Black is Not a Color

Black is Not a Color is Book two of The Ava Series, the tale of Ava Fodor’s coming of age.

When Ava Fodor returns to New York from Paris, she leaves behind her budding romance with Pierre and turns her attention to another man: Zsolt Fodor, her father. He’s a penniless Hungarian poet transplanted to New York in the wake of the failed 1956 Hungarian uprising. Raised by her New England grandparents, Ava barely knows him. Dramatic, effusive, emotional, he’s everything her grandmother warned her against. Yet his crazy conversation fascinates her. His chicken paprikash isn’t bad either.

Carcassonne, France

Pierre’s pull draws Ava back to France, to the medieval walled city of Carcassonne. There, his tender care of his ailing mother awakens Ava to something lacking in herself. Unless she finds it, she can’t give him her heart.

When her father has a heart attack, Ava is thrust into a caregiver role, looking after a man who never looked after her. She’s terrible at it. So was her father, so he forgives her. But can she forgive him? Until she learns to love the man she has every reason to abandon in his hour of need, she can’t move on. Only her father can show her the way. But will she let him? And if she can, will it be too late for Pierre and her?

Carcassonne by Portada, courtesy 123rf.com

Black is Not a Color is Part II of The Ava Series: Ava Fodor’s journey of self discovery, begun in Paris Adieu.

Reviews

“An exploration of a woman’s inner growth so she is able to truly love not just her lover, but her estranged Hungarian father, and finally, herself.”—Dafna Yee

“A compelling, entertaining, and deftly crafted read from first page to last.”—Midwest Book Review

“Heartwarming, romantic and sexy, Black is Not a Color touches upon friendship, romantic relationships and the strength of familial bonds. This moving read for sophisticated readers evokes both a desire for European travel and a renewed appreciation for my hometown of New York City.”—Meredith Schorr, author of Just Friends with Benefits and Blogger Girl ”

Engaging story of a young woman coming to terms with the best and worst traits of her European immigrant father and New England mother. The main character Ava is truly the new archetype for women coming to adulthood in which both a dedicated career path and also traditional homemaker skills are expected. The protagonist humorously weaves European traits, from her father and travels without rejecting her New England Puritan values embedded into her person during her childhood. Witty and insightful.”
–Andrew McConnell, PE, SE Principal Structural Consulting Services, P.C., Brookfield, CT

“Rozsa Gaston takes us on another delicious adventure through France and beyond. Sexy, thrilling, and deeply moving, Black is Not a Color has everything you’d want in a novel, plus lots of spice, specifically paprika.”
–Jamie Cat Callan, author of French Women Don’t Sleep Alone,
Bonjour Happiness! and Ooh La La!

“Readers will be delighted, intrigued and entertained by Black Is Not a Color. This enjoyable continuation of Ava’s worldly tale, begun in Paris Adieu, is full of vibrant characters with great chemistry. Gaston writes this story with intelligence, emotion, creativity and heart.”

–Laurie Weiner, Fairfield Public Library, Fairfield, CT

Excerpt

I had a lot of conflicts and they all conflicted with each other. To begin with I wanted to look like Audrey Hepburn and I didn’t. I wanted to act like Jackie Kennedy Onassis, but I didn’t.

That’s where my father came in. He was a connoisseur of precisely the brands of femininity I wished to cultivate within myself. He hadn’t been in the picture for the first nine tenths of my life, but we were now approaching the final one eightieth of his, so I decided to be around, in the event we could do anything for each other. Turns out, we could.

Considering my father’s high regard for Jackie Kennedy Onassis, it was clear he had a thing for hoity toity bitches, as did a lot of other men I’d come across. When he started referring to himself as Père Goriot, I realized my father thought I was a hoity toity bitch too. That was okay though, because secretly I’d always wanted to be one, although I was far from the type. It gave me a rush to think my father thought I was.

We sat in the window of Kleine Konditorei, a German coffee house on East 86th Street, sipping cappuccinos…