booklist
“Crane’s … style of writing is both endearing and hysterically funny.”
—Star Magazine
“A truly exceptional book—funny, twisted, clever, mean, and always brilliant.”
—ANNA MAXTED, author of A Tale of Two Sisters
“So much fun … snappy dialogue … Crane’s giddy, playful prose feels fresh.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Heaven Albright, the irrepressible and sexy heroine, is bursting with humor that is smart and infectious.”
—BRIAN DOYLE-MURRAY, co-writer of Caddyshack
“Stupid and Contagious is anything but stupid and is completely contagious. Infectious, riotous, and hip beyond belief, it’s a great read.”
—ISABEL ROSE, author of The J.A.P. Chronicles
“A witty romantic comedy debut.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Smart and feisty! Milk-snorting funny and playfully intriguing! Love it!”
—KAREN SALMANSOHN, author of The Bounce Back Book
“Insanely funny and outrageous, Stupid and Contagious effortlessly captures the glorious awkwardness of becoming who you are, finding that special someone who drives you crazy, and ultimately following your dreams wherever they may take you.”
—ERICA KENNEDY, author of Bling
“Caprice Crane’s writing is so cool, I feel like the geek girl stalking her locker, trying to slide a mix CD through the slats before she spots me. Stupid and Contagious is hilarious and insightful. A book with its own soundtrack, this is one not to miss.”
—PAMELA RIBON, author of Why Moms Are Weird
“Caprice Crane brings her respect for music and all of its universal sentiment into her stylish, page-turning, sharp-tongued debut novel.”
—LIZA PALMER, author of Seeing Me Naked
“Caprice Crane rocks! This is the best book I’ve read in a long, long time. Sharp, original, and wickedly funny, this is a must-read. I absolutely loved it.”
—JOHANNA EDWARDS, bestselling author of How to Be Cool
ALSO BY CAPRICE CRANE
Stupid and Contagious
Forget About It
For my fabulous grandmother Betty Yaeger, whose antics are only forgiven because she firmly believes she’s the queen of England—or some facsimile thereof. The woman who at ninety-three years old said to my mother the night before her most recent birthday, “Why is everybody celebrating you? I’m the one who went through all the suffering and the labor.” A truly magnificent one-of-a-kind being, whom I adore despite—and because of—all she is. This one’s for you, Grandma.
Contents
Cover
Other Books By This Author
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1 - layla
Chapter 2 - brett
Chapter 3 - layla
Chapter 4 - trish
Chapter 5 - layla
Chapter 6 - brett
Chapter 7 - layla
Chapter 8 - brett
Chapter 9 - scott
Chapter 10 - layla
Chapter 11 - brett
Chapter 12 - layla
Chapter 13 - trish
Chapter 14 - layla
Chapter 15 - brett
Chapter 16 - layla
Chapter 17 - scott
Chapter 18 - ginny
Chapter 19 - brett
Chapter 20 - layla
Chapter 21 - trish
Chapter 22 - layla
Chapter 23 - brett
Chapter 24 - trish
Chapter 25 - layla
Chapter 26 - brett
Chapter 27 - layla
Chapter 28 - brett
Chapter 29 - trish
Chapter 30 - ginny
Chapter 31 - brett
Chapter 32 - layla
Chapter 33 - brett
Chapter 34 - layla
Chapter 35 - brett
Chapter 36 - layla
Chapter 37 - brett
Chapter 38 - layla
Chapter 39 - brett
Chapter 40 - layla
Chapter 41 - trish
Chapter 42 - layla
Chapter 43 - brett
Chapter 44 - layla
Chapter 45 - brett
Chapter 46 - layla
Chapter 47 - brett
Chapter 48 - layla
Chapter 49 - ginny
Chapter 50 - brett
Chapter 51 - layla
Chapter 52 - scott
Chapter 53 - layla
Chapter 54 - scott
Chapter 55 - layla
Chapter 56 - scott
Chapter 57 - layla
Chapter 58 - brett
Chapter 59 - layla
Chapter 60 - brett
Chapter 61 - layla
Chapter 62 - brett
Chapter 63 - layla
Chapter 64 - brett
Chapter 65 - lay
la
Chapter 66 - brett
Chapter 67 - layla
Chapter 68 - brett
Chapter 69 - trish
Chapter 70 - brett
Chapter 71 - layla
Chapter 72 - brett
Chapter 73 - layla
Chapter 74 - brett
Chapter 75 - ginny
Chapter 76 - layla
Chapter 77 - brett
Excerpt from With a Little Luck
About the Author
Copyright
“Blood’s thicker than mud.
It’s a family affair….”
—SLY AND THE FAMILY STONE
acknowledgments
First, and always, I thank my mom, Tina Louise, whom I love, cherish, and adore more than could ever be expressed right here. You are my heart.
Thanks to the rest of my tiny family, which actually leaves only my grandmother and my stepmom, Ginger Crane. I love you. This year was a hard one. (R.I.P., Dad. “Go placidly amid the noise and haste….”)
Well, and my dog, Max, my baby shih tzu, who is not so much a baby anymore but I keep lying to myself to keep him young. Max is the most handsome boy with the most stunning underbite that has ever graced a face.
Thanks to Sarah Self at Gersh, my awesome agent, who dubbed this “The Year of the Crane.” (Hopefully, I’ll get more than one, but I’ll take what I can get.) Thanks to Jenny Bent, for guiding me to Bantam/Random House, and to my amazing editor, Danielle Perez, for welcoming me to my new publishing home. And to all the other wonderful people at Bantam/Random House who are working so hard on my behalf.
Huge thanks to two friends who read and reread this book tirelessly: David Vanker, for helping me see the forest through the trees and always reminding me of Thomas Mann’s quote “Only the exhaustive is truly interesting.” And to Chris Keeslar, whose magic extends far beyond his World of Warcraft game console.
And of course a giant thank-you to the rest of my dearest friends, who really are my family when it comes down to it: Rick Biolsi, Adam Carl, Denise Diforio, Glen E. Friedman, Dave Fruehe, Gilly Garrett, the Goodmans, the Gores, Jeff Judah, Devon Kellgren, Jacqueline Lord, Nez Mandel, the McNowns, Missy Peregrym, the Pruetts, Simone Reyes, Gabe Sachs, Jeff Schneider, Allison Schroeder, Michelle Sterne, Joe Vernon, Amanda Voelker, Kim Whalen, Scotty Wood, and Harley Zinker.
Last but certainly not least, the extraordinary Armstrong family: Jeremy, Nancy, Gordon, and the rest of the ever-growing clan. The partial inspiration for this book. Had Jer and I not broken up in high school … this could have been us. We certainly caused enough trouble.
layla
Eric Clapton stole Pattie Boyd from George Harrison. This is common knowledge by now. What’s less well known is that Eric Clapton stole my father from my mother. Our nuclear family was another casualty of the undying allure of sex, drugs, and platinum-selling vinyl. I used to wonder what would steal my own marital happiness.
Being named after a Clapton song is a mixed blessing. There’s the instant recognition factor, sure, but it also provides every would-be suitor a ready-made pickup line: “Layla—like the song? Were your parents listening to that song when your mom got knocked up?”
“No,” I always reply, “but wouldn’t it be cool if my name were Bruiser, ’cause then our names would rhyme!”
In seventh grade, Garret Paulson ventured a little lyrical perversion and taunted me with “Layla, you’ve got me on my knees; Layla, I’m begging, darlin’, please.” I got the last laugh, or rather, twenty or so seventh-graders at Presley Middle School did, when I swung my field-hockey stick into his groin. Talk about being on your knees … Live and learn, I guess.
The name choice was my father’s doing. “Layla” was his favorite song, and my mom didn’t argue—she liked the idea of me not having a popular name. Hers is Sue, and she was surrounded by Sues all her life, constantly answering when she wasn’t called and feeling like just one among many. From the start, she wanted me to stand out—thought it was my destiny—so she went along with Layla. And dressed me in a tie-dyed Onesie.
After all the years of having my name, for some reason I still get a kick out of hearing it—almost every time. The exception is the case of its being barked at me as if I wasn’t only nine feet away from the person shouting it. This time, it’s Brett, my husband.
“Layla!” he yells, again.
I’ll tell you why I haven’t answered: because I know the acoustics of this house. I know when someone can hear you and when they can’t. I know because I live here. And because I’m not an idiot. Yet he thinks that when I call his name and he’s in the very next room—looking at a game on the TV or screwing around on his computer or whatever the case may be—I don’t know he can totally hear me. He’ll ignore me and then act all innocent. It insults my intelligence at its very core.
So I’m returning the favor. He knows damn well I can hear him. Just like he heard me this morning when I was trying to get his attention. Of course, his boy Troy Aikman was talking on the TV at the time, and I knew he’d want to watch.
My ignoring him seems petty, I realize, but he’s driven me to it. We weren’t always like this—just lately. And I know I’m the one who sounds like the jerk in this situation, but I’m only reacting to the way he’s been treating me. Which doesn’t make it better, I suppose, but it at least puts things into context.
“Could you not hear me?” Brett asks, as he storms around our place looking for something.
“What?” I say. “Did you say something?”
“I was calling you from the other room.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I reply, genuine as can be. “I didn’t hear you.” Just like you never seem to hear me anymore unless it’s convenient.
“Have you seen my keys?” he asks.
“I think so. In the kitchen. Or maybe on top of the hamper. Yeah, the hamper. Definitely on top of the hamper.”
He walks toward the bathroom without uttering anything resembling a thank-you, and I hear the keys jingle as he grabs them. Then I hear the front door open.
“See you at the game?” he calls out.
“Um …” For a split second I debate whether or not I should go. Then I consider the fact that I’ve been rather lax in my game attendance of late. And I also remember that at least I’ll have Brooke, my best friend from grade school, there to keep me company. “You bet.”
• • •
Brooke and I sit together at the fifty-yard line, and I chomp on stale popcorn as she rates the asses of the guys on the opposing team.
“I’m gonna give him a seven,” she says. “I think it’s hairy.”
“Gross. Why would you think that?”
“Because he’s already going bald, and hair tends to migrate. When they don’t have hair on their head, they seem to have it everywhere they don’t want it.”
“Okay,” I say. “Which begs the question, why, if it’s hairy, does he still get a seven? That’s a fairly decent score.”
“I take it back. Make it a five.” Then she points to another guy. “He gets a two. Too big. The bigger the butt, the more chances of skid marks. I’ve found they don’t wipe well when they have big butts. Too much land to cover.”
“I’m kind of horrified right now.”
“Try doing the laundry. That’s what’s horrifying.”
“Whose imaginary big-butted laundry are you doing?” I ask, because Brooke hasn’t been in a relationship for at least a year.
“Nobody’s. By choice.”
“Nice work if you can get it,” I say, as I watch Brett run along the sideline, his shock of dark hair flopping every which way. At six-two, one hundred ninety pounds, with shoulders out to here and a body in perfect fighting condition, you’d think he might be running onto the field himself to take the next handoff. And I know that nearly every female in the stadium is wondering what he looks like in those spandex shorts and compression shirts they wear at practice—I’ve heard them talking in the ladies’ room.