"So you approve?" I asked. Every single man stopped what they were doing to listen to her answer.
"I do," she whispered back.
"But I’m the favorite, just so everyone is clear," Anthony said with a silly shimmy before taking a plate stacked high with pancakes and setting it on the table. "Time to eat. The penis pancakes are strictly for Juliet."
"I don’t have favorites," Grams replied before winking at William. I really wanted to know more about their little bus stop dates. She was obviously very close to him.
"But if you did have favorites, it would most definitely be me," Anthony argued.
"Yeah right," William muttered.
"You're just mad that I'm Grams’s favorite because I got her a cat."
Grams giggled to herself and shuffled to her seat. Since we only had three chairs, Nick leaned against the countertop with his plate in hand, Anthony sat next to Grams, and I awkwardly sat in William's lap. He politely cut up my penis-shaped pancake and fed me little bites. It was weird, but Grams didn't mind. If anything, she seemed happy.
I had never felt as loved as I did in that moment. I was surrounded by people who cared about me. For so long, it had been Grams and I, but now we had a small army. It wasn't an easy road, but it was ours. Grams and I had spent many nights sitting at this table and staring at Mom’s empty seat, wondering where she was or what she was up to. I never really felt whole. The unanswered questions used to plague me, but now I felt like I was taking the first step to moving forward with my life.
You never really moved on from the loss of someone you love. You just learned how to cope with their absence. And these men were filling a void in my life that I didn't even know I had.
I looked at Anthony, my soulmate. William, my stranger, and Nick, my savior. In finding them, life became less about the unanswered questions and more about living my truth.
Author’s Note:
Thank you so much for reading Malice. If you enjoyed it, I hope you’ll leave a review. If you hated it, I hope you still leave a review.
I know some of you might be upset that we never find out what happened to Juliet’s mother. Unfortunately, that is the reality for family members of most missing persons. Juliet’s journey in this book was to let go of the unanswered questions and heal. I think the Civella brothers helped her in that regard.
I used several Kansas City area locations as inspirations, but they are not meant to be accurate in this fictional world. The Kansas City Butcher’s home was demolished over twenty years ago, but it made for a cool scene in the book. I also wanted to mention that the name Nicholas Civella was inspired by a once powerful mob boss; however, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, events and incidents are the products of my imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
I truly had to fight for every single word in the book.
I started writing Malice early this year when my grandmother passed away. She was my best friend and my biggest cheerleader. The idea for this book started with her. It started with grief and pain and anger.
Due to Covid restrictions, we were unable to have a funeral for her, but maybe if I can share with you all a bit of who she was, it’ll help with this massive hole left in my heart. Some of you might think it’s strange to commemorate her in a book like Malice. Maybe it is. But Memaw appreciated the best and worst parts of me. She loved, she didn’t judge.
The first book I ever wrote was called Little Blue Car. It was a short picture book about my grandmother’s Buick and how I’d see it all around town. At my recitals. At my softball games. At the school pick-up line. At my favorite ice cream shop. In front of my house. At Girl Scout meetings. At the park. On vacations.
My Memaw was so proud of that book. She printed it off, handed it out, and emailed it to everyone she could. It wasn’t until I got older that I realized the story wasn’t about a beat-up Buick. It was about the love of a grandmother.
There are very few childhood memories that don’t feature my Memaw. We lived down the street—close enough for me to ride my bike to her house for dinner. She was funny. She was witty. She was my best friend.
Memaw fiercely loved her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. She was kind. She was generous. She made the best pumpkin pie and blushed when my husband gave her flowers for Valentine’s Day. She collected cow figurines and tea pots and friends and hugs. She was an incredible proofreader and taught me how to have a proper tea party. She also taught me how to be grateful and treat everyone with kindness.
We loved to get Big Macs after school. We used to walk laps at the park by her house and feed the ducks stale bread.
She loved baked stuffed lobster. She loved having her family all together. She loved traveling the world and collecting magnets from every place she’d been. Her fridge was completely filled from her travels.
Memaw was a worrier. She was the kind of woman to call before a thunderstorm to check on you. She was also the kind of grandmother to put five dollars in your gas tank when you visited. She loved thank-you cards and would spank your ass if you didn’t write one.
She was hilarious. She once chased a hovercraft balloon for six blocks on a windy day because she’d paid $19.99 for it. I still to this day wonder what her neighbors thought when they saw my seventy-five-year-old grandmother running through the streets, yelling, "Catch the hovercraft!!!"
Memaw grew up in what our family lovingly calls "The Old Place." It was a tiny cabin surrounded by lavender roses that were planted by her grandmother. She used to brag to anyone who would listen that she was Grandpa Kitchen’s favorite growing up. Her childhood was spent working on the farm and whispering to the ghost of her Aunt Pearl, who supposedly haunted the place. She was a Depression-era baby who could stretch a dollar, and her parents ran moonshine on their property during Prohibition.
She was a military spouse and lived in Germany with her family until her husband—the love of her life and a pilot—tragically passed away. She volunteered at Walter Reed Hospital and not only went to The Ed Sullivan Show numerous times, but she also received a couple of invitations to dinner at the White House.
Memaw was adventurous and used to race her blue Austin-Healey on the 410 in DC on her way home from work. She loved all animals and had a goat farm that brought her a lot of joy. She was convinced that her grandfather could talk to animals and that the ability was passed down in our family. She was very proud of her family.
She used to tell us that when she died, she didn’t want us to be sad. She didn’t want us to cry. She wanted us to sit around a big table and tell funny stories about her life.
I’m so thankful for a lifetime of seeing that Little Blue Car everywhere I went.
I’m so thankful for a Memaw that loved me as much as she did.
CoraLee June
Coralee June is an international bestselling romance writer who enjoys engaging projects and developing real, raw, and relatable characters. She is an English major from Texas State University and has had an intense interest in literature since her youth. She currently resides with her husband and two daughters in Dallas, Texas, where she enjoys long walks through the ice-cream aisle at her local grocery store.