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everything_lg Carole Wolf

Bink Books
482 pp. ● 6×9
$22.95 (pb) ● $9.95 (eb)
ISBN 978-1-939562-56-2 (pb)
● 978-1-939562-57-9 (eb)

FICTION – Literary
FICTION – Lesbian

About the Book

Jolán Edmunds, an accomplished and well-respected classical violinist, dies suddenly and Myla, her daughter, is convinced she had killed her because she had wished her dead during an argument.

Fiery and charismatic Jolán has many guarded secrets, particularly Rachel Cole, her lost true love. Rachel unexpectedly crosses Jolán’s path and turns her life upside down as they rekindle their romance. Rachel tries to convince Myla she didn’t cause Jolán’s death but Myla doesn’t believe her and wants to know everything. With Rachel’s help, Myla pieces together her mother’s startling past, all of which leads to the most devastating secret of all—herself.


gcls logo (Clear) Winner
2015 GCLS Award for Dramatic/General Fiction
2015 GCLS Tee Corinne Outstanding Cover Design Award
12339550_1174925602541520_4508116845238144378_o Runner Up
2015 Rainbow Award for Best Lesbian Contemporary General Fiction
2015 Rainbow Award for Best Lesbian Book


“Ms Wolf’s writing is outstanding. It flows off the page and wraps around your senses, recreating time, place, atmosphere and ambiance in an effortless tsunami that drowns out the outside world and subsumes the reader.” — Velvet Lounger, Curve Magazine

In the Media

Spotlight on Lesbian Romance by Brandon Shire


Seven years ago, today, I broke my mother’s heart. Literally. I stood on the bed and cursed her to hell with all my fourteen-year-old might, screamed it into her face like a zealot at a protest rally. The next day, my Uncle Cameron showed up at the school office, signed me out on the grounds of family emergency, and walked me to his Maxima in a cold, gray silence. He sat for a very long while with the keys in his hand, staring at the dashboard as if it contained all the truths of the cosmos, but there was really only one to be told that day as the words fell from his lips like stones.

She was a musician, a classical violinist by profession, had been playing since the age of six. She was rehearsing for a Christmas performance when her solo suddenly crumbled, and she dropped to a knee, clutching her chest, struggling for breath that wouldn’t come. Someone from the brass section tried CPR until paramedics arrived, and she was whisked away through Atlanta’s morning rush hour to St. Joseph’s Hospital.

It was a Tuesday. 10:46 a.m.

She was thirty-nine but didn’t look it. Few people believed her. Some even jokingly requested to see her driver’s license for proof. She’d present it with a sly smirk, chuckle, and wave them off when asked to spill her secret. She looked like a young Sophia Loren, they’d say, and I guess that’s what attracted my father, back when they were both just out of college. Not her beauty so much as her humility, because he admired that most in a person. “Carry yourself with confidence but always speak with prudence,” he would say. And she most certainly did, so much that I never really knew her until she was gone.

Jolán De Carlo Edmunds was an anomaly, a finely sketched piece of work that most people thought they could appraise at a glance, but that was only because she’d designed herself that way. There were only two people in the world who had seen everything beneath the recitals and curtain calls, the guest solos and afternoon private instructions, all the shifts and tones and colors between the first and final movements of her life.

My father was hardly among them, contrary to what he still thinks. Fifteen years of marriage brought him no closer to who she really was than would thirty or seventy-five more.

Some might say she’d tangled herself up in a lattice of lies and feel sorry for him, the unwitting victim of a woman who had the audacity to try to find herself at thirty-eight. Because I did. I spit on her growing, relentless desire to break free of her own constraints and reconnect with a woman long forgotten, promising to destroy our family.

I demanded to live with my father after the divorce, but I was to begin high school that fall, and North Springs was closer with a better music program. So, my future was mutually decided upon by two people who couldn’t even find a way to hold onto their own.

As a fifth-year violin student, myself, I was to follow directly in my mother’s path. Or, was I? That had all been up for some very passionate, awkward debate after her passing, mostly between my father, Uncle Cameron, and the woman who probably knew her better than any of us.

And so this is where I must digress.