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Fate and Ms. Fortune: A Novel

Fate and Ms. Fortune: A Novel

by Saralee Rosenberg

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When destiny called, she pressed 1 for more options

With the name Robyn Fortune, shouldn't luck be a sure thing? Instead, black clouds love me. All I did was show up at a family bar mitzvah and cue lightning . . . this huge storm blew in.

My mom announced she was leaving my dad and moving in with me. (Perfect! More competition on JDate.) I found out my boss planned to fire me. (Help wanted: Be the exclusive makeup artist for a two-faced network news star.) My ex's gambling debts left me near bankruptcy. (Please buy our wedding gifts on craigslist.) But, good news. I was offered money to date a man who had worse luck than me. (Dear Visa, I hope you appreciate that I said yes.)

If not for my friend Rachel, I would have chickened out. Instead, I went to his apartment, spotted an old photo, and realized it was HIM! The boy I was mad for in college but never got to meet. And get this! Turns out our paths had been crossing since birth.

Coincidence or karma? Our finagling families wouldn't talk . . . until the day destiny sent me on a wild ride that became my long lost spiritual journey.

Ladies, take my advice. When fate knocks, answer the damn door!

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780061985225
Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers
Publication date: 11/03/2009
Format: NOOK Book
Pages: 368
File size: 607 KB

About the Author

Saralee Rosenberg is the author of A Little Help from Above, Claire Voyant, and Fate and Ms. Fortune. She lives on Long Island (where else?) with her husband and three children.

Read an Excerpt

Fate and Ms. Fortune

A Novel
By Saralee Rosenberg

HarperCollins Publishers, Inc.

Copyright © 2006 Saralee Rosenberg
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0060823887

Chapter One

"Something is wrong with Mom and Dad," Phillip whispered.

"What?" I hollered over the blaring music and the din of a hundred kids running wild.

No matter that my older brother was an in-demand attorney who earned more in a billable hour than I did in a week, to me he was still a putz. Therefore, family bar mitzvahs were the perfect venue for conversation, as it was near impossible to engage in anything other than short, superficial chatter over an ear-pounding "Everybody dance now . . ."

Yet Phillip insisted we talk. He pointed to our parents, Harvey and Sheila Holtz, who were seated across our table, but obscured by a massive centerpiece. "Look at them." He leaned in. "Don't you think they're acting strange?"

"For about thirty years now."

"Don't joke, Robyn. They haven't said two words to each other all night."

I peered around the foam board cutout of hockey great Bobby Orr, and sure enough, they had turned their chairs to literally face the music. An unusual gesture for two people who wouldn't know Ashlee Simpson from Homer Simpson.

"Mom, how's your salad?" I yelled. "Great raspberry vinaigrette."

Everybody dance now . . . yeah . . . yeah . . . yeah . . .

"Daddy, how about those Mets?" I yelled louder. "Could be our year."

Come on let's sweat, baby. Let the music take control . . .

"You guys want anything from the bar?" our server asked. "It's free." "What?" I cupped my ear.

"The drinks are free. What can I get you?"

Free drinks? Really? Because we are having such a blast at Brandon's Hall of Fame, we thought we were at Madison Square Garden, not a sixty-thousand-dollar reception hosted by our cousin Barry and his wife, Rhonda, in honor of their thirteen-year-old son, who learned to read from the Torah in between ice hockey clinics. "Diet Coke, please."

"I'll take an Absolut," my brother said to our white-gloved waiter, who seemed to care as much about French service as Paris Hilton. "And bring my wife another cosmo. Thanks, buddy." He leaned closer so I could hear. "I'm just saying I've never seen Mom this well behaved. She didn't even do her usual take-the-bread-off-Dad's-plate-and-hand-it-to-the-busboy stunt."

"Don't worry. She's still up to her old tricks. I heard her go up to the Connecticut cousins and ask if they're all so rich, why can't the men afford socks? . . . Uh oh. Possible host alert. Look happy for Rhonda. Remember. Everything is beautiful."

Phillip faked a laugh. "Then yesterday I called the house to remind Dad not to write a big check today because Barry and Rhonda stiffed us for Marissa's bat mitzvah. I think they gave seventy-five a plate, or some ridiculous number . . . like they didn't know what a Saturday night black-tie affair on Long Island costs . . . Anyway, Mom picks up and says Dad's busy, so I said, Where is he? And she says, How the hell should I know? Am I his parole officer?"

"Ten bucks says he was in the basement studying a map of the former Czech Republic."

"He never called me back."

"Oh, so that's where it comes from? You never call me back either."

"Funny. Then this morning at the temple I said to Dad, Why didn't you call me back yesterday? and he looks at me. So I said, Mom told you I called, right? No answer."

"Well I'm glad they're too busy to talk. Otherwise they'd be killing each other."

"They took two cars here."

"No way."

"I know their license plates, okay? They both drove."

"But Dad would go by mule before he'd fill up two cars going to the same place."


Phillip's wife, Patti the Whip, slid into her seat reeking of nicotine, certain her spearmint gum would baffle even us CSI fans. Like we'd never have guessed that she'd just spent the last ten minutes outside with her sisters in smoke.

"I need another, hon." The former cheerleader pointed to her glass. "Where are the kids?"

"I'm on it . . . Em found a friend from camp, and Max is hanging with some boy whose father owns three homes . . . He asked Max where we winter."

"Love it." I laughed. "Kids comparing vacation destinations . . . We bought in Arizona. Mel and I don't mind the dry heat . . . Dry shmy. A hundred and ten is an oven."

Patti ignored me as usual and turned to her husband. "Where's Mariss?"

"Oh. She just called from the Mario Lemieux table to say Evan is picking her up now, so I said like hell you're leaving early. This is a family bar mitzvah. We're here till the bitter end."

"I thought her cell died."

"Apparently it's born again, but that didn't stop her from bitching she needs a new one."

"I'll take her after school on Monday." She held up a soup spoon to dab on lip gloss.

"It is a new one, remember? You replaced the one she left at the mall without asking me."

"Fine. I'll bring it back to see if they can fix it."

"It's not broken, Patti. She never gets off long enough to charge it."

"She's fifteen. What do you want her to do? Play house?"

I found out the other day that my brother and sister-in-law have signs of Holtz Disease. It's a degenerative disorder in my family in which every conversation ends in an argument. My parents are carriers, so of course the odds were that an offspring would inherit the gene. Fortunately, they just came out with a new pill called Damn-it-all . . . You take it, and everyone around you goes to hell for eight hours. . . . Side effects may vary.

Thank God for the wet-kiss intermission from Aunt Lil and Uncle Sol. How was I doing since . . .


Excerpted from Fate and Ms. Fortune by Saralee Rosenberg Copyright © 2006 by Saralee Rosenberg. Excerpted by permission.
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