Excerpt from Beautiful Little Fools by Jillian Cantor, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

Camp Taylor had opened in Louisville in June and this summer there'd been soldiers all over town: men in uniforms walking across the Big Four Bridge, driving down Main Street and through our very fashionable neighborhood in the Southern Extension. They'd show up in groups to our Saturday night parties and sometimes they'd ask me to dance. I did not yet see these men as warriors. I did not picture them traveling across the great wide ocean sometime soon to fight, and to die. They were simply handsome men, flirting with me. I had no qualms with that.

"Well? Can I help you out?" the soldier asked again.

My hair was limp against my forehead, and I put Rose's basket down for a second and made a futile attempt to fluff it with my fingers, before picking the basket back up, turning, and offering the soldier a smile. I knew some of the ladies who had tea with Mother on Thursday afternoons hated that our little Louisville was now being overrun by common men in uniform. But truly, I had yet to find one downfall to it.

"No, thank you," Rose said just as I said, "Yes, that would be grand." Rose turned to me and frowned.

"Come on," I said to her. "It's hot, and this nice soldier is offering."

That was enough for him to get out of the car, walk around, and take the basket from my hand. Our fingertips touched, and I looked up at him. He was tall with short blond hair and a pale, clean-shaven face. I had the strangest urge to touch him, to reach up and run my fingers across his silken cheek. But I restrained myself.

"I'm Daisy Fay," I said, clasping my twitchy fingers together. "And this is my sister, Rose."

"Jay Gatsby," he said, holding my gaze for a second before turning to smile at Rose. He had bright green eyes. The kind of eyes that would catch you, even across the room in a crowded party.

"Thank you for stopping, Jay Gatsby," I said. My voice caught just the slightest bit on his full name, my tongue feeling out the sound of it. It wasn't a familiar name. It definitely wasn't a Louisville name. I wondered where he was from, what his daddy did.

"You think I see the prettiest girls in all of Louisville needing a ride and I'm not going to stop?" he was saying now, as he opened the passenger door and motioned for us to get in. Rose didn't move, so I got in first. She sighed and finally slid in next to me.

"Don't go kissing him, just because he's giving us a ride," Rose whispered, as Jay walked back around to the driver's seat. She sounded like more of a snow goose than Mother.

"I won't kiss him because of the ride," I whispered back. "I'll do it because he's handsome. Did you notice his eyes?" Rose shook her head, not because she didn't notice, but because she found me incorrigible. In an adorable way, of course.

Jay got back in the car, put his hands on the steering wheel, and suddenly I was close enough to him that I felt the length of his leg against my own. I didn't move away, toward Rose. Instead I touched his arm gently and thanked him again for the ride. "We were so lucky to run into you," I said.

"Daisy Fay," he said softly. "I think I was the lucky one."


"MR. GATSBY, ARE you following me?" I'd spotted him across the crowded room at Marcy Hillet's party—he was walking toward the door, and I'd run to catch up with him before he disappeared from me again. Now, I stood before him, out of breath.

Exactly one week had passed since he'd driven me and Rose to the almshouse, then insisted on waiting and driving us back home. And tonight I saw those bright green eyes across the dance floor, stunning and hypnotic from afar, as I knew they'd be. I'd been looking for them, for him, ever since I got out of his car a week ago. I had not been able to stop thinking about him, the easy sound of his voice, the solid weight of his body, and the green pools of his eyes. The truth was, if I'd known exactly where to find him, I might've been the one following him.

Excerpted from Beautiful Little Fools by Jillian Cantor. Copyright © 2022 by Jillian Cantor. Excerpted by permission of Harper Perennial. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.