Beverly Feldman is alive, ALIVE

A surreal week, to put it mildly. Signed a very nice new contract (for my grumpy mermaid series, BITCH OUT OF WATER), got an offer for another contract, and found out I'm in TIME magazine this week. And that was just today.

Earlier, adding to the general oddness of goings-on of late, I received a contrite e-mail from designer shoe mogul Beverly Feldman. I had blogged about her last year; she'd seen her shoes mentioned in a Betsy book and offered to send me a free pair of designer shoes, gratis. I agonized about the moral dilemma for a week (me: "Is it wrong to accept free shoes?" My friends: "Idiot! They're FREE SHOES.") before sending her my address and shoe size. And, as things happen in busy companies, my e-mail got lost in the shuffle. No free shoes. I was sad. Well, grumpy. Not because I didn't get the free stuff ("Gimmee!") but because I'd gone to all the trouble of a moral struggle, then soothed my conscience, only to find out it'd been for nada. So I blogged about it: "Beverly Feldman is Dead to me."

Fast forward three months. Beverly Feldman, apparently, occasionally Googles her own name and "dead". Up pops my blog. (And though we e-mailed back and forth several times, I never thought to ask why she googles her name and "dead", which is probably the most interesting thing about this entire odd episode.) She reads the blog and remembers me at once. She's horrified and embarrassed. She sends me several contrite e-mails (even posted on the Comments section of this blog).

At first, I was suspicious and hurt. My heart had been stomped on once before by the Feldman Corporation; I wasn't anxious to put it out there again. Like anyone who'd been through the hell of a broken heart, I wasn't ready to love again. But she wore me down. She seduced me with her contrition, her honest anguish. She wooed me. She wore me down. I was putty in her powerful artist's hands.

So I sent her my shoe size, and my address. Again. Then I settled down to wait. Again. No, that's a lie. I promptly put the whole thing out of my head. Even if she didn't forget about me again, I figured it'd be weeks and weeks before anything showed up. And frankly, I couldn't imagine I was very high on her to-do list. A big shot fashion designer? Caring that I, a scribbler of romantic novels, had been annoyed? It is, as they say, to snigger.

Three days later: UPS drops off a big-ass box. A HUGE box. A box so big, my six year old played in it the rest of the day. I was puzzled: had my Amazon addiction gotten so out of control? I peeked at the return label: Beverly Feldman.

No fucking way.

I lugged the box into the house. My two children, curious, followed. I slit through the tape. Opened it up. Peered inside.

There wasn't a pair of designer shoes inside.

There were SIX pairs of designer shoes inside. Four pairs of flats, a pair of pumps, and a pair of boots. About a thousand dollar's worth of shoes. For free. Plus a handwritten note of apology from Beverly Feldman.

Jesus Christ.

I kept pulling gorgeous designer shoe boxes out of the big box, and my kids were amazed. My daughter thought the boxes were really pretty (they have a beautiful woman with purple eyes on them) and my son, as above, was enchanted by the rather large box they had arrived in.

My husband cane home. Saw the piles of shoe boxes all over the counter. Looked at me fearfully. "Don't worry," I said. "Didn't cost you a dime." I explained the whole thing. He was amazed. I kept the shoes on the kitchen counter for the new couple of days; I grinned every time I saw them. Couldn't help it. School papers, salt, pepper, a tomato, a grapefruit, Cadbury Mini Eggs, and six boxes of Beverly Feldman shoes. It's surreal and cool.

And before any of you bums ask, NO, I'm not giving any of them away. Besides, I have monster feet. Size 9.5. I'll just have to wear them myself. All the fucking time. Oh, and Beverly Feldman? Rocks.