Escape to an era gone by and relive LGBT history in the Juliana series by @vandawriter #lgbtq #pride
Juliana is a series of novels about LGBT history beginning in 1941 in New York City. Each volume continues the story of these same characters as they live through the decades of LGBT history.
Title Juliana: Book 1
Genre LGBT Historical Fiction
Publisher Sans Merci
“An Absolutely Beautiful and Moving Novel!
--Philip Crawford, author of Mafia and the Gays
She went looking for fame, and found her true self, instead.
New York City, 1941. Alice “Al” Huffman and her childhood friends are fresh off the potato farms of Long Island and bound for Broadway. Al’s plans for stage success are abruptly put on hold when she’s told she has no talent. As she gets a job to pay for acting classes, Al settles into a normal life with her friends and a boyfriend. It all changes when she meets Juliana.
A singer on the brink of stardom, Juliana is everything Al isn’t: glamorous, talented, and queer. The farm girl is quickly enthralled, experiencing thoughts and feelings she never realized were possible. Al finds herself slipping between two worlds: the gay underground and the “normal” world of her childhood friends. It’s a balancing act she can handle until the two worlds begin to collide.
In a city bursting with change, can Alice find what she was looking for all along?
Juliana: Volume 1: 1941-1944 is a captivating work of LGBT historical romance. If you like extensively researched settings, spell-binding storytelling, and characters you can’t help but fall for, then you’ll love the first book in award-winning playwright Vanda’s new Juliana series.
Just Prior to this scene: Al (Alice) has dicovered her boyfriend Danny half dressed coming from Max’s bedroom Danny runs out of the apartment, ashamed.
“You want your eggs scrambled, over easy, or what?” Max called from his kitchen.
“Who cares? Danny and I were sposed to go to his mother’s house for Thanksgiving. Now what? What do I tell his mother?”
“Well, not this. Mothers hate it when you tell them their sons are queer.”
“Don’t call Danny that. He’s not that. He’s just-…-I don’t know. Confused. We’re gonna get married.”
“I don’t think that’d be a good idea.” Max walked into the room carrying a tray filled with our breakfast. “I made you scrambled. It’s all I know how to make. Eat up.” He placed the plate of eggs and a glass of orange juice on the coffee table in front of me. “Be careful of that plate. It’s Wedgewood.”
“I can’t eat.”
“You eat. I cooked it. You eat it. Here, at least drink the orange juice.” He held the glass against my lips. “Drink.”
I took a sip.
He put the glass back down on the coffee table.
“Now, you drink that. It’s good for you.” He sat down on the overstuffed chair across from me, holding a cup, a “Wedgewood” cup, I supposed, whatever that meant. He still wore his fluffy bathrobe, but now he had on fluffy slippers too.
“Why are you dressed like that?”
“You don’t like it? I thought pink went well with my eyes.”
“You tricked Danny into this. He looked up to you, and you used it against him. to convince him he was this thing like you, but he’s not. I hate you.”
“Swell. Hate me. But know this, sweetheart,” he leaned forward, “I didn’t do anything to your beau that he didn’t want. Danny is who he is because he was born that way no matter what the shrinks say and as sad as it may be, honey, you don’t figure into it at all. So if you wanna save yourself a lot of heartache, forget about marrying him, because if you two do get married it’ll be the ruin of both of you.”
“You’re lying. You lie about everything. You lied about Juliana. You hardly know her.”
Max laughed. “Did she tell you that?” He pushed a cigarette into his holder. “Dear Juliana. How she does go on.?”
“You’re just a nobody. Look at this place. What kinda rich producer would live in this dump?”
“Now, you hold on. First, this is not a dump. I may live in a run-down neighborhood and this place may be small—”
“And the doorbell doesn’t work.”
“But the décor is exquisite. Look at that wallpaper. Designed in Paris. Look at that couch. Satin. You will never find another apartment in this neighborhood with a satin couch.”
I picked up the clay ashtray that looked like it’d been made by a child. “And this ugly ashtray?”
“Put that down. This is the most valuable item in the whole apartment.” He put it back on the coffee table. I never said I was rich. I was once, and I shall be again. I’m, as they say, between situations, but you do not get to call me a nobody, you little twerp. I’ll have you know I was once the youngest club owner in this city. I was a phenomenon. Young beautiful talent, boys and girls, groveled at my feet just for an audience with me. The Herald Tribune called me a genius at recognizing new talent. Juliana would be a star today if she’d stuck with me. I brought a musical to Broadway when I was only nineteen. So, don’t you tell me who I am. Who the hell are you?
Author Biography –
Vanda is an author whose life’s mission is to honor LGBT history: to let people, gay and straight, know that the LGBT community shares a rich cultural history that is as important and as valid as any other minority group’s history.
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Title Olympus Nights on the Square: Book 2
Genre LGBT Historical Fiction
Publisher Sans Merci
What if your love was illegal? What would you do? It’s 1945 and Juliana wants to be a star and she has the singing voice to do it. Alice (Al) is determined to make Juliana into the star she wants to be.
The worst thing that could happen to Juliana is to be discovered as gay.
The worst thing that could happen to Al is to lose Juliana.
Al must guard their secret at all costs.
Will the gossip columnists and the new laws destroy them? If you like stories about 1950s Manhattan and behind the scenes drama in theater and nightclubs you’ll love, Olympus Nights on the Square: Book 2 of the Juliana Series. You can enter the series at any point. It’s sexy, funny and deadly serious; it’s full of mobsters, the FBI, McCarthyism, gay bashing, lesbian pulp, a beginning awareness of transgender persons and “cures” for homosexuality. A lot like now.
Oh jeepers! I was wearing a red dress. I’d forgotten that everything in Sardi’s is red or maroon. The walls, the banquettes, the seats, the menus, the awning outside. Juliana came through the door, stepping feather-light on Sardi's maroon carpet. She wore a mink jacket over a black linen afternoon dress, and a matching wide brimmed hat. The maitre’d met her at the door and led the way. She stepped toward me, her dark hair bouncing around her shoulders. “Well,” shesaid, standing behind the chair. “It’s been a while. Hasn’t it?”
I couldn’t speak. I sat frozen with the vision of her perfect self before me.
The maitre’d helped her remove her coat and guided her into her chair. He bent close to her ear and whispered, “I enjoyed your last show so very much.”
“Thank you, Sidney.”
“You look good, Al. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you in red before.”
“I clash with the room.”
She laughed. “I don’t think anyone else would ever think to say that. I’ve missed you.” She slid off her gloves. Could there be anything more joyful than to look into her eyes?
But, of course, we couldn’t touch.
“We don’t have much time, do we?”
“No. I’ve been traveling so many months Richard has been feeling neglected. He made me promise I’d come right home when I got back into town. Of course, he doesn’t know I’m already here. Oh, Al, I’m so very glad to see you.”
My heart danced within me. She never said things like that. I wanted to reach across the table and … Oh, well. Sitting in her presence had to be enough.
We ordered quickly so we could spend more time talking. Our moments together were too fleeting to waste even one. Anything I had to do, I would’ve gladly crossed off the list to spend one more minute with her. But I didn’t have that choice. I ordered the brochette of beef, and Juliana had the Cornish game hen.
We began with a sparkling burgundy wine. Not having had breakfast, it went straight to my head, and I had visions of her and me—well, you know—so it was hard to concentrate on her funny stories of Chicago and L.A. When she reached across the table for the salt—“Oh, let me,” I said. Our hands met for one lovely moment, both holding the shaker; we stayed that way, looking into each other’s eyes, forgetting the danger. Then remembering, we quickly let go, and the saltshaker fell, spewing salt all over the table.
Sydney hurried over with a crummer. “Allow me.” He’d been watching us. Eyes were always watching Juliana. Probably everyone in the place had seen us drop that saltshaker.
“Thank you, Sidney.” We couldn’t allow ourselves to forget to be on guard at all times.
“Did you read this contract?” Juliana asked, slipped it from her purse.
“I read all your contracts.”
“Then you read the morality clause.”
“They want me to be ‘clean’ in my personal life. I can’t do anything that would embarrass their audience.”
“Everyone signs that.”
“They can look into my personal life, Al.”
“And they’ll find Richard. If you don’t sign it, they won’t let you do their show. It doesn’t mean they think you’re you know ... They don’t know about that. They’re looking for communists.”
“Only communists? I know you’re not that naive.”
“If you don’t sign it, you risk being put in Red Channels. You'd never work again. These are uncertain times. I’m sorry.”