An aspiring newspaper reporter comes across a mystery that threatens to turn the Cold War hot in a funny, thrilling, and strictly undercover romantic comedy by the bestselling author of Don’t Forget to Write.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Off the Record by Sara Goodman Confino, which releases on June 9th 2026.
In 1962, opportunities are typically few for nice Jewish girls clacking away at ninety words per minute in a newspaper typing pool. Except Judy Greenberg isn’t typical. An aspiring reporter in DC, she’s aiming for journalistic greatness—not finding a husband. Just don’t tell her mother.
Then one day she answers her boss’s private line. The message is curiously cryptic. It’s also delivered in a Russian accent. Judy is certain she has stumbled upon a scoop. Charming reporter Jack Fields isn’t one to dismiss Judy’s instincts. Perfect. A seasoned ally she can trust, not to mention pass off as a pretend boyfriend around her relieved parents. Together, they’re following the leads—from a clandestine hotel bar to the dressing room of a slinky Cuban nightclub singer to an exhilarating underground of secrets and spies stretching from Moscow to Havana to Texas.
Now Judy must choose between the safe life expected of her or one hell of a dangerous story that could make her career. She might even fall in love for real. If her ambitions don’t get her killed.
EXCERPT
“You have to come next time,” Patricia said.
I felt a pang of jealousy. While my family was assessing me for potential suitors like a piece of meat at the (kosher) butcher shop, Patricia and the girls from the typing pool were sipping martinis and mingling with the city’s elite.
“Go any other night,” I said. “I just can’t do Fridays.”
“But Friday is the best night. Everyone is looking to unwind after the work week.”
Another twinge of envy. I leaned forward, an elbow on my desk. “Tell me everything.”
“Well, technically, you’re not supposed to talk about what happens there—that’s why it’s called Off the Record.” She grinned wickedly. “But I suppose, as long as you promise to come with me sometime—”
“I do,” I said too quickly.
She laughed, then sat on my desk. “Robert McNamara was there!” She leaned closer and, lowering her voice, she added, “and the French ambassador.”
I had no idea who the second man was and couldn’t have picked him out of a lineup. “Who even is that?”
“I don’t know, but Gladys said he was.” Gladys could have pointed to literally any man in the place and said that. Her need to feel important frequently outweighed the truth, as I had learned. But if McNamara was there, anything was possible.
“No White House trips?”
“No.” Patricia shook her head. “But that’s probably for the best. I mean, I wouldn’t say no, but I’d feel guilty. I like the first lady.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask if she would have minded if she didn’t like the first lady, but the fact that she had said she wouldn’t say no was a clue.
My mother would pull me out of this job by the hair if she knew the type of friends I was making.
But my curiosity about the evening was stronger than any moral outrage I was supposed to feel. “What do you wear to a place like that?”
“A cocktail dress.”
I had nothing resembling cocktail attire. Even Betty only had one dress that could possibly fit the bill, and it was still in her closet. Any plans to go with Patricia would have to wait until I could afford something to wear.
Apparently my dismay showed on my face. “Don’t worry,” Patricia said. “You can always borrow a dress.”
I looked at Patricia’s long frame. A short dress on her would be ankle length on me.
She laughed, reading my mind. “The girl who rents the room next door to mine is about your size. She won’t mind. Just don’t spill anything on yourself.”
Miss Kelly came out of her office to stalk through the typing pool looking for infractions, and we busied ourselves with articles until the door to her office was shut firmly again with her inside it, then Patricia was back at my desk, this time with Carol.
“Are you coming to the Bohemian Caverns with us Thursday night?” Carol asked.
“The what?”
The two of them exchanged a look and smiled at each other. “Fresh off the farm,” Patricia murmured, the corners of her eyes crinkling.
“It’s a jazz club on U Street,” Carol explained. “We met this nightclub singer from Cuba at Off the Record Friday night, and she invited us to her show.”
Cuba again.
I looked up sharply, the article I had been typing completely forgotten, as a thought began to form. “Where in Cuba is she from?”
Carol shrugged, and Patricia said, “Havana, I think she said. She was a favorite of Batista’s and had to leave during the revolution.” She looked at Carol. “I ran into her in the bathroom. She was there with a senator—I don’t remember which one—but we talked for a while. She was gorgeous.”
A nightclub singer from Havana. With a senator. At Off the Record.
It’s where the president and vice president pick up girls, Patricia said again in my head.
Texas Democrat.
Not Cuba. Havana specifically.
It was flimsy, but it was a lead. And one that I was itching to follow.
“Do—” I paused and lowered my voice. “Do the president and vice president’s—” What did you call a man who procures girls other than a pimp? “Do they send people to this Bohemian place too?”
Patricia and Carol both looked at me curiously. “I don’t think so,” Carol said slowly. “I’ve never heard that anyway. It’s too far from the White House and just a jazz club. But they get all kinds of other famous people there.”
So that club wasn’t anything special. But a woman from Havana was at the bar where the most prominent Texan picked up women . . . Okay, it was a long shot. There had been an influx of Cuban refugees three years ago when the revolution happened, but they had primarily settled in Florida. It was too much of a coincidence, coming just days after that phone call. Instinct told me there was something there. And I wanted to see it for myself.
“What would you think of going to Off the Record tonight?”
“Tonight?” they both asked, incredulous. It was a Monday after all. “Why?”
“Because I could get away with it,” I said. It wasn’t the whole truth—especially because I would have to get dressed at Patricia’s apartment to avoid arousing my mother’s suspicion. And I had no idea how I would explain coming home late from a bar. If she smelled so much as a hint of liquor on me, I was done for, twenty-two or not. But my gut was telling me I had to be in that room and see if my hunch was correct.
“How about tomorrow?” Patricia asked. “I kind of have a date tonight.”
“Kind of?” Carol asked. A slow grin spread across Patricia’s face, and Carol started to laugh. “You don’t mean—?”
“Shh,” Patricia said. She glanced at me. “He’s a congressman. I’ll tell you who he is if it turns into anything.”
“You’re terrible,” Carol said. “Teach me your ways!”
I laughed, and Miss Kelly came striding over as the other two girls scattered.
My output for the rest of the day was miserable. I kept making mistakes as I typed, trying to figure out Texas is with Havana, mass goal in sight. Something in the back of my brain was tingling, telling me that I was onto something with Off the Record, the vice president, and this singer from Havana. I just didn’t know what yet.
An excerpt from OFF THE RECORD by Sara Goodman Confino Text copyright © 2026 by Sara Goodman Confino All rights reserved.
