Synopsis

Indie movie director Sebastian Foster has found his niche making movies based on the award-winning novels written by his estranged mother. However, his latest film, based loosely on the tragic death of his sister as a child, opens up old wounds best left under bandages.

Told in two concurrent timelines, now and when Sebastian was a teen, some twenty years ago in the mid-1990s, this story of learning unknown truths unwinds in the streets of Paris, where Sebastian lived as a teen and where he has returned to make his picture.

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Praise

Bronx Council of the Arts Chapter One Award for The Beekeeper’s Daughter

“Stilling’s take on this familiar tale is provocative and poignant, rich with emotion and powerfully described, laced with profound contemplation about dying too soon and growing up too quickly.”- Publisher’s Weekly review of Betwixt and Between

“At turns happy and unbearably sad, Betwixt and Between is a beautifully realized re-imagining of a classic story that will enchant readers as the original did.”- Booklist starred review of Betwixt and Between

“A suspenseful read. Jessica Stilling sets the story among a backdrop of stunning scenes of Greece described as being almost visceral with a unique compilation of romance, mystery, and self-inspection. A compelling story that comes to life off the page.”-San Francisco Book Review of the Weary God of Ancient Travelers

Guest Review by Nora

Paris, 1994. A five-year-old girl is killed in an apartment fire, leaving her mother and older brother devastated. But what exactly happened this day? This is the question that ‘Between Before and After’ by Jessica Stilling answers in a truly astounding fashion.

The story revolves around a man named Sebastian Foster, an Indie movie director who is intent on creating a movie about a young girl’s death. The catch? Sebastian is the girl’s older brother, and the movie is based off of a novel that was written by their mother, Regina.

Perhaps understandably, many people question whether or not it is the right thing for Sebastian to be directing this movie, but he insists that it is necessary for him to do so. Either way, the reader is taken on a journey that is told through two timelines, Paris in present day and Paris in 1994, when Sebastian was a teenage boy. Each new chapter reveals a little more and brings the reader a little closer to unveiling the truth behind what happened during that fated fire.

Personally, I really enjoyed this book. I deeply felt the sense of impending doom as I read along, waiting for the bright, adorable little girl to meet her demise and for the family to be forever changed, and I wondered exactly what kind of hand Sebastian would have in it.

Sebastian was a fascinating and quirky character that I couldn’t get enough of. I found his inner world to be relatable and somewhat comforting despite the fact that he was clearly going through some things while directing the movie.

I also really appreciated the tension between him and his mother and the build-up of animosity between their characters. It said a lot about both characters, in my opinion. This is definitely one to be read, no matter your normal fare. You won’t regret it! I could not put it down!

Excerpt

The summer my mother brought us to Paris I was obsessed with Vikings and the stone of the city reminded me of Charlemagne. Bulging, misshapen, ancient stone that jutted out of the older buildings in the island in the middle of the Seine. Paris was an island before it was a city. I could just picture the iron they used to forge chains to pull the drawbridges up so the Northmen couldn’t get in.

For the most part, our life was pretty normal here. I ate dinner across a kitchen table from my mother in a tiny Euro-kitchen. She poured me glasses of milk and sat on my sister’s squeaky twin bed telling story after story as little Lucy drifted off to sleep. I don’t want to paint a picture of blissful domesticity; it was never domestic and certainly not entirely blissful, but it was our life, and nothing was over the top, blown out of proportion or worth writing a book about. It’s only when you pull the camera back, when you see it from a telephoto, wide angle lens, that it seems dramatic enough to warrant artistic expression. But I’ve learned being raised by a writer, and then later trying to make films, that the only way to understand anything is to turn it into art. To flip a moment, a time, a life, on its head, twist it around, and stare down all angles, until the picture comes into focus.

Only sometimes the picture never comes into focus, and you have to make it all up anyway.

We weren’t rich. That wasn’t how we traveled that summer. My mother made some money off her novels, but she wasn’t able to support herself solely with her writing until I was in college. She picked up teaching jobs and did a lot of freelance work. She was always taking on an article or opinion piece that pulled her away from her novels, but they paid the bills. And there was much more grant money for artists and writers to be had in the ‘90s. In fact, she had a grant that summer and we were staying at the apartment of one of her old friends, who had traveled to Belarus to do research on the Eastern Bloc.

Just before we left for Paris, Philip, my mother’s second husband and my sister’s father, died of lung cancer. I was never close to him. During the four years they were married he spent more time at work than home and when he was around, he was usually locked in his study, a tiny maid’s room off the back hall. I don’t know what he did there. He was some kind of lawyer. But I can count on two fingers the time he joined us for a family outing or bothered to acknowledge me as his stepson, or even just my mother’s kid.

She was about to file for divorce when he got sick. My mother was planning to go when Lucy turned four. She’d gotten an apartment in the West Village and separated their bank accounts. I wasn’t privy to their conversations, but Philip didn’t seem too broken up by the prospect of a “trial separation.”  There was talk of him having a girlfriend, and he’d only asked for every other weekend with my sister.

I don’t know if they made up after he was diagnosed. I don’t think they fell in love again, but pity is a powerful player and my mother stayed, cleaning up his puke and shuttling him to and from chemo, until the funeral was over and all the well-wishers’ noodle-something casseroles had been eaten or thrown away. She gave the eulogy wearing a hat with a veil like British royalty. She cried that night and held tight to one of his old button-down shirts, saying she could still smell him on it (then she wiped her eyes, looked me straight in the face and said, “Don’t’ you ever tell anyone I said something that cliché.”). Philip’s death left a sadness in my mother that took her across the ocean to an apartment in Saint-Michel, the neighborhood where she’d lived in college.

Our first few weeks in Paris weren’t incredibly eventful. My mother, technically a widow mourning her second husband, did not wear black, not even for a week. I’m not sure if that tradition was antiquated by the ‘90s but my step aunt Bernadette was sure upset when my mother picked Lucy and I up from her co-op in New Jersey wearing a solid blue frock and matching heels. “Show some respect for my brother!” she cried, nearly slamming the door in her face.

In Paris, we took Lucy to many of the highly manicured parks nearly every day. My sister used to chase pigeons. She ran on the cobblestones in her little shoes, arms wide in an attempt to scatter as many pigeons as possible.

It had been half a lifetime since I’d come to this city but even as a kid, I recognized the neighborhood. I pointed out to Lucy the statue of the archangel Michael fighting Lucifer, the fallen angel, that stood in the middle of the neighborhood. Shot of: dark haired children sitting on blankets near magazine kiosks begging for money. Shot of: tourists watching a man with an accordion play a sad tune as they threw money in his hat like he was some kind of circus act. Shot of: my mother standing with a piece of paper in her hands trying to figure out the directions her friend had given her.

“It’s this way,” she said, pulling Lucy and found ourselves standing directly behind the Musee de Cluny.

“A castle mommy, a castle!” Lucy cried pointing up at the museum. “We’re going to live by a castle. Can we go there! Can we go!?”

“We can go to the Cluny,” my mother said, half laughing. “It’s a museum. I believe the stuff is from the Middle Ages.”

“Yay!” Lucy cried.

About the Author

Jessica Stilling has written three works of literary fiction, Betwixt and Between, The Beekeeper’s Daughter, and The Weary God of Ancient Travelers. She also wrote poetry and short fiction for various literary journals.

Her articles have appeared in Ms. Magazine, Bust Magazine and she writes extensively for The Writer Magazine. She has taught Creative Writing in both high school and university. She also publishes young adult fantasy under the pen name JM Stephen.

Jessica loves Virginia Woolf, very long walks, and currently lives in southern Vermont where she writes for the very local newspaper, The Deerfield Valley News.

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Giveaway

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This giveaway ends on November 24, 2022 midnight, pacific time.

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