

The Girlfriends Book Club Presents...

### ONE MORE PAGE:

A Fiction Sampler with Bonus Writing Advice

from 17 Successful Novelists

By

Christa Allan, Judith Arnold, Marilyn Brant, Sylvie Fox, Jenny Gardiner, Maria Geraci, Tonya Kappes, Leslie Langtry, Leslie Lehr, Maggie Marr, Ellen Meister, Ellyn Oaksmith, Jess Riley, Saralee Rosenberg, Sara Rosett, Wendy Tokunaga, L.J. Wilson

### ONE MORE PAGE:

A Fiction Sampler with Bonus Writing Advice

from 17 Successful Novelists

Copyright 2015 by Members of the Girlfriends Book Club:

Christa Allan, Barbara Keiler, Marilyn B. Weigel, Sylvie Fox, Jenny Gardiner, Maria Geraci, Tonya Kappes, Leslie Langtry, Leslie Lehr, Maggie Marr, Ellen Meister, Ellyn Oaksmith, Jess Riley, Saralee Rosenberg, Sara Rosett, Wendy Tokunaga, L.J. Wilson

Smashwords Edition

Formatter: Ironhorse Formatting

Cover Designer: The Killion Group

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the publisher of this book, excepting brief quotations used in reviews.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the authors' work.

### Table of Contents

About the Girlfriends Book Club (GBC)

Christa Allan

Judith Arnold

Marilyn Brant

Sylvie Fox

Jenny Gardiner

Maria Geraci

Tonya Kappes

Leslie Langtry

Leslie Lehr

Maggie Marr

Ellen Meister

Ellyn Oaksmith

Jess Riley

Saralee Rosenberg

Sara Rosett

Wendy Tokunaga

L.J. Wilson

A Note from the Authors

#  About the Girlfriends Book Club

The Girlfriends Book Club began in 2003 as a virtual blog tour, one of the first of its kind. It was featured in the _New York Times_ and the _Village Voice_. In recent years it was re-invented as a group blog for women's fiction writers. As members of the GBC, we blog every weekday about our books and writing adventures.

We are a group of traditionally published, award-winning, and bestselling authors. In recent years, many of us have become the new hybrid author—indie publishing and, of course, still traditionally publishing. We invite you to read, comment, and spend some time hanging out with us. Our online blog can be found here: http://girlfriendsbookclub.org

Included in this book are 34 of our most popular blog posts on the subject of writing and the writing life, as well as 17 featured fiction excerpts from our published novels. We truly hope you will enjoy this unique collection!

# Christa Allan

CHRISTA ALLAN

_An award-winning writer of women's fiction, Christa Allan has written five novels and released her first indie book in December, ALL THEY WANT FOR CHRISTMAS. She recently retired after 25 years of teaching high school English, though she can sometimes be found wearing scrubs and working at her husband's vet clinic writing excellent chart notes. Christa is a Southern chick who knows how to make a roux and dodges hurricanes in The Big Easy_. _In the meantime, she's working on the second book in her series and other brilliant ideas from her desk in her 170-year-old slightly haunted house._

www.christaallan.com

Steps to Publication

1. You have an idea.

2. You begin to write a book.

3. After the first two chapters, you are so smitten with your own genius, you pause to jot down the names of actors and actresses who will [consider themselves lucky to] portray your characters.

4. After chapter two and a half, you decide it's time to dust the fireplace, crochet the twelve bedspreads you've been buying yarn to complete for the past ten years, and start a scrapbook for each of your children, your yet-to-be-born grandchildren, and the family pet(s).

5. You continue writing [or gazing at the monitor] and decide that repeatedly poking yourself in the eye with a hot stick would be welcome relief from the blinking, pulsating, taunting, annoying cursor.

6. You light fires in August and clean out the fireplace, again.

7. You turn off speech recognition so all your sentences don't start with a string of f-words.

8. You read about a twelve-year-old who wrote her first novel in six days whose agent just sold international rights, movie rights, and rights that haven't been invented yet. You look for the stick to poke in her your eye that you're going to light in the clean fireplace.

9. You consider a feeding tube and a catheter so you won't have to walk away from your desk.

10. You reach the middle of the book. You wonder if the same people who told Amanda Bynes she was totally sane are the people who told you that you could write.

11. You tug on God's sleeve and ask Him if He wouldn't mind, pretty please, pretty please with a cherry the size of unsaved nation on top, you promise you'll be a good girl, clean up the room of your soul, be nice to His people, if He'd just this one time, you promise never to ask again, it's just an itsy-bitsy favor... could He send a host of heavenly angels to descend upon your computer and finish this damn novel.

12. The angels must be flying stand-by. They don't appear, but a new flavor of Blue Bell does. You eat a half-gallon for each thigh.

13. You hear about the lady who didn't leave the bathroom for two years and was stuck to the potty seat. You're sure they didn't mention she was balancing a laptop on her knees and was waiting for inspiration.

14. You have to finish the novel because your legs are permanently bent at your knees, and you'll need the advance to pay the orthopedic doctor. (Go directly to #24 if you're an indie!)

15. You send off three chapters to an agent/editor. You feel like you sent a photo of your left arm, right foot and the back of your head to Match.Com and asked for a date with Prince Charming.

16. Step #15.

17. Step #15.

18. Step #15

19. You pray.

20. Repeat step #19 for a few weeks.

21. The agent/editor calls. You pray you're not dreaming.

22. You scrape yourself off every wall you've bounced off of for days because YOU HAVE AN AGENT/A CONTRACT!!!!!!!!!

23. You do the happy dance for God, your friends, your family, You Tube, Vine...

24. You continue to write because you know the light at the end of the tunnel could be the headlamp of an oncoming train.

25. People ask when the book's coming out. You tell them, "When it's finished." But until then... you write, you write, you curse, you write.

First published on the GBC website on October 17, 2014

If There's an Elephant in the Room

If there's an elephant in the room...I'll find it.

When you're the once divorced, twice married recovering alcoholic wife of a Jewish husband, mother of twins (one of the two has Down's Syndrome) plus three other children, a daughter whose husband is black (and she's not), and sister of a gay brother...well, just where are you going to go with that?

I never intended to write about issues. They found me first. And when I first discovered Christian fiction, I wanted, needed, characters with whom I could identify.

Sure, I found some novels with characters who were alcoholics, or gay, or parents of special-needs children. But, generally, they weren't the protagonists or their situations didn't mirror life as I saw it. As someone who came to Christianity in my late 30s, I wondered if I was an anomaly or if the people in the pews around me had equally messy lives.

When I started writing for publication, my first idea was a romance novel. Girl meets boy, they hate each other, then they like each other. Five pages in, and I was done. My husband suggested I write a mystery. I couldn't even figure out who the killer was, so surely that wasn't going to work either.

The notion to write about a woman alcoholic emerged after sharing with a co-worker that I've been a recovering alcoholic for over twenty years. Her surprise that an average teacher-mommy-wife who led an otherwise average life was ever an alcoholic was my epiphany.

I want readers to know being a Christian doesn't mean immunity from the world's problems. For now, I'm delivering that message via a Christian publishing house.

The bottom line is that we never know just by looking at people what's going on in their lives. So many people look so bright-faced happy and pretty on the outside that we're duped into believing they lead charmed lives. Like those families in the picture frames sold in stores (who ARE those people, by the way?!).

But turn those pictures over, and what's there? Nothing. I don't believe that's the life we're called to. We're called to compassion and to consider that all those "pretty people" might just be waiting for someone to take them out of their frames.

And that's my passion for writing...to expose the elephants.

First published on GBC website on September 27, 2011

An Excerpt from ALL THEY WANT FOR CHRISTMAS by Christa Allan

(Romantic comedy, first in a series: The Magnolia Hill Garden Club)

### CHAPTER ONE

It took Beulah Grace Schwartz three tries, but she finally killed my mother.

The first time was in June when she accused my mother Nancy Jane Pressfield, of diverting $29.54 from the Magnolia Hills Garden Club into her personal account. For fertilizer. Momma told her she was the one full of crap because that money was approved for reimbursement by the treasurer herself, Claretta Morgan, also the CPA for half the town.

Beulah Grace's second attempt was in September when she told her every other Tuesday afternoon bridge group my mother tried to seduce her husband, Ronald Reagan Schwartz. This based on Ronald telling her Nancy Jane brought a Brownie Batter Chocolate Chip Cheesecake to his hardware store to thank him for rekeying all her locks. After momma heard the story from her friends at the Ladies Church Auxiliary, she informed Beulah Grace that if she wanted to look at something old, small and wrinkled, she'd stand buck-naked in front of her full-length mirror.

Finally, Beulah Grace did her in for good. She denied it, of course. But everyone knew she wasn't only capable of such a murderous act, she'd know exactly how to carry it out.

That morning the sickening alarm of our cat Job, who was screeching like two hells, bolted me out of bed. I closed my eyes for a quick prayer. "Oh, dear God, did she hit him with the riding mower again?" I opened my eyes to peek through the wooden mini blind in my bathroom. But I didn't see or hear the engine racing in the back yard, so it couldn't be another mower mishap. Job lost a smidge of his tail in that one. I grabbed my cell phone off my dresser and started toward the kitchen when an alien noise shattered through Job's cries. It had to be coming from the front yard.

I threw on my coat, even though it was December in south Louisiana, which didn't bite. It mostly just showed its teeth. Besides, no one in Magnolia Hills in their right mind (which excluded half the population) went in their front yard wearing flannel PJs.

Before I opened the front door, I had my thumb ready to hit 911 on my phone because even in our small town we could never be too careful. If it wasn't Bob Jefferson's cows meandering down the sidewalk because his kids left the cattle gate open, it was 89-year-old Mrs. Casnave next door climbing her ladder to pick kumquats and missing a rung on the way down.

Kneeling on the cold ground, her hair still in spongy curlers and wearing her faded chenille robe, was Momma. Her arms wrapped around her prized Yuletide Camellia plant. What leaves remained on the plant, trembled along with Momma's sobs.

"She's dead. She's gone. Gone."

Her voice sounded like it was being dragged over gravel. Sitting on the pavestone walkway snaked around the cluster of camellia bushes, Job swiveled his head in my direction, then padded off as if to say, "Good luck. She's yours now."

Momma looked at me, her eyes steaming, her cheeks damp from her tears. "She killed her. I know she did. That damn Beulah Grace Schwartz. She poisoned her. I just know it."

She moaned and shook her fist at the heavens.

God had been officially put on notice.

Poor God.

Poor me.

This battle between my mother and her Magnolia Hills Garden Club nemesis Beulah Grace was made all the more complicated by the recent ending of the upcoming nuptials—mine, specifically—to one Jeremiah Levi, the sole surviving son of Beulah Grace and Ronald Reagan Schwartz.

Six months earlier, I'd just signed the loan agreement to open the Mad Batter Bakery along with my partner Preston Atticus Monroe, my best friend since our sandbox days at Miss Lucy's KinderCare. Then, one month later, Youngblood Engineering offered Jeremiah—or Levi as I called him, ignoring his mother's sour expression when I ignored his first name—a new position with a higher salary to help open their new Houston office.

If Preston and I hadn't already signed a two-year-lease on the only available property fronting Main Street, a newly restored Victorian with a porch wide enough to accommodate tables and chairs, and a spacious kitchen for our equipment, I might have been a tad less bitchy about the whole idea of a transfer. Maybe I would have said, "Can we talk about this later?" when he broke the news while I was painting the front room alternating wide strips of butter yellow and frosted mint. Instead, according to Preston who had been rearranging the display cases channeling his inner Nate Berkus, Oprah's home designer guru, my head had swiveled exorcist-like on my neck right before I spewed, "Levi, if brains were leather, you wouldn't have enough to saddle a June bug. Are you kidding me? Move to Houston? Can you see what I'm doing here?"

"What I see, Holly," Levi had said, yanking the knot out of his tie and undoing his collar button, "is me walking out of here, going home to watch tonight's football game, drink beer, and probably fall asleep before halftime ends because I'm so damn tired. I don't even have the energy to fight with you right now."

Preston had walked over and shook Levi's hand. "Well, then, let me be the first to congratulate you," he said, stabbing me with a quick cut of his eyes.

"Thanks, Pres," Levi said, a tired smile appearing. "You're welcome to join me."

Preston grinned. "You know I'd only be sitting there to watch the tight ends' tight ends and relieve you of a few beers." He sighed. "I have to admit, though, the announcers can be so much fun. Talking about penetration and loose balls and going deep," he said. "But I appreciate the invitation. I'll take over for Michelangelo's sister here, so she can go home and have a"—he paused and looked at me—"civilized conversation with you."

That conversation was as wild as my hair on a high humidity day. While I was proud of Levi, I was also frustrated. He could be an engineer anywhere. Opening the Mad Batter Bakery in such a prime location could not. Levi, who needed to relocate in six weeks, which meant about four months before our eve of Christmas Eve wedding, said I didn't have to move there until after we were married. He generously offered to "let" me work at the bakery during the week and travel home on weekends "for a while."

"Seriously? We're going to start our marriage seeing each other on weekends?" I ranted on about my opinion not mattering to him now, so it would be unlikely to ever matter to him. I'd fallen in love with Levi in fourth grade when he told his friends I could shoot a basketball better than he could, and if I weren't on their team, I'd beat them on the other team. It wasn't until after we both returned to Magnolia Hills after college that our lifetime of friendship made being a couple as easy as breathing.

The rest of the night and for a week after that, we threw words at one another like flaming arrows. Levi and I made love and fought with equal passion. In less time than it took to decide on paint colors for the bakery, we were un-engaged. We accused one another of the same relationship crimes. Selfishness, stubbornness and senselessness.

Two weeks later, I moved out of his house, the one that was supposed to become our house, and he moved to Houston two weeks earlier than he needed to be there. Our mothers, who lived across the street from one another, moved to the land of denial. Convinced we were going through the pre-wedding jitters, they refused to cancel the church, the caterer, the cackling among themselves. When Levi and I still hadn't re-engaged ourselves by September, they relented. Since then, the Magnolia Hills Garden Club threatened to excommunicate them both if they didn't stop enlisting members for Team Levi or Team Holly.

So, less than four weeks before what would have been my wedding day, I'm tugging my mother into the house with one hand and, with the other, speed dialing my father who was still inside, probably only pretending to be asleep, to help me before she broke lose and tore across the street to Beulah Grace's.

I didn't tell my mother I spotted Levi's mother standing behind her screened door, arms folded, wearing a toothy smile and a Santa hat.

Christmas must have come early for Beulah Grace.

### CHAPTER TWO

The last time I witnessed this degree of self-pity in Momma was when my younger sister Lily, born on Easter, came home from LSU with a baby bump instead of a college degree. After the bump was born, Lily and John Jay Winston married in our back yard and moved with triple J (John Jay, Jr.) back to Baton Rouge. John's mom took care of her new grandson so Lily and her husband could finish school. They graduated last year, and with his father's blessing and backing, John opened a restaurant near the college campus that's doing so well, Lily is now home with triple J. Momma, of course, now acts as if she orchestrated the entire series of events that led to the happy ending.

My father reminded her of that in the middle of her mourning over the camellia. "For Gawd's sake Nancy, remember you got triple J out of what you thought was the end of the world. And Lily still got that college degree we sent her there to get. That camellia bush won't make the difference between your winning the Christmas Garden of the Month or not. You got about two dozen other ones scattered all over the damn place."

"That's just not the point, Hamilton." Momma cracked an egg against the stainless steel bowl, flicked her wrist and grabbed another. "Winning this month means I could get picked to attend the Deep South Annual Garden Club Convention in Birmingham next year."

"You're getting mighty worked up about a trip to Alabama." He refilled his coffee mug, winked at me, then said, "Tell you what...save all the money you'd spend winning this damn contest, and I'll take you there myself."

"And that's not the point, either." She checked the bacon in the microwave, and set the timer for two more minutes. She swatted him with her dishtowel. "I swear, you could give aspirin a headache. Go make yourself useful."

"I'm trying, honey, but I can't get you to leave the kitchen." He sipped his coffee, but his eyes were laughing for him.

Momma swatted him again, a bit harder this time, and reached for yet another egg.

"Um, who's coming over for breakfast? That's the tenth egg you've used." I said, and then scooted out of her way in case the eleventh one landed on my head.

"Never you mind. If you hadn't chased away that fiancé of yours, you wouldn't be here asking that question. And I wouldn't be dealing with his spiteful mother." She grabbed the whisker and violently beat the eggs, her sponge curlers rocking on her head.

"Oh, so we're going to make your dead flowers my fault?" I whopped the can of biscuits in my hand against the kitchen counter, giving Job yet another reason to yowl. "And, no, I'm not making biscuits from scratch this morning." I plopped them on the baking sheet one by one. "You're telling me all Beulah needs to win is for you to lose one camellia bush? Seems to me you're handing over a whole lot of power to that woman."

The egg whisking stopped. "Hamilton, talk to your daughter."

I laughed. "I'm thirty-three, not three," I said as I slipped the biscuits into the oven. "If you don't think you can win, just drop out of the contest."

"You're almost thirty-three. Don't age me before my time." My dad kissed me on my forehead. "You were the best Christmas present ever. Shopped for you nine months earlier, and I didn't even have to wrap you." My father picked up Job. "And now, the men folk are going to the family room. We're not participating in this."

Against the backdrop of the eggs sizzling as they covered the frying pan, Momma said, "Not all of us quit just because things aren't going the way we want."

"Girls' Night Out couldn't have happened at a better time," I told the three women at the table as we popped open our second bottle of Smith & Hook at The Whine Bar.

"You said the same thing when we met the night after Levi moved to Houston." Allee poured a glass and handed it to me. "And the week after you moved back to your parents' house. And after Levi's mother accused you of ruining her son's life..."

"Oh, now look what you've gone and done. Made the poor girl laugh," said LamarAnn, her twin, whose sense of humor distinguished her from her look-alike, radically serious sister. That and the fact that one of them parted her mostly-blonde hair on the left and the other on the right.

"I'm a walking 'if I don't laugh, I'll cry' cliché," I said watching the wine slosh against the edge of the glass as I twisted the stem between my thumb and forefinger. "My mother is convinced Beulah Grace is undermining her, the bakery's supposed to open the week before Christmas, and we're still waiting on inventory that's delayed because it's coming from snow-covered places."

And almost daily I couldn't overcome the compulsion to stare at my wedding dress. I searched for months before Levi had even officially proposed and, when I found it, fell—no, plummeted—into love. The gown was made of champagne tulle with lace appliqués beaded with Swarovski crystals, a pattern repeated on the long lace sleeves. The neckline was wide at the front with a plunging scalloped back. The eight-foot tulle veil was trimmed with lace, and bloomed into a cascade of lace flowers on the lower half. I'd envisioned my mother zipping me into it and Levi zipping me out, the dress collapsing into a puddle of glittering soft spun sugar at my feet.

Mia, my was-to-be matron of honor, snapped her fingers and waved her hand in front of my face. "Hey, are you with us? I asked you where Preston was, and if we should wait on him before we order."

"Sorry," I said and blinked away my walk down the aisle. "He's going to be running late. He's at the bakery waiting on a piece of equipment to be delivered."

"Is that some quirky way of telling us he has a date?"

"Allee, don't try to be amusing, honey. It doesn't wear well on you," said Lamar Ann. "Leave the funny to me." She sipped her wine, and nodded toward her sister. "So, what she said. Is it?"

"The last place Preston would try to hook up with someone would be in the middle of town," said Mia. "Just because the man may be drop-dead gorgeous, built like a linebacker and have skin the color of melted caramel, doesn't mean he's foolish."

"You do know that being hot for Preston is absolutely pointless, plus you're married," Allee said, uncorking a new bottle.

"Which is exactly why I can appreciate his amazing body," said Mia.

We'd adopted Preston into our Girls' Night Out years ago. That he looked as if he could be our bodyguard was sufficient to keep most of the town's hens from clucking. Preston joked no man in the Deep South was "fully" gay, especially a black man. "We just walk lightly or take after our mama's side of the family or become interior decorators. Or hair stylists," he told us one of the night. "Of course, I can't believe these women around here don't have a clue. After all, who did they call to host the 'Swags and Wreath Workshop' when the guest presenter from New Orleans had the shingles? _Moi._ And, poor Mrs. Neidermeyer, having a hissy fit because she didn't understand why 'that lovely lady cancelled on us to get roofing materials.' "

Allee tapped LamarAnn's hand, and they looked over my shoulder, their eyes like camera lenses zooming in on a target.

"What's going—" I tried to turn in my chair, but Mia put her arm around my shoulder.

"Don't turn around. Preston just walked in with his 'equipment,'" she whispered.

But too late.

Following Preston into the Whine Bar was a tall, well-built man, his black hair, once unruly was now tamed into a short side-part. A man whose beard scruff Holly distinctly remembered brushing against her body.

Jeremiah Levi Schwartz.

### CHAPTER THREE

If my memory had been wiped clean, and Levi was a stranger, I would have fallen in love with him still. Initially, maybe just tripped into lust watching him move across the room, a man comfortable in his own skin. A man whose skin I had grown comfortable being next to, or under, or over at night. The skin my hands memorized. Like the raised scar at the base of his spine where he'd had surgery in college. The mole on the left side of his body, directly above his hip bone.

I hadn't seen or talked to him in over three months. Not counting the night I drunk dialed him after the first month we'd been apart. Preston had dropped me off at home around midnight after we'd had a long, late, mostly liquid dinner. I slipped into bed, fully clothed, wiggled my cell phone out of my jeans' pocket and hit JLS. He wisely didn't answer, but that didn't deter me from leaving a rambling, sloshy monologue that ended with me asking him if ex-engaged couples could have phone sex.

He didn't respond. A choice much wiser than the one I'd made the night before.

When Preston and Levi stopped to talk to the bartender, I looked at my friends at the table. "Raise your hand if you're an accomplice."

The three of them stared at me as if I'd just thrown my wine in their faces.

"We're the ones who asked you about Preston," said Mia. "And you know, I'm a terrible liar, so no way could I have pulled off that question without making you suspicious."

The twins nodded. "Mia's right. She ruined every surprise party we've ever tried to throw," said LamarAnn.

"The only way to pull one off is to make it a surprise for her too." Allee refilled her wine glass. "Look, if Preston had told us he planned this, we would have gone somewhere else."

"After telling him what a crappy idea we thought it was," added LamarAnn. "Where do you think you're going?"

I'd stood up, drained my wine, grabbed my purse and prepared to jet before Preston and Levi wandered over to us. "Home. I'm going home." My trembling voice betrayed the stoic posture I attempted. My brain was engaged in a tug-of-war with my heart, but I wasn't sure they wouldn't conspire against me. Throwing the rope around Levi and pulling him toward me.

"Hmmm. I don't think so, sister," said Allee.

I slung my purse over my shoulder. "Don't be ridiculous. Whether I stay or go is my decision—"

"Well, no, it isn't really." Allee held up a set of keys. "We picked you up."

"Damn." I pressed my fingertips to my lips. "Let me take your car, and you..." Three pairs of eyes shifted away from me to over my shoulders. "They're walking this way, aren't they?" No "butterflies in my stomach" cliché for me. Bees, angry swarming bees that stung.

"This is awkward," Mia mumbled. "Kill me now for making fun of Harry Potter and that cloak of invisibility."

I closed my eyes and willed myself to peace, serenity and all that other crap that was supposed to be honey to those damn bees in my gut.

"Hey, betches. So sorry for being late to the party. I waited longer for that oven than Kim Kardashian's marriage lasted to that basketball player." I recognized Preston's "nice-nice" voice. The sing-song one he used to diffuse uncomfortable situations. Like this one. I still hadn't turned around to face him or Levi. Preston tugged at my purse straps. "You on your way in or out?" He bent down and hugged me, tighter than usual, and whispered, "Didn't plan this."

Did I dare admit I didn't know if I was coming or going? Give Levi more evidence of my acting like a human boomerang at times? Concentration was an ocean in my mind. It ebbed and flowed.

"Both," I answered and slid into the chair where I'd been sitting, making eye contact with Levi impossible unless he walked around the table. Which, because I must have ticked off Lady Luck at some point in my life, was the only space with two empty chairs.

"And look who stopped by to see us at the bakery," said Preston, still on the verge of singing, until he said "us" then stared at me. "I told him I was on my way to Girls' Night Out, but he practically insisted he wanted to tell all you fine women 'hello.' "

Levi sat right next to him, so Preston must have counted on his not detecting the raised eyebrows and slight head tilt that conveyed enough information that he could enter a plea of "not guilty."

The waitress appeared, an early Christmas miracle angel, to save us from ourselves. The girls and I greeted her with such relief disguised as enthusiasm, she must have wanted to reconsider offering us more wine.

"Another bottle and two more glasses?" She smiled at Preston and Levi as she set napkins in front of them.

"Nothing for me, thanks," said Levi. "I won't be staying long."

I couldn't not look at him. Especially when, before I saw him scan my face, I felt his eyes on me. I lifted my head and looked into the face of the man who let me buy Park Place knowing I'd win, the man who brought me coffee, the newspaper, and three strips of bacon—one shorter where he'd taken a bite—in bed on any given weekend morning. The man who undressed me with his eyes as he unbuttoned my silk blouse, leaving a trail of kisses that started in the hollow of my neck.

"Holly." He nodded.

I nodded. "Levi."

It was a start.

### CHAPTER FOUR

LamarAnn looked around the table as we each silently conceded to her being the one to crack the silence. She tilted her head toward Levi. "Sooooooo, how's Houston?"

"Busy," he replied, his eyes locked on my face.

"Uh huh. Well..." LamarAnn elbowed her sister, who elbowed her back and stayed mute.

My brain tightened its reins. "No.No. NO. DO NOT SPEAK." My heart bellowed, "Go for it! Go for it! NOW!" I wanted both to shut up. I bit my lower lip and under the table started picking my fingernails.

"My cousin lives in the Heights—" Mia said.

"Stop. No more BS. We all know why I'm here." Levi stood and slipped his hands into the front pockets of his jeans.

I pretended to study the graffiti carvings on the table. "Lizzie hearts herself" and proclamations of love lost and found.

"Holly?"

A thought shot through my mind that nailed my brain and heart to the wall. _What if he met someone else? Impossible, right? But alone in a new city for three months is a long time._ I shivered. _Maybe he's not here for me. He's here for her._

"Holly?" A bit louder this time. "Can you please look at me?"

Mia pinched my arm. And not in a figurative sense. I expected a bruise later. "Hey, pay attention here," she said.

I wanted to tell her his voice saying my name was like an unexpected gift. That what I wanted was for the last four months to be a crease in the fabric of time, so December could follow July, and we could make big deals out of little deals like where we were going for dinner that night. And we'd be Levi and Holly planning our lives together.

"Yes," I said, breathing the word out. I looked up into eyes the shade of pecan shells with specks of black. Eyes that, at that moment, swallowed me whole.

He leaned toward me, his hands on the table. "I want to talk to you. Can we go somewhere and make that happen?"

"Now?"

Mia kicked me under the table.

He stared at the table and looked back at me in mild amusement. "I drove here in less than five hours, risked speeding tickets, negotiated Baton Rouge on the night of a football game...so, yes, now."

***

Levi walked ahead of me as we left, threading us through the maze of table and the human forest around the long copper-covered bar. He glanced back at me a few times, I guessed to assure himself I hadn't bolted in the opposite direction.

He stopped when we were outside. "I forgot to ask. Is your car here?"

"No, the twins picked me up from the bakery."

"Do you want to get it now or later?"

"That depends," I said, moving away from the door swinging open as people I hoped didn't recognize either one of us left and entered the bar. Magnolia Hills hotline disseminated information faster than Miley Cyrus twerked. And usually with the same range of responses from agony to ecstasy. By tomorrow, the two of us simply standing together outside The Whine Bar could be a tale of a hidden marriage or two and/or a baby.

"We're blocking the doors, and the wind's picking up," he said. "Let's walk to my car, and then you can tell me your conditions."

I followed him in the parking lot, and when he stopped at a car I didn't recognize as his, I kept walking. Right into him. My nose smashed directly into his back, the hit somewhat cushioned by his navy cashmere sweater. "Oops. Ouch. Sorry," I mumbled. But I wasn't too sorry because my scent memory recaptured our first Mardi Gras parade when you spilled your beer on my thigh and licked it off, and shrimp po-boys at the lakefront, and making supper after making love, and sleeping pressed into the crook of your arm.

"You okay?" He turned and reached out as if to grasp my hands, but I was already using both of them to massage my nose.

"This is my car...wait, I forgot you didn't know that," he said.

Since he sounded almost apologetic, I skipped the barbed wire response I had ready about ex-fiancés paying for BMWs instead of honeymoons.

Just as Levi opened the passenger door for me and impressed me with his throwback to politeness, my cynic elbowed its way to the tip of my brain. _Don't kid yourself. He didn't want you to open the door. You might have swung it open so hard that you'd crack the paint job on the red truck parked next to his."_

He slid into the driver's seat, and my cynic grudgingly admitted he could one-up any actor in a car commercial. The man wore success well.

I rubbed my hand over the buttery leather, barely aware he'd already started the car. I fastened my seatbelt. "So, this is what it's like to sit in the lap of luxury."

"If you want, I can warm your seat," he said.

I was astonished and turned on simultaneously. "You move faster than the car. Are we back to that stage in our relationship so soon?"

He laughed. "I meant the seat warmer."

It was almost disappointing.

We decided talking at the bakery made the most sense since my car was parked there and we'd be less likely to be seen, if at all.

His story of buying the car filled the time and space between us, and it didn't require my rapt attention, which meant I could look out the window at the Christmas decorations. Homes dripping in lights, front doors draped with garlands, lawns displaying manger scenes or blow-up Santas or wooden reindeer figures. In Deep South Louisiana, like Magnolia Hills, Christmas isn't sleigh bells jingling, Jack Frost nipping or Yuletide fires burning. We don't get to sing songs about wreaths on streetcars or eating pralines instead of sugar plums or Santa in a pirogue pulled by alligators. Levi and I used to joke that our ticket to fame and fortune would be writing Christmas songs with titles like, "Y'all Be Sure to Go to Your Mama n'Thems for Christmas, A Jazzy Christmas, Baby It's Barely Cold Outside and Eating Gumbo After Midnight Mass."

This year, how I felt about Christmas had nothing to do with geography. It was a "Blue Christmas," and I hoped it wouldn't get any bluer.

Copyright 2014 by Christa Allan. All rights reserved.

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# Judith Arnold

JUDITH ARNOLD

_USA Today bestselling author Judith Arnold first dreamed of becoming a writer when she was four. With nearly one hundred published novels to her name, she has been able to live her dream. Four of Judith's novels have received Reviewers Choice awards from RT Book Reviews, and she's been a multiple finalist for Romance Writers of America's RITA® Award. Her novel LOVE IN BLOOM'S was named one of the best books of the year by Publishers Weekly, and her novel BAREFOOT IN THE GRASS has appeared on recommended reading lists at hospitals and breast cancer support centers_.

www.juditharnold.com

How Do I Deal With Rejection?

I eat chocolate.

Sometimes I also drink wine.

Occasionally, I cry. Chocolate, wine, a few tears... And then I pick myself up, dust myself off, and get back to writing.

Surviving rejection is a skill professional writers must learn, just as we must learn grammar, plot structure, and character development. You cannot have a career as a writer without experiencing rejection. It simply doesn't happen.

You may get rejected by editors. You may get rejected by agents. You may get rejected by publishers, even after an editor expresses a desire to buy your manuscript. Your published book may be rejected by reviewers and readers. It happens. All the time. To every writer.

We writers are sensitive souls. We need to be. Our sensitivity helps us to pick up the vibes of human interaction, understand motivation, see beyond the surface of things, recognize why one sunset is worthy of description in our story and another sunset isn't. We need to feel things deeply.

But just as our sensitivity makes us susceptible to the beauty and wonder of the world around us, it also makes us susceptible to pain. When our book is rejected, we take it personally. Someone is telling us something we sweated blood over is worthless. Someone is stomping on a piece of our soul. Someone is breaking our heart.

It hurts.

If you can't tolerate the pain, don't become a writer. Or become a private writer. Write for yourself, write for the sheer joy of it, write a diary, fill notebooks and files with whatever you wish. Then store what you've written, stash it in a drawer, hide it in a trunk in the attic. You've experienced the pleasure and satisfaction of writing. That may be enough for you.

If you want to share your writing with others, though, you have to send your writing out into the world. And the world may reject it. As I said, this happens all the time, to all of us.

So keep some chocolate, a bottle of wine, and a box of tissues on hand. Prepare yourself. Accept that rejection is as much a part of your job as crafting sentences and shaping metaphors, typing and revising, creating characters and inventing worlds. When the pain arrives, nurse yourself. Indulge. Pig out on chocolate, guzzle some wine, sob into a tissue...and then wipe your eyes, blow your nose, and get back to writing. When you're a writer, it's what you do.

First published on the GBC website on February 19, 2015

I Think In Words

When I was a teenager, I spent a summer living on a commune on Cape Breton Island. I lived in a tent. No plumbing. (I bathed in an icy stream— _every day._ ) No electricity. (I had a flashlight.) No kitchen. (Our group built a fire pit for cooking and stored perishable foods in mesh bags in that icy stream.) No computer. (I had a portable manual typewriter.) The guy whose property we occupied wanted the land to be used as a summer community of artists, and when I told him I would write a novel while I was there, he invited me to join the group.

I did write a novel that summer—my very first. It was pretty bad. But I wrote it, and that alone made the experience invaluable to me.

The other residents at the commune were an eclectic lot. We had a painter, a poet, some musicians and a lot of people who claimed they were interested in art but never created anything. As long as they took their turns cooking, fishing, weeding our garden or making runs into town—six miles away—to pick up mail and supplies, they were allowed to stay.

One of the residents, Rich, had undergone extensive psychotherapy. I had never been in therapy, so I respected his superior wisdom when it came to matters of psychology.

On a mild July afternoon, I found myself sitting with him on a bluff overlooking the Gulf of St. Lawrence. The air was clear and sun-drenched, the grass we sat on was scattered with wild roses, and below us the water was a dark, rich blue. I was thinking about our trawl line in the gulf, wondering whether we'd snagged any fish for our dinner, when Rich abruptly said, "You know what your problem is?"

I hadn't been aware I had a problem, other than the usual woes about boyfriends, finances and the size of my butt. But Rich had been through therapy, so I figured he was an expert when it came to such matters. "What's my problem?" I asked.

"You think in words."

I frowned, unsure of what he meant.

"You can't just experience the world. You can't become one with it. You have to translate everything into words first. You can't look at this flower—" he gestured toward one of the wild roses sprouting from the soil in front of us "—without thinking: _Pink. Stem. Scent._ You can't just look at the flower and comprehend it. You have to turn it into words first."

I considered his accusation and realized he was right. That was exactly the way my mind worked. I thought in words.

I was devastated. How could I ever become one with a wild rose if I first turned that wild rose into a sentence? How could I _know_ the things around me when a barrier of words stood between me and those things?

I worried about Rich's assessment of me for weeks. I worried about his assessment in words. My mind chattered with them: _I can't experience the world correctly. I have no immediacy. Everything has to be structured into language in my mind. I am a failure as a human being!_

But eventually the word _no_ took hold of my brain. No, I was not a failure. No, there was nothing wrong with me. No, this was not a problem. It was simply who I was, who I'd always been. Who I was meant to be.

I think in words. I use words to process what my senses present to me. If I am facing a dilemma, I mentally sort that dilemma into sentences so I can analyze it. If I'm upset with someone, I filter my distress into words that will help me deal with that person. If something wonderful happens, words spark and blaze and dance inside me like fireworks.

I'm a writer. Of course I think in words! Rich might have been correct when he'd pointed this out to me, but he was wrong when he'd labeled it a problem. It is not a problem. It's simply who I am.

First published on the GBC website on May 9, 2013

An Excerpt from CHANGES: THE MAGIC JUKEBOX, BOOK ONE by Judith Arnold

(Contemporary Romance)

### CHAPTER ONE

It was love at first sight.

Diana had never believed such a thing existed outside the pages of romance novels, but the moment she spotted the object of her affection standing by the wall across from the bar at the Faulk Street Tavern, she was infatuated. Smitten. Over the moon.

"Oh, God," Peter said, his voice as dry as burnt toast. "Can we leave?"

Of course they couldn't leave. Not before she'd crossed the room, planted herself in front of that magnificent specimen and indulged in a few up-close-and-personal minutes. Maybe she'd run her hand along a curved surface. Maybe she'd touch the buttons, two neat, vertical rows of red. Maybe, if she dared, she'd press one of those buttons and see what happened.

Ignoring Peter, ignoring the niggling voice inside her skull warning her that he considered a mildly grungy watering hole like the Faulk Street Tavern so far beneath him that he'd need rappelling equipment to descend to its level, ignoring the certainty that if she spent more than five seconds here he was bound to be royally pissed, emphasis on _royally_ ... Ignoring everything but the target in her sights, she strode across the room. The dark pine plank floor was suspiciously sticky in a few spots. The booths lining one wall were crowded with patrons drinking, chattering, laughing, arguing. Most of the tables were occupied, too, and the long bar was insulated by a two-deep layer of people, mostly men, mostly clad in jeans or work pants, and flannel shirts layered over thermals. A few sported duck-billed caps.

Working-class, she thought as she moved through the room. No problem, as far as she was concerned. Peter was such a snob, though.

A waitress carrying an empty tray passed Diana en route to the bar. "You okay, hon?" she asked.

Other than being madly, wildly in love, Diana was fine. "Thanks," she said with a nod.

"There's an empty table over there." The waitress tilted her head in the direction of one of the tables. "Grab it if you want it. Tables don't stay empty long here on a Saturday night."

"Thanks," Diana said again. She glanced toward the door, trying to signal Peter to claim the available table. He remained where he was, his arms crossed, his handsome face twisted into a scowl.

Diana detoured to the table herself, tossed her jacket over one of the chairs, and then continued to the wall, to her destiny.

It was gorgeous. Utterly, heart-stoppingly gorgeous.

A Wurlitzer jukebox.

Her expertise didn't run to jukeboxes, but a few had passed through the galleries of Shomback-Sawyer Antiques in the five years Diana had worked there, and she did know a thing or two about antique furniture.

This jukebox, while not exactly a piece of furniture, was a beauty. Burnished wood rose to a dome of gold-hued, marbleized veneer which ended in a graceful crown trimmed in red glass and chrome. Beneath that crown was a semicircular window, cloudy with age, behind which stood a stack of vinyl records. A horseshoe of mesh fabric covered the speakers, surrounding what looked like a stained-glass depiction of two peacocks, the male's long tail curving down to cushion the female. Those red buttons, for selecting songs, stood in two straight columns on either side of the peacocks.

None of the buttons was labeled. Diana wondered how someone could choose a song.

Not that it mattered. Surely the jukebox didn't actually work.

She tried to recall what the concierge at the Ocean Bluff Inn had said when she and Peter had asked what people in Brogan's Point did in the evenings. "Besides what we have here?" The concierge had gestured with a generous sweep of her arm, encompassing more than just the inn's charming lobby but the entire sprawling complex of buildings, gardens, multiple dining rooms, tennis courts and a path down to the beach. "There are plenty of places in town. Being an antiques buff, you ought to check out the Faulk Street Tavern. It's an easy walk from here, less than half a mile away. It's got an antique I think you're going to fall in love with."

So they'd checked out the tavern, and now Diana knew why. She was more than merely an antiques buff, and this was more than merely a jukebox. The concierge, a cheerful, chatty woman named Claudia, was right: Diana had fallen in love.

"Okay. You've looked at it. Can we leave?"

She'd been so transported by the jukebox, she hadn't even noticed Peter abandoning the entry and crossing the room. Now he stood so close behind her she could feel the warmth of his chest against her back. "No, we can't," she said. "This is an amazing piece. I want to spend some time with it."

Peter rolled his eyes. He was an elitist—well bred, well educated, well groomed, and overly condescending when confronted with anything, any place or anyone he considered inferior. Apparently jukeboxes weren't worth his time. Or they might be, if they were in a museum. In a dive like the Faulk Street Tavern, no.

"I need to learn more about this," she said, wondering whether the piece was truly an antique or whether the locals just fed tourists a phony story about it, like all those shops down the road in Salem which sold "genuine" witchcraft paraphernalia. Diana knew some people did practice witchcraft, but she doubted most of the ticky-tacky souvenirs sold in Salem had anything to do with that.

"What do you need to learn?" Impatience tightened Peter's voice. "You're not going to buy it for Shomback-Sawyer."

"If it's for sale, I might."

"Oh, this baby ain't for sale." A man sidled up beside her and Peter, and she felt Peter growing exponentially more annoyed, as prickly as a porcupine under siege, its quills quivering. She reached for his hand with her own and gave it a reassuring squeeze. He had no reason to feel threatened by the man who had joined them at the jukebox. The guy looked to be in his forties, maybe older, his face grizzled and his chin hidden beneath a stubbly beard salted with gray. He was thin, his gangly torso clad in a heavy cotton shirt with _Frank_ stitched in red thread above the chest pocket and _Kreske's Auto Supplies_ imprinted on the pocket itself.

"Do you know anything about this jukebox?" she asked the man. Peter tightened his grip on her hand just the slightest bit. _Oh, for heaven's sake,_ she wanted to snap at him. No need to go all caveman on her. She was talking to the guy, not inviting him back to her room for the night.

"Just that it's a fixture here, and it ain't goin' nowhere. Gus would never allow it."

"Gus?"

"Owner of this bar. Nobody can remember a time before the jukebox was here. 'Course, anyone who could would probably be dead by now." He edged closer to the jukebox and gripped its polished golden flanks with both hands.

Diana almost yelled at him not to touch such a treasure, but then she conceded that he knew a lot more about it than she did. That gave him certain rights. "So it's always been here?" she asked.

"Long as I can remember. Were you planning to play something?"

"Does it actually work?" If it did, Shomback-Sawyer could make a fortune on the piece. Two fortunes. Diana might just buy it herself. She loved its shape, the grain rippling through the wood, the beautiful stained-glass peacocks. If it actually played music, too...

"Wouldn't be much of a jukebox if it didn't," the man said.

"But there's no listing of the songs." She gestured toward the buttons. "How do you even know what song you're requesting?"

He laughed, revealing a mouth full of crooked teeth. "You don't," he said.

"You don't know what's playing?"

"Well, you do once it starts playing and you can hear it." He shrugged and dug his hand into the pocket of his twill work pants. "You don't get to choose, though. You just put in your money and press a button or two, and you take your chances. It don't play nothin' new," he added. "Nothin' more recent than the invention of the iPod. Just old songs and really old songs. Some folks say it plays what you need to hear."

"What you _need_ to hear?"

He nodded. "I don't _need_ to hear nothin'," he added, "so I'm prob'ly safe." He removed his hand from his pocket, a quarter pinched between his thumb and forefinger. "Ten cents apiece, three for a quarter," he said. "Same price as when I was a kid and every diner, restaurant and bar had a jukebox." He inserted the quarter into the coin slot and poked a few unlabeled buttons. "Let's see what we get."

The cloudy window in the machine brightened, resembling an upside-down smile. Diana heard a couple of clicks, a mechanical hum, and then the velvet-smooth voice of Frank Sinatra singing "New York, New York." A loud chorus of hoots and boos arose from the bar, although everyone—including the man who'd paid for the song—seemed amused. "Don't think I need to hear _this,_ " he joked.

"It's a good song," Diana conceded.

"If you're a Yankees fan, maybe."

She grinned. She might not be a baseball fanatic, but she knew Frank Sinatra's rendition of "New York, New York" was the song played at every Yankees home game, just as Neil Diamond's "Sweet Caroline" was played at every Red Sox home game. In this picturesque seaside town an hour north of Boston, fans of the Yankees—the home town team's arch-rivals—were undoubtedly a rarity. The people carousing at the Faulk Street Tavern surely preferred "Sweet Caroline."

The stranger grinned back at her. "If _that's_ what the jukebox wants to tell me, I ain't listenin' to it. Have a good one." He nodded at Peter, an acknowledgement Peter probably didn't deserve, given that he hadn't even bothered to say hello, and then strode back across the room to rejoin his buddies at the bar. They continued their hooting and guffawing over the Yankees theme song, even as they slapped him on the back and handed him a bottle of beer.

Enthralled, Diana turned back to Peter.

"Can we go now?" he asked. He looked, if anything, even more annoyed. And sulky. And miserable.

"We've got to listen to all three songs," she argued, trying to thaw him with a smile. "The man put in a quarter. I snagged a table. Let's have a drink and hear the other two songs. Then we can go. All right?"

Peter eyed the bar warily. "Do I have to have a drink? I'm not sure this is the kind of place where they wash the glasses."

She refused to let his attitude irk her. They'd come to Brogan's Point to assess the Ocean Bluff Inn as a possible wedding venue. Peter favored a mansion they'd visited in Newport, but Brogan's Point was easier to reach from Boston, and their money would go a lot farther at the Ocean Bluff Inn than it would in Newport. Not that their families couldn't afford any venue Diana and Peter decided on, but she was a practical sort. If they booked a less expensive venue, she'd feel free to spend a little more on the band or the food.

She was glad she'd talked Peter into spending the weekend in Brogan's Point. The inn was truly lovely. The facility had several different event rooms, ranging in size from intimate to ballroom-grand. It also boasted plenty of guest rooms for attendees who wanted to stay overnight, and a breathtaking garden surrounding a gazebo that overlooked the ocean. Weather permitting, they could have the actual ceremony in the gazebo.

They'd ordered tasting menus for dinner earlier that evening, sampling a variety of possible hors d'oeuvres, appetizers and entrees. The chef wanted them to try some desserts, too, but after all the crabmeat tartlets and apple-and-brie quiches, the tuna tartare and caviar blini, the fillet mignon and poached salmon, they'd been too full.

Peter might loathe this bar, but he'd liked the inn—maybe not as much as the place in Newport, but enough not to veto it out of hand. While they'd stuffed themselves with bites and nibbles from the catering menus, he'd been the open-minded, courteous fiancé with whom she'd agreed to spend the rest of her life.

When he got the way he was now, however, stuffy and grouchy and arrogant, she wanted to hurl the dazzling three-carat diamond solitaire he'd given her at his nose. He had a perfectly sculpted nose. Michelangelo could not have improved on it, nor could Dr. Kafavian, her mother's favorite plastic surgeon. But the rock currently glittering on her left ring finger, if properly thrown, could give Peter's pretty nose a nice, bloody gash.

She didn't want to hurt him, of course. He was her husband-to-be, and she was fully prepared to gaze at his nicer-than-hers nose across tables in kitchens, restaurants and even seedy bars like the Faulk Street Tavern for the next fifty years. But honestly, when he got this way, he pissed her off. Maybe even royally.

"Just one drink," she cajoled, leading him to the table and nudging him into one of the chairs. She removed her jacket from the other, draped it over the chair's ladder-back and gazed around the room in search of the pleasant waitress she'd briefly spoken with on her way to the jukebox.

"Somehow, I doubt this place is going to have a decent wine," he muttered.

"Then get an indecent wine. Or a beer. Or a martini. They probably can't botch that."

He mumbled something—she was pretty sure he was complaining about the likely uncleanliness of the glasses, although if he ordered a beer he could drink directly from the bottle and not have to worry about the bar's hygiene. She hoped that once they were married, he would loosen up and be less judgmental.

She and Peter had known each other since childhood, and they'd started dating toward the end of high school. Even as a teenager, Peter had tended toward superciliousness. He came from an old Boston-Brahmin family and had upper-class tastes. He liked his clothing tailored, his cars expensive, his wines vintage and his scotch single-malt. He was fortunate enough to be able to afford it all, not only because of his family background but because he'd graduated from Harvard Business School and landed a ridiculously well-paying job at a private equity firm. He appreciated the good things in life. More than appreciated—he expected them.

Diana wished he could occasionally forget he was the scion of a top one-percent family and perhaps understand the appeal of a rattly pick-up truck, a greasy hamburger, and a joint like the Faulk Street Tavern. At least it was called a tavern, not a bar. Why couldn't that be enough for him?

Frank Sinatra belted out the final notes of "New York, New York," accompanied by a flourish of trumpets and a lot of jeers and catcalls from the tavern's patrons. Diana found herself chuckling at their enthusiastic negativity, but a part of her mind focused on the music itself. Or, more accurately, the jukebox. That an apparently antique machine could produce such decent acoustics impressed her. The sound quality wasn't quite like listening to an MP3 file through her high-end earphones, but if the jukebox was really as old as she thought it was, its speaker seemed awfully good. "That sounded great, don't you think?" she asked Peter. "The trumpets, and his voice. It sounded almost stereophonic. I don't think stereo had been invented when that jukebox was built."

Peter shrugged, clearly uninterested. His gaze darted around the room, searching for a waitress. Evidently he wanted to get this drink over with so he could return to the more elegant environs of the Ocean Bluff Inn.

The waitress arrived at their table just as the second song began on the jukebox: a bright, bouncy tune, sung by a man in falsetto, about how someone made him feel like dancing. To Diana's surprise, quite a few people left their seats in the booths and at the tables and filled the empty floor space at the center of the tavern.

"I didn't realize this was a dancing club," Diana said to the waitress.

The waitress grinned. "People react to the songs. What can I get you folks?"

Peter waited for Diana to order. She asked for an Irish coffee—something sweet to make up for the dessert she'd skipped at the inn—and he grudgingly requested a Sam Adams lager. As soon as the waitress departed, he leaned across the scarred oak table and muttered, "After this drink, we're out of here."

Diana sighed. She wished that when he'd leaned across the table it would have been to ask her to dance. Or to admit the song was catchy. Or just to crack a smile and concede that remaining at the Faulk Street Tavern for as long as it took to enjoy a drink wasn't sheer agony for him.

But he remained scowling, his arms once again folded across his chest, his cashmere sweater smooth and much too tasteful in this room full of people in flannel and denim and leather. Lord, he could be such a pill. Most of the time he was a fine man, smart and clever, honorable and respectful, but every now and then he'd slip into curmudgeon mode. His temper could flare into a major blaze in a fraction of a second. Once they were married, she'd have to figure out a way to get him to lighten up and mellow out.

The waitress was back sooner than Diana expected; the service was quicker here than at the Ocean Bluff Inn. She set three square napkins on the table, then placed a mug peaked with whipped cream like a snow-capped mountain in front of Diana, and a beer in a sweating bottle and a V-shaped glass in front of Peter. His glass had tiny flecks of ice on the rim but it appeared clean. Diana wondered whether he would pour his drink into the glass or drink it straight from the bottle. Drinking from the bottle would protect his tender digestive system from whatever imaginary contamination the glass might contain, but it was so _déclassé_.

Her mug looked clean enough. She took a sip—hot coffee, cool whipped cream and soothing whisky, a blend of bitter and sweet that simmered down her throat. It was, in fact, the most delicious Irish coffee she'd ever tasted. She smiled at Peter, but he was too busy frowning at the beer bottle and glass to notice.

The song ended, and the crowd at the center of the tavern thinned as the dancers drifted back to their seats. Diana followed a couple with her gaze as they walked arm-in-arm toward the bar. The woman was plump, the man husky, and both were clad in plaid flannel and blue denim. She couldn't see their faces, yet from their posture alone, the way the woman's arm snuggled around the man's waist, his arm looped over her shoulders, and her head leaned gently into the hollow of his neck, Diana could tell they were in love. She allowed herself an envious sigh, then wondered why she envied them. She and Peter were in love, too, weren't they?

When the couple reached the bar, a man stepped out of their way. Tall and lean, he had on black jeans, a Henley shirt and a denim work shirt over it, his sleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms. His face was an intriguing arrangement of planes and hollows, shadows and light. He had a hard chin, a long nose—definitely not a pretty nose—and dark, dark eyes. His hair was dark, as well, thick and wavy and in desperate need of a comb.

His eyes met hers just as the third song began to emerge from the jukebox. It was an old song, from before her time, but she recognized it anyway. Her Uncle Martin loved British rock from the Sixties and Seventies, and when Diana's family visited him on Martha's Vineyard, he'd serenade her with his favorite songs. This one was David Bowie. _Changes._

The man with the dark hair and the darker eyes was staring at her. She stared back, unsure why. Unsure why she couldn't seem to look away from him. Unsure why he was gazing at her with such intensity.

The song's familiar, stammering refrain filled the air: _Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes._

Every other sound fell away. She heard no other voices. No clinks of glasses touching, no thuds of bottles being set on tables, no scrape of chair legs against the wooden floor. She heard nothing but the song—and she saw no one but the man.

"Diana!" An instant after the last soulful wail of a saxophone at the end of the song faded away, Peter's voice intruded, forceful and demanding. "Diana!"

She flinched and swung around in her chair, as if by ending, the song had released her from a spell. Peter was studying her, his brows dipped into a deep frown. "Where the hell were you?"

"Right here." Her voice sounded odd to her. She took a hot sip of her Irish coffee, as if that would wash away the fog in her throat, in her brain.

"Finish your drink." He waved impatiently at her mug. "I want to leave."

_You've wanted to leave since the moment we arrived,_ she thought with a strange blend of irritation and...fear. Fear that something inside her was wrong, something had become unhinged. Something was falling apart.

Had the bartender added a dangerous extra ingredient to her drink?

"All right," she said, nudging the mug away from her. "Let's go."

But even after she'd stood, donned her jacket and let Peter lead her out of the tavern, she knew she'd left a piece of her soul behind.

***

Gus handed Nick a glass of beer before he could ask for one. His hand automatically curved around the icy surface, chilling his palm. His mouth tasted the bitter foam before it had even passed his lips.

Who the hell was that woman? Why did locking gazes with her make him feel as if someone had plunged a stiletto right through his heart? Clean and painless, yet it left him dead. Or reborn. Transformed, in any case.

She wasn't beautiful...except that she was. Long, tawny hair fell in gentle waves around a narrow, angular face. Her eyes were too large, too round, and even in the bar's dim light, even with a good thirty feet separating her from him, he could see that they were hazel. Damn, he could see her eyelashes.

He could also see the guy with her. And the diamond solitaire, as big as the frickin' Rock of Gibraltar, glinting on her left ring finger.

Given the size of that ring, Nick felt safe in assuming that, one, she was engaged, and two, Nick—a man who never would, or _could_ , give a woman a ring like that—wasn't her type. The guy with her was clean cut and dressed in clothes that reeked wealth. Her outfit pegged her as upper-class, too: tailored trousers, a soft, pale sweater beneath a tweedy-looking jacket, a colorful silk-looking scarf coiled around her neck.

The folks Nick hung out with wore faded wool scarves their mothers or wives or girlfriends had knitted for them four Christmases ago. But then, the folks Nick hung out with didn't dress like they'd just stepped off a sixty-foot yacht. If they'd stepped off a boat, it was a trawler, and they wore waders and smelled of fish.

He'd wager a year's salary that the woman whose too-big eyes had sent that stiletto straight through him from all the way across the room didn't smell like fish.

"It's the song," Gus said.

Nick snorted. "Don't start in."

Gus chuckled and poured some vodka into a martini glass. It flowed in a smooth, clear thread from the spout plugged into the top of the bottle. Gus never had to measure. She knew the exact amount of every ingredient in every drink. "I'm not starting in," she said. "Just saying."

Nick swiveled around to face the bar, to stare at Gus rather than the woman with the blinding engagement ring adorning her left hand. The only jewelry Gus wore was a loop of braided leather around her wrist. She was tall and athletic in build, her red hair fading to gray and chopped in short tufts that looked almost, but not quite, masculine . She'd been running the bar since Nick was in diapers, and it felt somehow disrespectful to argue with her. But all those legends about the jukebox, the weird songs that came out of it, the weirder effect they had on people...

Nick didn't believe that shit. Real life had laid too many scars on him. The only things he believed in were hard work, good sex and paying for your mistakes. And an occasional cold beer.

Not magic. And certainly not jukeboxes.

_Copyright 2014 by Barbara Keiler_. _All rights reserved_.

Buy this book:

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# Marilyn Brant

MARILYN BRANT

Marilyn Brant is a New York Times & USA Today bestselling author of contemporary women's fiction, romantic comedy, and mystery. She won RWA's prestigious Golden Heart® Award for her debut novel and was named Author of the Year (2013) by the Illinois Association of Teachers of English. She loves all things Jane Austen, has a passion for Sherlock Holmes, is a travel addict/music junkie, and lives on chocolate and gelato. Marilyn's coming-of-age romantic mystery, THE ROAD TO YOU, was a Top 100 B&N bestseller and an homage to Historic Route 66. Look for her upcoming "Mirabelle Harbor" contemporary romance series, summer 2015!

www.marilynbrant.com

One Writer's Journey: A Tale of Many Beginnings

Most everyone is familiar with Lao-tzu's famous saying: "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." I've muttered it to myself a time or twenty, especially when starting a new book. And I've thought about it often enough when I tried to understand the novel-writing profession as a whole. Each stage, I figured, was another stride on the long climb up the publishing mountain.

But, more than a decade into this journey, I now realize that it's not exactly a straight-line continuum for me. I haven't been scaling the side of Everest, using ropes and climbing gear (and, thank God, because I'm scared of heights); it's more like walking on a curving, ever-rising path that starts at the base of the mountain and slowly spirals upward. Every new stage — each circuit around those bends in the mountain, up to a slightly higher elevation — is like being a newbie all over again. Novels may have distinct beginnings, middles and endings, but I think writers just a have long string of often terrifying beginnings.

At first, the path seemed to be all about _learning to believe in the dream_. That is, gaining enough experience writing, studying craft and building the skills to recognize when the story was working (or not). Knowing when I was being true to my voice, when I should accept or ignore feedback, when the elements of structure and characterization were coming together vs. just flitting in and out of the manuscript randomly and with no sense of authorial control. To put it in courtship terms, I was flirting, dating, falling in love with writing fiction as I walked along that part of the path — coming to appreciate it for what it was, and for who I was when I was with it.

But, then, this stage merged into another. I had to stop and catch my breath when I realized I'd circled the mountain once and was now beginning a new rotation — one I wasn't prepared for in the least. One that required a brand new skill set. This circuit was all about _working to make the dream I finally believed in a reality_. Committing to it with the exclusively of a soul mate, and attempting to understand what made the publishing industry surrounding it tick. (Rather like a dysfunctional family, I discovered, but that's a post for another time...)

I began to research agents and editors, learn more about branding, marketing, publicity/promotion and what was involved once a sale actually happened (contracts, copy-edits and royalty statements, oh, my!), so I'd know what to do when I finally got "the call." I imagined that moment would be similar to a fairy-tale marriage proposal, with the time between contract and publication like the engagement. The release day would be akin to a royal wedding and then, of course, there would be the happily ever after.

Only, I've been married for eighteen years, and I know better, LOL. Weddings — royal or otherwise — are lovely, but then the marriage starts...and, as many of us know, it marks a whole new stage in the relationship. Likewise, despite all of my attempts at being prepared for publication, I was, again, left breathless by this new level in my career when it finally came. Two books (well, three in November) down the road/up the mountain, and I'm still trying to get a few good lungfuls of air, stay sort of on that walking path and keep slogging forward without keeling over from exertion and fatigue.

I'm still very much a beginner in this stage, which seems to be all about _dealing with the daily reality of the dream_. Juggling growing responsibilities, having more writing-related commitments and/or presentations, handling reviews (positive and negative), getting awards and hitting bestsellers lists (or, um, not...), being in the swirl of other professional authors — online and off, having opportunities to experience the incredible generosity of my peers, especially those who've trekked further up the mountain than I have and are willing to talk about their struggles and joys and, sometimes, having to face disappointment when either the vagaries of the industry or the insecurities of other people let me down.

It's scary here. As with every beginning, I'm wondering if I know enough to handle this particular leg of the journey...or if I can learn what I need to know very quickly... I'm unsure of what's ahead and can only hope I'll have the strength and faith to continue on, even amidst all of the uncertainty.

Yet, I need to look no further than my current manuscript to understand why I don't know. Why I _can't_ know. I'm on page 92 of the draft — still, by my account, _the beginning_ of this new project. I need to somehow make it through another 300 or so pages of wobbly narrative and half-expressed dialogue before I get to what I consider to be _the middle_ of the book, which is the revising/layering stage after my first draft. ( _The end_ is when I get to tweak and polish — and that's light-years away at this point.)

Of course, in life we know there's no revising, no copy-editing. It's ALL first draft: one long unpolished beginning. But, I have to be honest with you. I never would have become a writer if revisions and tweaks were all I did. Despite how frightening and perplexing those beginning stages are, despite the self-doubt that arises during them, I also know they can be the most thrilling of the whole book. It is, after all, in the beginning where the magic of the story is born. Where the drive to journey forward originates. And where we get the inspiration and the courage to take that very first step.

So, I wish you, too, the gift of many beginnings on your long and winding journey, no matter what mountain you're trying to climb. May it be filled with life-long passions, wonderful companions and stunning vistas...and may you get to the thousand-mile mark and realize you've only just begun.

First published on the GBC website on April 26, 2011

My Five Gifts to Aspiring Writer

Dear Aspiring Writer:

A recent conversation I had with a multi-published novelist friend made me think of you...and how difficult, stressful and frequently frustrating it is to break into this "challenging" (read: "OMG, it's so chaotic and insane...why do we DO this to ourselves?!") industry. How we need so much emotional bolstering and moral support (and, also, boxes of chocolate truffles and pitchers of margaritas...) from friends and family to see beyond the soul-crushing rejections or reviews, the steep learning curves, the unpredictable publishing changes and the banquet of fear/insecurity/self-doubt that this particular calling creates.

I know what you're dealing with out there. Really. I do.

My author friend and I were aspiring writers together a decade ago, and we still help each other remember that long, arduous climb toward getting any kind of professional feedback, agent interest, editor requests and — eventually — publishing contracts. And, yes, the industry has changed, and we all have digital opportunities that didn't exist just a few years ago, but that doesn't mean the roadblocks and the aggravations have all disappeared.

They haven't. Not even when you're published by a New York house. Or the winner of a big literary award. Or the #1 placeholder on some kind of coveted list.

But, while I could devote a lengthy, meandering post to how hard it is to get published and stay that way (or to self publish and gain discoverability), I will, instead, pull out my magical fairy wand — just a little trinket I picked up over spring break — and bestow upon you what I think are the FIVE GREATEST GIFTS a writer could ever have. None can be purchased, lost or stolen. And none require anyone else's consent to possess them.

So, Aspiring Writer, these are for you:

1. **Persistence:** Yes, rejection sucks. It sucks for everybody. You can pout for a day or two (want some Belgian chocolate? a grande margarita?), but then you need to revise your manuscript if there's room for improvement — and, let's face it, there usually is — and submit the damn thing again. How many times? Well, IMO, until you get the answer you want to hear.

2. **A Killer Work Ethic:** Be responsible. Get done what you say you're going to do. Or, to quote the wisdom of one of my favorite fortune cookies: "Always over-deliver & under-promise. (Lucky Numbers: 28, 29, 16, 52, 38, 14)" It's stunning how often people don't follow through. Unless a family or health crisis prevents you — because, on rare occasion, there ARE legitimate reasons for not finishing a project on time — show how incredible you are by not being a slacker.

3. **Creative Thinking:** There will be moments when readers won't get your story's humor (trust me on this) or like your "unusual premise" or relate to your offbeat characters/plot/narrative style. Still, don't play it safe and write something that doesn't have a shread of risk in it. Use your imagination. You're special. It's _true_ , you REALLY are. Show us your unique vision in some way.

4. **Optimism:** Yes, rejection sucks. It sucks for everybody. (Do you hear an echo?) I'm not advocating rampant Pollyanna-ism. It's useful to see the world as realistically as you're able...BUT, there's no need to be the Loudest and Most Insistent Voice of Doom in the Tri-State either. You're allowed to grumble sometimes. (Though, if at all possible, try to avoid tactless ranting on social-media sites, okay?) But then, if there's any kind of a bright side or silver lining to be found, please try to find it. It'll most likely make you feel better, and it'll most certainly make other people more inclined to want to lend you a hand.

5. **Curiosity:** What do you care about? What are your passions? What makes life worth living, in your opinion? If you can't answer these questions, for heaven's sake, don't work on a manuscript right now. Go out into the world and experience some of life until you DO know. Ask yourself, "What if?" Ask other people, "Why?" and "How?" and "Then what happened?" When you're bursting with something you just have to try to express, THEN go home and write about those sensations, thoughts, emotions, situations and complications... Attempt to write what you care about _so passionately_ that it inspires curiosity in others.

And above all, Aspiring Writer, be grateful for the many gifts given to you and hang in there. It's a long road, this journey of ours, but you can do it.

Here's wishing you the fulfillment of your every literary dream!

~Marilyn

First published on the GBC website on April 3, 2012

An Excerpt from THE ROAD TO YOU by Marilyn Brant

(Coming-of-Age Romantic Mystery)

" _There are only two mistakes one can make along the road to the truth; not going all the way, and not starting."_ ~Buddha

### CHAPTER ONE

Chameleon Lake, Minnesota ~ Thursday, June 8, 1978

My hands trembled as I unlocked the cedar box in the tool shed. I listened for the distinctive click, lifted the lid and peered inside, not knowing what I'd find in its shadowy depths.

I half expected to see my old diary resting at the bottom, even though I knew it was safely back in my room. I used to hide it in here years ago, before the key to the box was lost. A key that mysteriously resurfaced this week.

But it wasn't my diary.

Instead, I found a different book. The small brown-leather journal that had once belonged to my older brother, Gideon. My only sibling. The one who'd disappeared two years ago. The one everyone said was dead.

I bit back the usual sob that always rose up in my throat when I remembered him, then stared at the medium-sized box and its contents, almost afraid to touch anything. To my eye, my brother's book seemed to have been conjured there, as if by magic. I hadn't seen Gideon's journal since the day he'd gone missing... What was written in it? And why, all of a sudden, had it reappeared—much like the key to this box—here, now?

Before I could talk myself out of it, I snatched up the journal and began to examine it.

Funny, even with the impression of a delicate butterfly stamped on the front cover, the book still managed to be tinged with Gideon's masculinity. To an outsider, it probably looked like it contained some kid's observations on nature. Something safe, simple, innocuous.

And the first few pages really were ordinary. So typical of my big brother that I caught myself in a sigh, missing him. I still missed him so damned much—with every breath, every memory.

Like the way he'd grin at me whenever I saw him scribbling in it. Even if I teased him about the butterfly or keeping secrets or writing notes about his girlfriends, he'd just laugh.

"Aurora, I love butterflies and secrets... _and_ girls," he'd tell me, amused and so self-confident.

But here I was, skimming through a dozen pages, and I hadn't found any dating exploits yet. Just details about cars and engines cluttering the first third of the journal. I spotted a step-by-step flowchart for performing an oil change. Something about the testing of transmission fluid. A procedure for fixing a leaky head gasket and the supplies needed to do so:

1 gallon antifreeze

1 radiator drainage pan

1 quart engine block sealer

...and so on.

Looked kind of like a recipe to me.

Lists of standard adjustable wrenches ( _8"/203mm, 10"/254mm, 12"/305mm_ ) and screwdrivers ( _Torx #15, Phillips #00_ ) followed. I squinted at them all. For a girly, bookish seventeen-year-old like me, this was about as riveting as reading an old J.C. Penney catalog.

I kept reading anyway, my heart pounding as I traced my brother's words with my fingertip. The familiar raw ache twisted deeper.

On the page, Gideon was going on for an eternity and a half, specifying the differences between long nose pliers and nippers but, truth was, I didn't care. I knew the only reason I continued to flip the jaundiced, grease-stained pages was because this journal had once belonged to _him_. Just seeing that curious cramped script of his—far less even and so much smaller than my own—made me feel as though he were standing next to me, instructing me on something yet again. And Gideon had liked to teach lessons...when he was alive.

I shoved back at least fifty memories of my warm, funny, clever big brother, grasping for the emotional anesthesia that I knew cool over-analysis would bring—my default setting ever since he'd been gone. The same questions kept running through my head, but I didn't have any answers.

Why was this journal here? Why was I finding it now?

But then I turned the page once more and read a line that made me stop short.

The strangeness of what I saw left me struggling to inhale the musty air of the tool shed, and I felt tiny shivers sweep like lightning crackles across my skin.

The date somewhere in the middle of the page was from April 1976, but notated in the upper right-hand corner was a much more recent date: _Monday, May 29, 1978_.

Memorial Day. Less than two weeks ago.

I checked and double-checked the numbers, almost positive my eyesight was playing tricks on me in the dim light. I had to be misreading this. It _couldn't_ be real.

A few months after Gideon disappeared, the cops told us he must be dead. Insisted it had to be true. And due to the force of _everyone's_ conviction, my parents and I had been persuaded to accept the police's assessment...although, I could never quite squelch the flicker of hope that lurked in my heart and flared up at the oddest moments. I could never really stop believing that _everyone_ might just be wrong.

And now I had this.

Underneath the recent date were the words: _Start here. G._

Logical or not, it was as if this were a message written just for me. Oh, God. Could it be?

My brain swam in a soup of questions and possibilities, a mix of elements and matter. Whos, hows and whens. Origins and endings. My hidden flicker of hope burst into flame.

There had been a lot of strangers filtering through our town over Memorial Day weekend—visitors from places nearby, friends and relatives of residents, the occasional herd of curious wildlife—for the annual Chameleon Fest. Three days of hastily assembled carnival rides, taste tests, fireworks in the evening. A weekend of some small excitement in our otherwise sleepy lakeside village.

And then the key to the cedar box reappeared.

It had been lost for ages but, out of nowhere, it materialized again. In my room. In my desk. In my plastic paperclip tray.

Gideon used to tease me about how much I loved personalized stationery and office supplies. All of my neatly stacked notepads. My smooth-writing Bic pens. My colored bulletin-board tacks. For a couple of days, I tried to dismiss my discovery. I tried to convince myself I'd just overlooked the key in my numbness of the past two years.

But the jab of peculiarity pressed upon my senses and only grew stronger.

It was _too_ strange to have found the key there, buried beneath a sea of paperclips, since I knew I'd replenished them just a few weeks ago. Even in grief, I wasn't someone who'd forget something like that. And I couldn't keep denying my instincts.

Standing here in the middle of the tool shed and holding Gideon's journal, I knew for sure that finding this key couldn't have been accidental. Like the trajectory of a pinball, if you hit the metal flapper so it connected with the ball in just the right, sweet spot, it would send the orb rolling with a smack, straight into the diamond center and— _bing, bing, bing, bing, bing_ —you'd get the 10,000-point bonus.

The person who put the key in my paperclip bin _knew_ I'd eventually find it, recognize it and head to the tool shed to hunt down the cedar box.

The person who put the key in my paperclip bin _knew_ how organized I was, how much of a puzzle solver I'd always been and that I wouldn't stop looking until I'd found the box, opened it and discovered the journal resting there.

And the _only_ someone who would know these things about me was my brother.

Somehow, Gideon must have come into town on Memorial Day weekend, snuck into the house while we were away and left the key for me, knowing the path he'd set me on.

Bing, bing, bing, bing, bing.

I felt myself slam into the 10,000-point bonus, my mind reeling. I tried to shake the mental machine hard enough to clear my head. _Flash. Bing. Tilt._

But it was too late. My world had already tilted and, suddenly, I knew I was playing a very different game.

***

I wandered back to our house, my brain still swirling and Gideon's voice—loud and insistent—in my mind.

"You _can't_ tell," I could almost hear him say. A line from our childhood that he'd used more than once when he was doing something dangerous.

"Mom and Dad will freak," he'd add. Then he'd laugh and try to reassure me.

"Oh, stop worrying, Sis. They don't have to know everything all the time."

"We're not kids anymore. We can handle this."

"Trust me, it'll be fine. Really."

And it usually was...until it wasn't. Until, one day, he was gone.

Any normal person would've ignored the pleading voice from the past and run, not walked, to the telephone, to call her still-grieving parents. To give them a surge of hope that their missing son might be alive after all. Because, oh, God—I didn't want to witness even another minute of my parents' pain. Not if it was within my power to stop it.

But I wasn't a totally normal person. I knew intuitively—with a mysterious certainty I'd come to expect and rely on—that this wasn't what Gideon wanted. He didn't want my parents to find the journal. He wanted _me_ to find it.

Me alone.

Otherwise, he would have left it in the middle of the dining room table, the place he'd always tossed his school notes when we were little kids, his car keys as we got older, his wallet and, sometimes, an empty beer can or Twinkie wrapper. It was _his_ spot. Mine was the edge of the kitchen counter, just beneath Granny's Bavarian cuckoo clock. Nonverbal signals that we were home.

So, I didn't tell Mom or Dad.

Instead, I took the journal to my room—a deceptively cheery place I hadn't bothered to alter since Gideon's disappearance. It still held the relics of my life from two years ago. All of my interests frozen at fifteen.

My poster of David Cassidy was the cheeriest item of all, although I'd finally gotten over my crush on him. I now preferred men who weren't teen heartthrobs. Who were older, cooler and more serious. Like Harrison Ford.

I flopped onto my tie-dyed bedspread, took a half-dozen deep breaths and flipped further through the journal. It was all written in Gideon's distinctive scrawl. Really, no forger could ever replicate those peculiar loops and lines.

"It's like a fifth grader's writing," I'd told him mockingly once. I, Aurora Gray, the superior younger sister in matters of penmanship.

He flicked his eyes toward the ceiling. "Maybe I don't want just _anyone_ to be able to read it," he retorted. "Maybe content is more important than style. Ever consider that, Miss Straight-A Student?" Then he winked at me and went back to whatever he was doing. Good-natured as always, though secretive. Delighting too much in his cageyness.

I read through every single page in the book, but my brother's notes didn't make much sense to me. Cities, sometimes states, with a handful of names listed, usually an equation or two. More car parts, chemical fluids, a smattering of tools. It was like a crash course in auto mechanics with an extra-credit seminar in geography—all in code.

Thanks a lot, Gideon. How useful.

My pulse raced at what this all might mean, though. And, again, my brother's corner note kept me looking, studying, scrutinizing.

" _Start here."_

Start here...what? Start reading? Start traveling to these places? Start piecing together a way to find him? If so, why would he have made this so hard for me? Sure, we used to play at codes a lot as kids, but did he really think games would be necessary now?

I heard a set of heavy footsteps in the far hall, shuffling in a way that signaled a thump of recognition low on my spine. Dad was home. A so-so work day at the post office. I exhaled in relief. There were never _good_ days any more. Gloomy was normal, and tolerable was the new excellent. How long had it been since we'd stopped expecting anything above barely okay?

Long.

"Hello, Aurora," he called to me, his voice tired, slightly hoarse.

"Hi, Dad," I called back and then waited, on high alert, until my father had walked past my room without coming in. Mom wasn't expected home for another half hour from her secretarial job, so I had a little more time. I intended to use it.

I scanned another page of Gideon's journal—just as cryptic as the rest, but this time I noticed a reference to "J." This, too, sent my mind rolling in a prescribed direction.

The "J," I knew, stood for "Jeremy," as in the younger of the two McCafferty brothers. He and Gideon were best friends, and they would both be twenty years old right now if they were, in fact, wandering any part of the planet jointly or separately. They'd disappeared together on that same day.

My heartbeat picked up the pace as I flipped back to the _Start here_ page and reread it, more carefully this time. Slipped in between the gauges and chemical substances I couldn't identify was the date: _Monday, April 19, 1976_. Just a few months before they'd gone missing. And this was followed by the words: _J. & I drove to Crescent Cove._

Where the hell was Crescent Cove?

I whipped out the dog-eared U.S. atlas from under my bed, brushing the threads of a spider's web off the cover and coughing as the dust particles swirled around me. Then I studied the state map of Minnesota. Looked in the city index, too, but I couldn't find any place with that name. There was a La Crescent, a Crescent Beach, a Crescent Bay...

But, as I was about to toss the book away, I saw it at the edge of the page. It was there in nearly microscopic print, just across the Wisconsin border, near the Saint Croix Chippewa Indian Reservation. About three and a half hours away. If I got in my car and started driving eastward, I'd get there by nine tonight.

And then...do what?

I turned back to the journal, inspecting it for hints. Clues. Anything to tell me the correct next step.

I had no trouble catching vibes off people, and I'd read Gideon's expressions well enough when he was here. His journal, however, couldn't gesture frantically or blink in surprise. It couldn't tell me any of the three thousand things other people said with their fidgety fingers, raised eyebrows and bitten bottom lips. It was just a collection of words on old paper.

But it was a collection of words that was branded in ink, probably by my brother, as recently as ten days ago. And if it was proof that Gideon was still alive—and if my instincts about him having left our town for a reason had been right all along—then Jeremy might be alive, too. Was that possible?

I could almost feel the pinball of connectivity rolling between the different centers of knowledge and recognition in my brain, leading inevitably to the _one other person_ who not only had an immediate, strong and highly personal stake in the outcome of this question, but who also had a solid mechanical background. Somebody who might be able to draw secret understandings from words that, to me, resembled a form of hieroglyphic gibberish.

That would be Jeremy's older brother, Donovan.

Oh, crap.

***

I could count on one hand the things I knew were true about Donovan McCafferty:

He was twenty-three—just over five years older than I was.

He'd escaped into the army at age eighteen and, except for a few quick but memorable visits, hadn't returned to Minnesota until this past winter.

He had an excellent mechanical mind.

And he made me very nervous.

Underneath my skin, every nerve fiber was fast twitching. Just thinking about Donovan always did that to me but, this time, it was also about the trip.

I couldn't have been more impatient to get on the road to Crescent Cove, and I really didn't want to make a stop at Donovan's workplace. But, awkward though it would be, he knew a few things I didn't. And he just might signal to me (whether he realized it or not) some very useful directions.

I waited until after dinner, biding my time. Made the three of us broiled chicken, mashed potatoes, broccoli. Boring, yes, but it wasn't like anyone cared.

Then I excused myself from the usual watching of TV news and Thursday-night shows—they were repeat episodes anyway—and drove to the only auto-repair shop and gas station in town. The one I avoided like the plague whenever possible, preferring to fill up in places where no one knew me, like Alexandria or St. Cloud. Places where Donovan McCafferty...wasn't.

It was 7:05 p.m. by the time I got to the shop, and I parked a fair distance from the entrance. They closed at seven, but the work light in the back was on and two out of the three garage doors were still open. I knew he was in there. Not because I'd caught even one glimpse of Mr. Tall, Dark and Intense yet, but because the only other car in the lot was a crimson Trans Am with the giant Firebird decal in black and gold across the hood. His, of course.

I pushed open my car door, grabbed my tote bag with Gideon's journal tucked safely inside and inhaled several lungfuls of the cloying summer air. So early in June and already every breath was wrapped in sticky-sweet bugginess.

I didn't make it more than five steps before Donovan came out. A solid, broad-shouldered, six-foot-two mass of frequently impenetrable emotions. Not impenetrable enough this time, though.

Even at a distance of half a parking lot, I detected two powerful sensations that crashed, one after the other, into my awareness.

One, he was hugely curious about why I was here.

And, two, he very much wished I hadn't been.

He walked up to me and cleared his throat. "Car trouble, Aurora?" He glanced at my hand-me-down, smoke-blue, five-year-old Buick Century, which had done nothing but purr contentedly during my drives around town. Donovan was the type to have noticed this, so I could tell he knew it wasn't the car.

I shook my head. "I need to show you something," I told him. "Privately."

A small flash of amusement quirked one corner of his mouth upward. I was surprised he allowed me to read this, especially since he knew I could. Surprised he was letting me see that one of his possible explanations for my presence was flirtatious in origin—even as he immediately dismissed the idea.

I rolled my eyes. "It's not like that," I murmured.

He pressed his lips together, but the amusement still simmered just beneath the surface. "Too bad. 'We're both _young_ and _inconspicuous_ ,'" he said, parroting the hideously embarrassing words I'd said to him one night when I was a sophomore and had snuck into our brothers' secret high-school graduation party with my best friend Betsy. The guys had held it forty minutes away in St. Cloud so none of our parents would know.

I fought a blush. "We're not _that_ young," I told him, trying to stand straighter and look older. "And we're not inconspicuous _here_."

"Ain't that the truth." He turned and motioned for me to follow him inside, clicking the shop's cool new garage-door opener so the second of the three garage doors came down behind us, rattling until it touched the concrete.

He led me into the back office and ushered me in. "You want me to close this door, too? Snap the blinds shut?" He was mocking me, but there was a layer of concern beneath it. He knew something serious was up. In a town of 2,485 people, where you'd run into the majority of the residents a handful of times each week, I'd spoken with Donovan McCafferty in private exactly six times in the past five years.

_Here's to lucky number seven_.

"Yes to the door," I said. "No to the blinds."

He did as I asked and then leaned against the smudged once-white wall, crossed his arms and studied me. "What's this all about, Aurora?"

I nodded and pulled Gideon's journal out of my bag.

"I found this," I told him, explaining the odd circumstances of my discovery, and watched as his dark eyes narrowed. The curiosity of a few minutes before became heavily spiked with suspicion. He flipped through several pages of the journal, silent. He was processing all of this, I knew, but he didn't quite seem to get it. To be able—or willing—to take the appropriate intuitive leap. To allow himself to follow the fated path of the pinball.

So, I pointed again to the recently dated page and to Gideon's words on it, scrutinizing Donovan's face as he read it a second time. I saw every nuance of his reaction. Couldn't miss the two major transitions, shifting his expressions in slow motion like tectonic plates made visible. Incredulity hardening into doubt. Hope melding into anger.

"What makes you think this new date written down is even real?" he growled at me. "Your brother could've just scribbled it in the corner two years ago as a note for himself. Or somebody else could have written it. There are a hundred possible explanations. Finding this journal all of a sudden doesn't prove anything."

"I think it does," I said quickly, but very cautiously.

Insight into a guy's emotions was no guarantee I'd correctly predict his behavior. In Donovan's case, he was a human knot of tension and anger. I had no earthly idea what he'd do next, so I did my best to come across as super calm.

"I know this is probably difficult to accept," I said, "but I'm almost positive Gideon wrote in this recently and that he brought it back to Chameleon Lake himself."

Still, Donovan didn't believe me.

"Your brother is _dead_ , Aurora. And so is Jeremy. You know that. We _all_ know that. Otherwise, they would've come back by now." For a second, his voice broke, giving away the anguish behind the words. He tried to cover it up. "You show this thing to anyone and they'll think you're crazy. 'Oh, look, my brother wrote me notes from the grave,'" he said with full-on sarcasm. "'And, hey, sometimes he visits me at my house, too.' Yeah. Have fun convincing anybody of that."

"I'm not showing it to anyone else, at least not until I have an idea of what it all means," I snapped. "But try to imagine I'm right. Just _try_. You knew your brother best. Is there anything here that jumps out at you a little? Makes sense to you? Especially those technical terms. Can you figure out what they were working on?"

Donovan wasn't a person who took orders willingly, at least not from someone he didn't consider his direct superior, so, of course, he didn't answer any of my questions.

"Tell me _exactly_ what you're planning to do with this." He held up the journal.

I shrugged. "I'm just trying to understand it." This was mostly truthful.

Donovan stared at me—his face moving closer to mine as he searched for whatever clue he was looking for in my expression. It was precisely _this_ uncomfortable sensation of being so carefully observed that made me keep my distance from the guy. I was used to analyzing the minute movements, body language and facial changes of others. It was not, however, my idea of a good time to be the subject of such scrutiny myself. Thankfully, that rarely happened.

I knew Donovan didn't make a habit of reading reactions like I did, but he seemed to enjoy turning the tables on me whenever possible. He was one of the only people I'd ever met who instinctively knew from Day One that I possessed this heightened perceptiveness. A natural gift and, alternately, a curse. I'd been only twelve years old the first time we spoke, but he was guarded with me even then.

"Just read the page. Please." I motioned to the journal. "I looked up some of the words in an encyclopedia but, aside from figuring out that they're chemicals, they don't mean anything to me."

Ethylene glycol

Propylene glycol

Sulfuric acid

Sodium nitrate

Strontium nitrate

Atomized spherical aluminum

Bismuth subcarbonate

Ammonium nitrate

Sodium hypochlorite

Aluminum

Manganese dioxide

Sodium silicate

Zirconium powdery + 2 (+ 0)

Monday, April 19, 1976

J. & I drove to Crescent Cove

Potassium perchlorate

Sulfur

Antimony sulfide

M + 1 (+ 0), D + 10 (+ 0)

He read each of these hard-to-pronounce compounds aloud, along with the numbers and the mention of Jeremy and Gideon going to Crescent Cove. He shook his head. "This doesn't make sense. I don't know why they'd need most of it at all. A few of these are used for car engines, like the propylene glycol, so they might have needed that, but the others are common oxidizers."

I squinted at him. "In English, please?"

"Chemicals that blow things up. Potassium perchlorate and sodium nitrate are used as fuels for things like fireworks," he explained. "They're not hard to find. If our brothers wanted to get their hands on them, they wouldn't have had to drive three hours to Wisconsin. They could find them in St. Cloud. So, if they went to Crescent Cove two summers ago, it must have been for a different reason. To meet somebody, maybe."

_Yes!_ And that was why I'd come here, risking sheer mortification and that pit-of-my-stomach unease, just to ask Donovan that question. I figured he'd know about stuff like this. And I could work with his conclusion. I could _do_ something now... I only wished we'd had this clue two years ago.

But in my excitement, I made a stupid tactical mistake. "I can't wait to talk to that person," I murmured, realizing my error the instant the words were in midair. I tried to cover it up by smiling and shuffling my feet. Unfortunately, Donovan wasn't fooled.

His dark eyebrows rose slowly. "You're _going_ there? When?"

I took a step back, regretting having requested the closed office door. We did not, perhaps, need _this_ much privacy after all.

"Um," I said, shrugging and reaching for the journal. "It's not really set..."

Okay, this was a blatant lie. I had my excursion all planned, right down to my alibi for the weekend. No one would mind or even really notice. Not unless, like my brother, I happened to go missing the summer after _my_ high-school graduation, too.

This worrisome thought distracted me. It was only for a second, but that was long enough for Donovan to snatch the journal from my grasp and say again, "Aurora, _when_ are you going?"

Much as I preferred to keep him and everyone else out of it, maybe it would be wise to tell at least one person my real whereabouts. Just in case.

I sighed. "Tomorrow at noon. After I'm done with my shift at work."

"At the Grocery Mart?"

I nodded, not surprised he remembered that was where I had my part-time job. I'd felt his eyes track me when we were out in public. I knew he'd been aware of me all this time, just as I'd been aware of him. Unfortunately, the foolish crush I had on him only went one way. "I won't be gone long. Two days, at most."

In my mind, I'd already begun formulating the questions I wanted to ask in Crescent Cove. Seemingly innocent things that might draw out the responses I needed. I was sure if I asked just the right question to just the right person, the truth would be spontaneously revealed to me—by their hands, their eyes, their vocal tone, their posture. I didn't need their words. Soon, I'd know what happened to my brother and his best friend, and then this deadening sense of helplessness would have to stop.

Donovan was shaking his head again. With his army buzz-cut long gone, his dark hair grazed the back of his black crewneck t-shirt—a faded tribute to The Who.

Appropriate band for him. _Who are you...Donovan McCafferty? Who? Who?_

He flipped through a few more journal pages and glanced at the wall calendar, stroking one of his sideburns in thought. _"June's Muscle Car Babe!"_ the calendar proclaimed, showing a tanned blonde, her hair feathered à la Farrah Fawcett-Majors, clad in a skimpy cherry-red bikini and leaning like a slutty go-go dancer across the hood of an equally cherry-red Ford Mustang. I gagged a little.

"Do you know Johansen's Diner in Alexandria?" he said suddenly.

"Sure," I replied. Everyone knew it. The owners served some of the better Norwegian specialties in the area.

"Good. There aren't many spaces out in front, but they have that free public parking garage across the street. Park on the second level. I'll meet you there at one p.m. tomorrow, and we'll drive to Crescent Cove together. "

"What? No," I said, my irritation rising. "I'm not going there with _you_. I'm not going with _anyone_."

He stared at me for a very long moment. Opened the office door and motioned me out. He followed, locked up behind us and led me to the parking lot while clicking closed the third and last garage door. Then he pulled out his car keys and strode over to his Trans Am, turning to me a second before hopping in. "You sure as hell are, Aurora."

Too late, I realized he was still holding the journal. I broke into a run after him. "Donovan! Give me the—"

But he'd already started the engine and was partway to the street. He rolled his window down and added, "I need to read it tonight. You'll get it back tomorrow in Alexandria. Be there at one."

Then he sped away.

Copyright 2013 by Marilyn B. Weigel. All rights reserved.

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# Sylvie Fox

SYLVIE FOX

_Sylvie Fox is the author of seven novels: contemporary romance, women's fiction, and legal thrillers. She is the author of_ Unlikely, Impasse _and_ Shaken _from the L.A. Nights Series of sexy romances,_ Qualified Immunity _and_ Under Color of Law _from Casey Cort series of legal thrillers, and_ Don't Judge Me _from the Judgment Series._ In Plain Sight _, the third Casey Cort Novel and_ The Secret Widow _the second book in the Judgment Series will release in fall 2015. She splits her time between Los Angeles and Budapest, Hungary._

www.sylviefox.com

You Can Go Home Again

Thanks to Thomas Wolfe, the phrase, 'you can't go home again,' is as ubiquitous as any number of other clichés.

For years, my husband and I have been searching for a place where we felt at home. We've debated going back to New York (where we both originate) several times over, but finally decided it wasn't an option. We tried Cleveland, but it wasn't for us.

Palo Alto and San Francisco were even serious contenders for a long time, until we gave up on them a dozen years ago. I live in Los Angeles, and though the weather is perfect. The driving is going to kill me slowly.

My mother-in-law always thought Boston suited my husband. My mother thought I should give Washington, D.C. greater consideration.

About ten years ago, after considering places as far flung as Sacramento and Denver, we decided to broaden our journey outside the United States. London, England and Edinburgh, Scotland were neck and neck for a while. Then my husband was in love with Portugal. Seoul was even in the running for a few months. We considered Paris for as long as it took to figure out we'd have to sell all of our kidneys to afford an apartment there.

Every place had it's great points, but none gave us that elusive feeling we were looking for. Fast forward five years, and one child later. My husband had a work meeting in Prague. Looking at the map, we searched for somewhere else to go. With our plane tickets paid for, we wanted to get the most for sixteen hours of travel (with a two year old). The debate was between extending our trip to either Vienna or Budapest.

We chose Budapest because I wanted to see the Danube in person and we figured we'd never be there again. Five minutes outside of the train station, we looked at each other and knew, we'd found it. Home again.

I'm writing this post from our Budapest apartment. Every day I walk outside and it's like taking a step back into my childhood. In so many ways, it's all that I remember loving about growing up in New York City with the added beauty of Europe.

Yesterday, I was on my way to pick up my son from summer camp and walking down the street shaded by Plane and Chestnut trees transported me back for a long moment to similar walks in Brooklyn with my parents. Whenever I come to New York and drive over the bridge, I nearly cry with relief about being home. (Then I get out of the car, and I find that New York has moved on.)

I get that feeling nearly every day I'm here. The streets smell like home. The people remind me of New Yorkers with gruff exteriors and warm hearts. And the food? Someone could have told me that what I considered New York diner and deli food was really central and eastern European food transported six thousand miles. Every time I go to the market, everything is so familiar I want to squeal with delight.

Despite Wolfe's admonition, I think you _can_ go home again as long as you look in the right place.

First published on the GBC website on July 17, 2014.

Quirky, Crazy, or Plain Off Their Rockers

Until last month, my husband hadn't read a book of mine in nearly a decade. But he got a free Android tablet and started reading on his way to work. He asked for a couple of my books, and I uploaded them for him.

After a few days of no reaction, I didn't think much about it. On night as I was drifting off, he asked me. "Who are these people you write about.? Are they based on anyone we know?"

Waking myself, and turning over, I listened to his thoughts on the characters. He thought a lot of them were just plain nuts.

To say life is boring here at Casa Fox in Los Angeles, would be an understatement. I like a life free of drama. For writing, and reading, however—bring it on.

Why I like to read about quirky or nutty characters is easy to answer. Who doesn't like to be a voyeur? I love to walk neighborhoods at night imagining what goes on behind the drapes. That curiosity translates to my writing.

I like to explore the lives of fictional people who push boundaries. Whether that push be lawful or not, moral or not, or even pathological or not.

I recently finished a book where the hero is a bit of a womanizer (to put it in the kindest possible way). Before writing his story, I had to think long and hard about why someone would act like that. What motivated him to get up every day and seek out the affection of random women.

It was an interesting journey, and Raphael Augustine the hero of my forthcoming release, _Don't Judge Me_ took shape.

I also recently completed a book, _Under Color of Law_ , with a juvenile court judge who takes advantage of women who have cases before him. If they want to keep their children out of jail or foster care, they have to take care of Judge Eamon Brody first.

Abuse of power happens all the time, but what makes a man (or woman) take their control to such an extreme? In my world dominated by house repairs, dog walking, and child car pools, delving into the deranged mind of this man was a fascinating way to pass the day.

And in romance, the more difficult the heroine, the better. I like to think of the women in my books as prickly pears. A hero who can get beyond all the crazy hair (Sophie Reid in _Unlikely_ ), and off putting behavior (Hannah Keesling of _The Good Enough Husband_ takes the cake) of my heroines, deserves the prize—finding a woman underneath who's worthy of their love.

That's the bottom line, I think. Each character, no matter how outsized their behavior, is deserving of our reading and writing time, a little consideration, and often our love.

First published on the GBC website on June 25, 2014.

An Excerpt from THE GOOD ENOUGH HUSBAND by Sylvie Fox

(Romantic Women's Fiction)

"How's your butt?" Hannah Keesling's husband Michael palmed her ass, sliding his hand between her oversized sleep shirt and her bikini underwear. This was her least favorite way to wake up.

Hannah squeezed her eyes shut, the words of the one friend she'd confided her problems to, coming back to her. "Friendship is the foundation of a good marriage," she'd said piously. "When the going gets tough, remember why you chose him in the first place." She wondered what her friend would make of this.

"My butt's fine," she murmured, cracking one eye open. It was still dark. She hated how her body betrayed her, reacted to his clumsy seduction after all that had happened between them.

"You didn't ask how my cock feels." Michael prompted. Why did he have to be so coarse? Their marriage wasn't perfect, but she deserved a little respect, consideration. They'd started out as friends, added sex, then matrimony. Now it had morphed into a different thing altogether. And she was stuck in it, like a fossil in the tar pits.

Hannah fought her way from sleep, through drowsiness, to wakefulness like a diver pushing through heavy water desperate for air. She didn't have to ask how Michael's penis felt. His engorged flesh eagerly probed her back, her butt, and her legs.

"How does it feel?" she whispered, eyeing the bedside clock. It wasn't even five in the morning. The bright Southern California sun hadn't yet stolen the darkness from the room.

"Very lonely," he said. Hannah could hear a pout in his voice. The squeak of the metal springs and the rhythmic movement of the mattress told her that Michael's hand was keeping his organ company. "C'mon, turn over and take off your shirt."

Her weak flesh responded, while her stronger mind rebelled. Hannah knew she should have been more excited, more responsive, desired him like real wives wanted their husbands. Guilt flooded her veins. Her husband wanted her, and she didn't want him back. Hannah scooted away from her husband to the very edge of their bed. If this was all there was to marriage, she didn't want any part of it anymore. Michael didn't even try. Would it kill him to kiss her, light a few candles, tell her she was beautiful? The thought of thirty more years of frat boy groping killed any stirring he'd aroused.

Saying yes, pulling up her shirt, spreading her legs—that would be the easy thing. But Hannah was done. She was tired of being her husband's glorified whore. The finality of her decision made her next words come easy.

"So this is foreplay?" she asked, unable to keep the disgust from her voice.

Her remark hit the intended target. Cool air raised the gooseflesh on her naked legs and exposed back as Michael threw off the goose down duvet and stalked toward the bathroom.

"This is marriage?" he threw back at her. Michael's anger surprised her. He never fought back, just stalked off to finish the job himself. "You think I like having to beg my wife to touch me? To make me feel good?"

He was right, damn him. He couldn't know that she'd learned to steel herself against his touch. Guilt and obligation took the place of desire now. "You're right, Michael. This isn't a marriage. I don't think we can go on like this." There was no point in pointing fingers or placing blame. Reasoning with him hadn't worked no matter how many times she'd tried. Hannah knew what she had to do. She had made the decision to marry someone she wasn't in love with, and they'd both paid the price.

"God damn it, Hannah. Why do you make this so hard? I wanted a little quickie. You wouldn't have to do anything but lie there. This could have been a win-win morning. But you have to go make everything an all or nothing decision." He slammed the door. The angry squeak of the shower knobs and the unnecessary banging of razor against sink comforted her. He wouldn't be back in the bed today. She'd escaped for the moment.

***

Pulling suitcases from the walk-in closet, and angrily tossing in random clothes and underwear, Hannah couldn't help comparing herself to some past-her-peak actress on a bad Lifetime movie racing against time and bad music before the battering husband returned home. She stilled her movements, and sat on the bed pulling the cool, salt-tinged air into her lungs. Her life wasn't a burning bed situation. Between the move to the suburbs with all the consumer trappings, her change in career, and the relentless pressure she and Michael put on themselves to conceive a baby, Hannah's life felt wrong. The unexplained infertility that had weighed upon them was a godsend now. She couldn't bring a baby into this hot mess of a marriage. She'd been that child. Been there, done that, had the psychiatric scars to prove it. An innocent baby deserved more.

With less urgency, she finished packing her bags. Hannah glanced outside. Still early, the sun hadn't yet burned the marine layer from the sky. She'd already done the research. Made all the calls. Ignored her friend's advice to try to work it out. If she left now, she could make it to Oregon in about twelve hours. Her friend's words echoed. "Once you decide, there won't be any turning back." Now that she knew what she had to do—leave Michael—she couldn't undo it. She couldn't go back to playing the dutiful and pliant wife, even if she wanted to.

Hannah's nine-month old Lab mix puppy Cody sniffed around her bags, his tail twitching nervously. Any disruption in the order of his life, threw Cody off. She'd never met a creature so hewn to routine.

She sifted through the fine hairs on the dog's smooth black head. "Don't worry, I'm not leaving you behind."

Cody's tongue left a wet trail on her palm. She took that as a sign of approval.

Bags loaded in the car, Hannah came back to the bedroom. Cody, unsure of what was going to happen next, jumped around her legs. Nudging him to his bed, she fished through her nightstand looking for the note she'd written out weeks before. Her fingers found the smooth surface of the cream envelope she'd addressed with one word: Michael.

Lifting the flap, Hannah shook the thick card, embossed with her name along the top, onto the bed, slowly turning it over.

Michael,

I'm going away for a few days. I need time and space to think about our future. Cody's with me.

Love,

Hannah

She hoped Michael didn't notice the odd way the 'v' in 'love' folded in on itself. Hannah had debated for days on whether to keep that word in the carefully thought out missive. The strong black script disappeared one line at a time when Hannah put the card back in the envelope, and propped the note against the pillows. She patted her thigh and Cody got up from the spot he'd taken up by the French doors. His tail wagged, ready for an adventure. Without a backward glance, Hannah closed the bedroom door.

***

"It's not you. It's me." Michael's voice burst the bubble of solitude that had cushioned Hannah for the last seven hours.

Hannah let out a long sigh. "What did Dr. Stern say?"

Rustling papers crackled through the car's speakers. In her mind's eye, she could see Michael sitting hunched over his desk reading from his carefully organized notes. "He called it immunological infertility," he said, stumbling over the alliteration.

"What does that mean?" Why couldn't Michael ever spell anything out without a nine-hundred-word recitation? If she came back, would they ever be able to have a baby?

"He said that my immune system is attacking my sperm. Treating them like a foreign invader, like it would treat a bacteria or virus."

"I guess I can stop taking Clomid," she said, relieved to drop that last pretense. Undecided about their future, she'd taken the drugs to mask her indecision. Michael was silent. The dog's panting and the whomp of the tires on the nearly deserted freeway filled the car with white noise. Hannah searched for the right thing to say. "Can this be fixed?"

More silence. Hannah glanced at the Bluetooth display on the dashboard to make sure the call had not been dropped. Nope, three solid blue bars.

Michael's answer came on a whoosh of breath. "There aren't really any standard treatments. The cause is unknown. So, the cures are experimental. The doctor mentioned one treatment that involved a high dose of steroids. But the side effects would be bad and the chances of pregnancy not much better."

"I'm really sorry, Michael." He had wanted a child as badly as she did. Hannah knew now that she would never have a baby with him. But, she hoped he could find someone else to have a family with one day.

"It's okay. Don't divorce me over this," he added only half-jokingly.

Hannah glanced at her left ring finger bare of its two-carat engagement ring and its companion wedding band. She had slipped the small gold circles from her fingers a few minutes into the trip before fate put this final nail in the coffin.

Hannah looked around, not having a clue in hell where she was. "Look, I'm still on the road, so I'll give you a call later tonight, and we can figure out what to do next. Okay?"

"Love you, Hannah," Michael said solemnly before disconnecting the call.

For a few impossibly long seconds, the road blurred in front of Hannah. Her marriage was really over. The end of something she'd put so much time, and hope into made her heartsick. But his news solidified the decision to leave Michael. She hadn't married him for his sperm, exactly. She had reached thirty-five and looked around, and decided to settle down. Hannah had truly loved him—in her own way.

Marrying one of her closest friends had seemed like such a reasonable idea. Hannah and Michael had met in New York in the heyday of their twenties, and after all the assholes had left her high and dry in her thirties, Michael was still around. And, most of her friends were married. Hannah had lived long enough to realize that she was never going to have the glamorous, worldly life that she expected, so she had made an adult decision.

She'd married Michael hoping to create the stability she'd never had as a child. If the world wasn't going to give her fireworks and sparks, at least she could have good enough. Looking around at her college girlfriends and their sports watching, weight gaining, workaholic husbands, good enough was more than most women got. Guilt flattened the bubble of giddy elation that started rising in her chest. Hannah mentally shoved Michael right out of her mind, vowing to think about the future she wanted, not the past she'd left behind in Newport Beach.

She fiddled with the car controls and put on her favorite Shay Morrison CD, Scarlet Lady, and sang until her throat was hoarse. Hannah had stopped singing when she'd married Michael. He'd called her passion impractical. But she'd missed expressing her feelings this way. She looked around. All that singing and she'd gotten lost. How long was an album, an hour, an hour and a half?

Where in the heck was she? She'd wanted to be near the ocean. Realizing she hadn't seen the green spade shaped sign designating the California One for some time, Hannah took her eyes off the relatively empty road to look more closely at the car's onboard navigation, to no avail. The point and click computer mouse like device that had seemed so futuristic at the dealership was of no help in figuring out where in the hell she was. But all these redwoods and not a lick of sand meant one thing. She'd lost the ocean again.

Hannah looked at the map one more time, but the colors, lines and squiggles meant nothing to her. Maybe she should pull over and figure it out. She wasn't a man. She would pull over and ask for directions at the first gas station or convenience store she saw. Skip the help, the sound of Cody's retching from the back of the car made pulling over right now a necessity. She should have known it was coming. The last few hours after passing the bustle of San Francisco and Marin County found the Sheprador looking a little green around the gills. The floppy-eared black and white dog, who'd always loved a car ride, wasn't looking so happy-go-lucky anymore. Wrenching the steering wheel to the right, Hannah sped down a random exit ramp off the 101 freeway, spraying gravel as she braked the SUV at the next turn out. She hoped she didn't ding the paint. With her luck, she would ruin the car that she and Michael had only leased.

Hitching the purple nylon leash to the dog's collar, Hannah helped Cody leap out of the car – in time. The dog upchucked the all-organic biscuits she'd bought at a pet boutique earlier in the day. Queasy herself, Hannah empathized with Cody. The combination of coffee shop muffin, the never-ending drive, and conversation with Michael, did not settle her stomach.

A few miles later, Cody forced Hannah to make another emergency stop on the shoulder of the freeway. He must have been at the end of his rope because thick yellow bile was all that came up before the dog shuddered with dry heaves. When Cody's face lost the vomit grimace, she plotted her next move. The dog was not having a good time. But there was no turning back now. If she found somewhere to stop for the night or two, maybe she could even out the dog's system. She hadn't made a reservation because the Oregon cabin owners said they were nowhere near being overbooked. Looking at her watch, Hannah realized she had been standing next to her car for ten minutes and she hadn't seen more than a handful of cars drive by. Northern California was not as traffic choked as San Francisco had been. She hoped there was some semblance of civilization, namely a vet, out here.

Hannah pulled her smartphone from the car's console and typed 'veterinarian,' into the search box. She waved the phone through the air, and got a signal. Only one vet came up in nearby Garberville. She'd never heard of the place, but assumed it was a town of at least two people – the vet, and a guy with a cow, who needed the vet.

Cody, now slightly foul smelling, jumped into the SUV on shaky legs. She navigated over to the address of the vet, glad the car's fancy computer at least worked this time. Pulling up in the parking lot, she was surprised how little the building differed from her vet in Newport Beach. The building was slightly more rustic, wood paneled instead of stuccoed, but it looked large, and well lit. Hannah took the first calming breath of the day. A vet who took pains with appearances would probably treat her dog well.

No receptionist stood behind the Formica and wood front desk. Not a lot of black granite here to impress pet lovers with open wallets. Hannah checked her watch against the hours posted on the door to make sure the clinic was still open. She hoped they didn't close early.

"Hello?" she called out tentatively.

"Back here," a deep male voice called back. "Just a second."

Cody slumped under her legs, lethargic. Hannah looked in the dog's miserable eyes. He couldn't die on her on this trip. That would be too much.

A tall, broad shouldered, dark-haired man robed in a white lab coat emerged from an unseen side door.

"Doctor Cooper." He extended his hand. Hannah thrust out her hand to shake his, her bangles jingling, but the doctor ignored her hand, instead leaning down to pet the dog. "How can I help you?" he asked the dog, raising his voice a few octaves. "What do we have here, buddy? You don't look so great. Let's get you into a room and get a closer look at you."

At Dr. Cooper's command, Cody, who could barely raise his head a minute before, roused himself and followed the doctor with a loyalty he usually reserved for those he knew well. Man and dog went through a door into a sterile looking examination room. With little choice but to follow, Hannah pulled her tired body from the wooden bench and brought up the rear.

When the vet finally looked at her, Hannah felt her butt hit the chair before she realized that she'd nearly lost her balance. Infinitely grateful the plastic bucket seat in the corner caught her, because she had landed hard enough for it to sting. Her stomach roiled, her hands shook, and her ears rang. Only one other time had an attraction so instant or intense shot through her like this. Twenty years ago she'd come undone when Lucas walked into freshman orientation.

Hannah hadn't thought it was humanly possible to feel this way again. She would be hard pressed to explain it to anyone, but something about Dr. Cooper made her want to know him more—a lot more. Her hair bounced around her face as she shook the inappropriate feelings away. Years of tamping down unwanted feelings finally did something more than give her an ulcer. After following her heart that first time with Lucas, she only used her head when it came to matters of the heart. Craving Dr. Cooper was not in the plan.

Oblivious to her discomfort, the vet guided Cody onto the stainless steel table, using a foot pedal to operate the hydraulic pump. The lift hissed as the dog glided to the doctor's waist level.

He finally extended a hand to her. "I'm Dr. Ben Cooper." She shook it dumbly, suddenly embarrassed by the jangling bracelets that had seemed so cool this morning. She and Johnny Depp were too old for so much wrist jewelry. "Sorry there was no one upfront. Doris left early to pick up her sick grandson from school."

Dr. Cooper was too much to take in all at once. He had longish, brown wavy hair, broad shoulders, deep bass voice, and eyes blue gray like the winter ocean. If she could draw, this was the dream man she would have rendered. Until now, the idea of a soul mate had been a cliché. In a few seconds, that cliché had become a very real possibility. The sense that she needed to touch this man was spilling over her again like an ocean wave. Hannah tried shaking her head again like a dog with a flea, but it didn't work a second time to clear her head. Maybe if she could think of something inconsequential to say, she would stop feeling so awkward.

"Um, the dog seems to be under the weather." Forget Oregon, her next stop should be 'Obvious Anonymous.'

Dr. Cooper looked at her like she was someone's doddering old aunt. Sympathetic smile lines crinkled around his eyes. He started speaking while checking the dog's ears, eyes, and gums. "Let me guess. This guy is Max? Jake?"

She shook her head, a small smile starting to crease her full lips. He could guess until the cows came home. He would never figure out the unique name she'd given her dog.

"Bailey?" She shook her head again, smiling broadly now. "Cody?"

Hannah gasped in surprise. "Fuck." She clapped her hands over her potty mouth. "Sorry. How did you know?" She'd removed the dog's tags at the same time she'd stashed her rings. The constant clinking of metal against metal would have driven her crazy for two long days in the car.

Dr. Cooper paused in his examination of the dog, moving around the table to close the door behind her. Her whole body tingled in the very small exam room. He gently touched her shoulder, directing her to look at the back of the door. Affixed to the wood door, with yellowing tape, was a ragged page, torn from a magazine. On it was a chart – one column pink, the other blue.

"The most popular dog names in the English speaking world," he said. The deep timber of his voice seemed to vibrate in her own chest with his body mere inches from hers.

"Oh." Oh? Was that the best she could come up with? It was rare that fate, or God, or the universe or whatever plopped a man like this right down in front of a woman—and the best she could come up with was, 'Oh?'

He walked back around the table, pulling the stethoscope from his neck. Placing the metal disk against the dog's chest, he listened.

"Is he going to be okay?" she asked, suddenly finding her full speaking voice.

"Cody is going to be fine," he pronounced, winding the stethoscope back around his neck, finished with his cursory examination. Surely, they had blood tests and x-ray machines up here.

"What's wrong with him?" she asked, genuinely perplexed. "He's always seemed so happy."

"Motion sickness," he said matter-of-factly.

Who knew? "Is there some kind of doggy Dramamine I can give him?"

He looked offended by the question. "Well, there are tranquilizers that we can prescribe for necessary travel. In your case, I'd recommend not driving long distances with the dog."

"That's going to be difficult," she said, Oregon's plains beckoning.

"Are you from San Francisco or Marin?" he asked, giving her no time to answer. "You can turn around and take him home, maybe fly to wherever you're going," he said as if she were driving the dog to the gallows, not the next state.

"I've driven all the way from the O.C. Turning around would probably take twice as long as getting to where I'm going."

Something seemed to close in him. His open manner and friendliness vanished. "Figures. You have that kind of vibe," he said.

What in the hell had happened? "What kind of vibe is that?" Did she sound as offended as she felt? Hannah wanted to be on Dr. Ben Cooper's good side. "I was planning on heading to Oregon." That had to be a more acceptable vibe than Newport Beach.

"What's up there? If you don't mind my asking." His nice-guy tone was back, and she was pushed off kilter again. This was why relationships based on the head worked better than those based on the heart. She hated that damned push/pull feeling when a guy really got to her.

"Nothing, I hope. I need some time to reevaluate my life. Thought I'd head up to a ranch in Bly, maybe Ashland. See where things go from there." Struck dumb one minute, diarrhea of the mouth the next. Well, this was going badly on all counts. It was time to pay, leave, and figure it out for herself.

"So you're not going to see anything or anyone in particular?"

"Does that make a difference?" Were his questions out of concern for the dog or had he gone stalker on her? That was one way to kill the romantic feeling.

"Well, since your dog is sick and all, have you considered stopping here for a while? This is a very nice, low-key resort area, you know."

"And where is 'here' exactly?" This little hamlet did not scream tourist mecca by any means. On her quick drive along the main drag, it had looked any small town in California – dotted with wood frame and stucco buildings, a couple of cafes, a movie theater, and a lot of free parking. No spas. No luxury bed and breakfasts with smartly painted signs. Sausalito, it was not.

"Here is Garberville, population nine hundred, give or take. But twenty five miles to the west is Shelter Cove." He paused as if she should know what that was. "Have you heard of The Lost Coast?" He paused again, and this time she shook her head with lack of recognition.

"No," she finally said aloud, probably sounding full of southern California snobbery. "Do you think Cody will get better over the next couple of days?"

"As long as he stays put," Ben said. "He's going to get a little worse, before he gets better."

"Why?"

"The road to the coast is a little windy," he said.

She was vacillating. Perhaps a stay in Shelter Cove would involve a little more get to know Ben Cooper time. Making major life decisions could involve meeting a new man, right? Maybe her new path should be a little more heart centered. Relying on her head had landed her Michael, after all.

Sensing her indecision, he went in for the kill. "My parents rent their house for vacations. It happens to be vacant right now. I'm sure they wouldn't mind you staying. Plus, they're one of only a few rentals that allow pets."

Message received. If she were any kind of good dog owner, then she'd stop the driving, camp out in Shelter Cove, and get her shit together. She looked into those sweet brown eyes, and gave Cody the thumbs up. She'd do it.

"Okay, I'm in—for Cody's sake."

Ben Cooper looked at the large stainless steel watch on his wrist. "I'll tell you what. I can close up shop here. Let me check on a couple of things, then you can follow me."

"Do you need to give your parents a call?"

"Nah, I'll do it later tonight. There's no hurry. No one is beating down the door. Tourism slows down in September. Coastal winter trips aren't very popular."

Hannah watched Ben's back as he retreated somewhere into the recesses of the clinic. She showed herself back to the waiting room, where a young blond girl had taken over counter duty. She paid the bill, glad they'd taken her platinum card, and grabbed a spot on a bench outside. Cody seemed happier out of the car. His nose was upturned taking in the scents moving on the air currents. She sighed, feeling more settled, knowing that she'd have a chance to unpack and think about the decisions she had to make. She had to figure out how to tell Michael she was leaving, once and for all. And she needed to make a plan, sooner, rather than later.

***

Dr. Ben Cooper took off his lab coat and hung it on the hook on the back of his office door exchanging it for his favorite leather jacket. What in the hell was he doing? His parents had closed up their vacation house for the winter. They no longer bothered with the sporadic rentals they got late in the year. And pets? He didn't know their pet policy. They liked dogs as much as the next person, but he wasn't sure they wanted a fifty-pound puppy roaming around their house and yard. His key was for emergencies. A nauseated dog did not qualify as any kind of emergency.

Ben zipped the close-fitting jacket, and ran a hand through his too-long hair, then glanced in the large rectangular mirror a previous vet, a rather vain southern California transplant, had affixed to the wall. He smoothed down the hair he'd ruffled. No reason for his hair to be standing on end when he went back to the waiting room.

Why was he doing this? He'd sworn off this kind of woman. Two long years with perpetual shopper Samara had weaned him from flashy women. O.C. Hannah was cut from the same mold. Her BMW, Louis Vuitton purse, Juicy sweats and gold bangles told him all he needed to know about her. It was no matter that her tall, lithe form had awakened his libido from hibernation.

Despite all the warning signs of her shallow, flighty nature, his heart sank when he came up front. One of his veterinary assistants, Joy, was behind the counter. Other than her female presence, the vast room was empty save for the smell of disinfectant layered over stale urine. He gave Joy instructions on the one cat who was going to be hospitalized overnight, and strode outside, relieved that Hannah had probably made the decision for him.

But there she was, sitting on the bench, long legs outstretched, frowning at her phone.

"So?" she asked, pursing her full lips. "Which car is yours?"

He pointed to the plain vanilla, none too clean, Ford Explorer in the lot. Ben looked at her, waiting for her look of disappointment that he wasn't driving something more her speed. It didn't come.

"I'll follow you, then?" she said, gathering up the dog's leash.

Ben stepped in her path. He kept his arms at his sides, resisting the urge to touch her—one time. "Why don't I take Cody? I have a harness and gated area set up in the back for carrying animals. He'll be more stable this way, and less likely to get sick on the ride." He looked at her dubious expression. "You okay with that?"

"I guess so." She took out her phone, again, tapping the screen. The damned thing was encased in rhinestones. Nothing escaped her universe of bling. "Give me your number in case we get separated."

Ben held up his hands in supplication. "I don't have a phone."

"Well it's nice to meet you, Mr. Twentieth Century." Hannah held out her hand again in mock greeting. He clasped it, even though her gesture was rhetorical. She pulled back like he'd burned her. "I guess I'll follow you then." She stalked off to her car, hopped in and started the engine. The waistband of her cropped jacket and the cut low-rise pants revealed a strip of warm looking tawny skin that he watched rabidly before his eyes skidded lower. He snatched a baseball cap from the passenger side of the car and pulled the brim low.

_Copyright 2013 by Sylvie Fox_. _All rights reserved_.

Buy this book:

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# Jenny Gardiner

JENNY GARDINER

Jenny Gardiner is the award-winning #1 Kindle bestselling author of Slim to None, and has published ten novels, a memoir, and a collection of essays. Her work has been found in Ladies Home Journal, the Washington Post, and on National Public Radio, and she is a regular columnist for Charlottesville's Daily Progress, as well as an occasional essayist on regional NPR affiliate WVTF-FM. She has worked as a publicist for a United States senator, and as a freelance photographer, photographing such notable public figures as Prince Charles, Elizabeth Taylor, and the President of Uganda. She's really bad at math.

www.jennygardiner.net

From Carnivals to Royalty

**author's note: _It seems fated that I would write a romantic comedy series about a European royal principality, what with my own close encounter with a man who could be king (if his mother would ever get out of the way!)_

Watching the royal wedding brought back memories from long ago, my one and only brush with royalty...

It was 1990; I was pregnant with my first child. I was working as a photographer in Washington, DC and my husband and I had gone to Florida for a business trip he had to take. A few months earlier, I'd contacted the British Embassy after having read about an upcoming garden party; I figured any self-respecting garden party would need a photographer, so I pitched my services.

The charming press person at the time politely told me they had a photographer but would take my name for future events, should they arise. I figured that was the last I would hear from him.

Fast forward a few months later, to a dingy hotel room in Bradenton, Florida. My husband had to attend a carnival trade show because a product his company produced was being knocked off and pawned off for carny prizes. He'd hoped to persuade those power mongers (read with a wink) who operate carnivals to buy the legitimate product, rather than ripping his company off.

Now, if you've ever gone to a carnival, you can probably conjure up images of your average carny type: Seedy-looking men, missing and rotting teeth, grizzled faces. There's usually an all-around feel of felons-freshly-sprung-from-prison about the place, coupled with the aroma of years-old trans-fat sizzling away in deep-frying vats awaiting a plunge from a 2000-calorie corn dog or maybe a fried twinkie, perhaps a grease-sopped funnel cake if you're lucky.

Well, the difference between a carnival and a carnival _trade show_ (at least 20-some years ago) is simply that the grease isn't as old. Same creepy people, same vile food, same crappy products. So we were coming off a most relaxing day amidst the seedier element of society at Carny-ville, and were chilling at the hotel when I decided to check our voice mail.

Back then we'd only recently acquired an answering machine. I know this sounds crazy, but they were newfangled devices then. Technologically-stunted as I've always been, I'd barely figured out how to check our messages on the thing before we left for our trip. Nevertheless, basking in the radiant afterglow of our carnival extravaganza, I called home to see if we had any messages. Which was when I heard the message from a Gareth So-and-So from the British Embassy, asking if I was interested in an upcoming event. He needed an answer immediately.

Of course I called back pronto. Remember, there were no cell phones back then. Wait, there were. When I worked on Capitol Hill in the 80's I'd gone to a hair salon near the White House and remember seeing an Important Looking Man lugging a small suitcase in one hand, holding a phone receiver attached to the suitcase by a long coiled cord, with the other. This was back when offices had rooms devoted to housing gargantuan "mainframes" to operate computers. How far we've come in so short a time... But making long-distance calls from anywhere other than home was a cumbersome process back then: using a calling card, you had to dial about 70 numbers without screwing up the number sequence and then get connected to some remote operator or bell tones, enter in another 20 digits and maybe then you'd be connected to your number. I was notorious for screwing up this process. Amazingly I dialed through successfully, and got hold of Gareth before he'd found another photographer.

"Hallo," he said to me in a gorgeous clipped British accent. I don't care what one looks like, when you speak with that accent it erases all flaws instantly. I swooned over the phone. In a professional manner, of course.

"I have a job you might be interested in," Gareth told me. I figured maybe another garden party, one of those things where women wear silly hats (Princes Beatrice, anyone?).

"His Royal Highness will be coming to Washington and there are several events for which we need a photographer."

I tried hard to maintain my composure and not choke. His Royal Highness, the Prince of Wales. Needed me. Prince Charles, then the celebrated man of the hour, considered studly despite his jug ears (and yes, they are quite juggy). The embassy needed me, to shoot the man (with a camera of course).

I tried to remain cool, as if often I was invited to be the official photographer of the world's most famous royal (next to his then-wife Princess Diana).

I told Gareth I needed to check my schedule, and pretended to leaf through my sad-sack calendar, the dinky 4″ x 4″ one like you used to get for free at the Hallmark store (yep, electronic calendars were years away). And of course I instantly leapt at the chance, no doubt appearing pathetically excited and simpering about the prospect of this brush with British royalty.

I was, as I said, pregnant. At that time speculation abounded that Diana and Charles were going for a girl, and rumors were running amok that she was indeed pregnant. I pondered drumming up some small talk with Chuck about his pregnant wife (a presumptuous leap on my part). What with us having so much in common, I knew we were bound to be BFFs and all. Fortunately I opted out of that tack. Because it wasn't long after that that we all learned that Charles had been clandestinely telling his extramarital fling Camilla he yearned to be her tampon or maxi pad or something equally abhorrent. Clearly he wouldn't have been keen dishing on Di with me when he was fantasizing about being inside Camilla's knickers (literally).

My husband never once wanted to come along on my photo shoots (particularly the dull ones, like the American Institute of CPAs; can't blame him, though those CPAs were a lovely bunch). Even my Liz Taylor shoot he nixed. But he jumped at the chance to be my assistant for the royal visit.

Prior to undertaking the job, we got a mini-lesson on dealing with the Prince–i.e. avoid dealing with the Prince. No handshaking, speak to him only when spoken to, that sort of thing.

I was told the Prince always had a group photo taken with his equerry staff (the cadre of helpers who travel with him everywhere to be sure someone puts the toothpaste on his toothbrush, that sort of thing). So we assembled the group amidst the splendor of the British Embassy, an elegant building filled with a vast collection of priceless artwork. I directed the men to line up in two rows, some seated, some standing.

"I need all of the men seated to place hands in laps," I instructed them.

"Your own laps," my able-bodied spouse interjected, to the horror of the embassy staff.

Silence hung in the air as I awaited the big man himself firing me from the job. But then instead, Charles placed his hand over his mouth and...snickered. It was a very royal sounding laugh, a ha-ha-ha rather than an all-out guffaw. But enough so that I knew the job hadn't slipped through my fingers, and for my husband to this day to be able to stake his claim on having gotten Charles to chuckle.

Shame Charles and Di never did end up being our BFFs, no double-dating was in the cards, no naming each other our kids' godparents. But we'll always have Charles' chuckle.

First published on the GBC May 2, 2011

Rejection or High Praise: You Decide...

Rejection? In the publishing world? Ha! That is downright inconceivable! I mean, isn't writing all about pouring your heart out into the novel of your dreams and then everyone loves it and you sell it for a fortune and land huge film deals and you earn enough money to quit your day job and take some fun trips and maybe pay off some loans and you all live happily ever after as you write subsequent bestsellers in your lovely Parisian artist's garret?

Well....Gather 'round, kiddies, and let me dopeslap enlighten you.

Not to complain, but just to burst your bubble open you to the potential soul-sucking vagaries realities of the publishing business...

Rejection isn't simply the rejection of your words by agents and editors and reviewers. It's really more like the endless obstacles that threaten the potential success of your writing career/marathon.

A sample of such things that you might well encounter along the way:

\-- A director of sales at a publishing house who doesn't like your book and therefore won't do much to try to sell it (which means forget it, your book is doomed).

\-- A publishing house that goes belly-up and you never see payment owed you (don't quit your day job!).

\-- Editors who are Goldilocksian in their rejection of your masterpiece (Too long! Too short! Not happy enough! Not sad enough! Lacking character development! Too much character development! Plodding! Too fast paced!). I think if the future of the human race relied upon editors loving someone's work, the species would be long gone by now.

\-- An agent who disappears off the planet after you sign with said agent, who then simply never does even the basics of what needs to be done to pitch your book, leaving you flapping in the wind and your career on default life support.

\-- An editor who leaves the business halfway into the editorial process, leaving your book with no advocate (also known as Dead in the Water; see doomed book, above).

\-- An editor who loves your voice and loves your book and really wants to publish it, but one editor on editorial board kiboshes it, so it's not going to be acquired (Dead in the Water, natch).

\-- A big name author who bails at the last minute with the cover blurb promised you for months.

\-- You get so bogged down with marketing and publicity that you never write another book.

\-- An industry that changes like the shoreline, leaving you feeling as if you are trying to capture elusive air between your fingers.

\-- Life crap that decides to interrupt your creativity so that you fall off the planet and miss the myriad changes that have befallen the industry and, as an added wallop, lose your readers, while you were in a life-induced writing coma.

A career as an author is not for the faint of heart. It is for someone who has deep conviction in their product and one who is determined and hearty and perhaps a little foolish and—despite deeply-entrenched, occasionally self-sabotaging cynicism—holds out a bizarre scintilla of optimism in the face of overwhelmingly grim odds (this could simply be human survival skills at work).

So my advice is this: ignore everything. Ignore it all. Because you can't control one damned bit of it. Instead, just write. Get back to the basics: read and write and write and read and refine your craft as you so do, and to hell with the rest of it.

In the early days of my career, writer friends and I repeated to one another this mantra: TPT—Talent. Persistence. Timing. Honestly, I can tell you from some books I've read that talent is actually optional (though desirable)—plenty of crap books get published, which still mystifies me. Persistence, however, is essential. And timing? Well, that's the ingredient over which we have little power. If you're lucky enough to have the fairy dust sprinkled over you and you write a book that becomes a blockbuster and you are the darling of the publishing world, well, hey, good on ya'. But if you don't, it's vital that you are able to maintain that very core of what started you on the process to begin with: you love words, you love stories, and you know you have an ability to combine them in a way that works.

And sometimes, that's all you can hang your hat on.

I was quite frustrated recently, feeling as if launching a book nowadays is sort of like felling a tree in a remote forest—does anyone hear a thing?—wondering how anyone can hear about your book if no one is listening.

And then, voila, I got a lovely review from a book reviewer, which helped me to remember what it's all about: writing something that will touch others.

Now go. Write. And to hell with all the rest of it.

First published on the GBC February 18, 2015

An excerpt from SOMETHING IN THE HEIR

(book one of the IT'S REIGNING MEN SERIES) by Jenny Gardiner

(Humorous Romantic Comedy)

"Bob! You frisky devil, you!" Emma's mother Ellen squealed when her husband squeezed her ample behind as she mounted the steps to their beach house.

"I still got it, don't I sweetheart?"

"You've got something, that's for sure," she said with a laugh, opening the front door and then lugging her overnight bag and toiletry kit across the living room to the master bedroom down the hall. Her husband followed closely behind with his own duffle, and grabbed her just as she was about to enter their bedroom.

"Across the threshold, my dear," he said, bowing, and with a gallant swoop, lifted his bride up and over his shoulder to gales of laughter from her as she pounded on his backside to let her down. Her bottle-blonde graying hair dangled upside down from her roots toward the floor, and her face turned red from being the wrong direction.

"You're going to throw your back out again! And you know how long it takes to get an appointment with Dr. Farrington!" She flailed her arms and legs, an aging damsel in faux distress.

Bob crossed the doorway with her, not even bothering to flick on the overhead light, and instead dropped her onto the queen-sized bed, whereupon Ellen squealed even louder.

"Ouch!" she said. "What the devil is the lumpy thing under this quilt? It feels as if there's a body beneath me!"

"There will be in two seconds if I have any say—" her husband growled, only to be interrupted by a near-naked Adrian sitting up abruptly, jarred from a deep sleep and face-to-face with two raucous strangers who seemed about to have much better luck in the sack than he'd had.

The woman let out a scream that certainly would have woken the man up had he not already been frightened awake upon having a two-hundred-pound woman hefted atop him like a sack of concrete in the middle of the night. Adrian yelled, which then caused Ellen to scream louder. Bob fumbled for the nearest potential weapon, which unfortunately happened to be the lamp on the nightstand, and he had to choose between shining some light on the situation or clocking the stranger in his bed with the thing. Only he couldn't figure a way to get a good grip on it without the lampshade getting in the way.

"Robert!" Ellen shouted, invoking his birth name, something she reserved for rare occasions, like, say, if she was furious with him for having finished off the pie she'd been saving for her dessert. "Do something! There's a strange man in our bed and he's naked!"

Adrian, groggy but finally grasping what was going on, fumbled around for some more sheet to pull up over him as he wrested his way out of the bed, as if modesty was the most important thing at the moment—a hazard of the job when you were royalty, especially after your brother's been caught starkers in the tabloids. Besides, with an enraged man and shrieking woman at arm's length, flapping those family jewels at this moment would be a particular mistake, likely even jeopardizing their very existence.

But thank goodness he did cover up enough, or Ellen would've fainted clear away at the sight of this evidently well-endowed — if _People_ magazine was to be believed — unclad crazy man standing over top of her.

"Robert! Call the police!" Ellen shouted, even though at that point she was perfectly capable of reaching the phone on the nightstand just as easily as he was.

***

In the distance, in the middle of her REM sleep cycle, Emma heard what sounded like some sort of fracas and at first thought it was a really fun party she was attending in her dream. She was with Adrian and that little friend of his, who was making out with Caroline in a corner. Typical, that hussy. Emma was holding Adrian's hand and somewhere someone was introducing the royal couple and all of a sudden she realized that it was she! Well, it was they! Well, they were the royal couple that were being announced while Caroline sucked face with that Darcy fellow back behind the bar, where her hottie bartender was shaking cocktails just like he did the other night, oblivious that Caroline had gone to greener — and more sexily accented — pastures.

But the screaming was getting louder and louder and even though Emma was so excited that she was Her Royal Highness Mrs. Adrian Whatever-his-last-name-was, somewhere in the back of her sleep-fogged brain she recognized that squealing screaming sound—her mother. Surely her mother wasn't objecting to her being married to a prince. Hell, Ellen wouldn't object to Emma being married to a toad, for that matter. As long as the creature put a ring on it. But then Emma morphed out of the reverie of her dream and realized there was a whole lot of screaming going on.

Flummoxed by the sounds, she raced out of bed and down the stairs and back to her parents' bedroom, flicking on the overhead light to find a kerfuffle on a grand scale unfolding before her very tired eyes. As she assessed the situation she saw her mother on her back kicking her legs in the air like a toddler having a tantrum, her granny pants exposed, and her father — what was left of his hair askew atop his head like a nutty professor — fumbling around in search of what? A weapon? And Adrian standing there so damned close to his natural state that Emma's mouth dried up at the thought. She raced over to separate her parents from Adrian before any injury ensued, and found herself wrapping her body around Adrian to prevent her father from striking him with the hand mirror he'd just picked up off the dresser. Talk about seven years' bad luck!

"Daddy! Stop!" Emma shouted as Adrian slung one arm around her while still holding up the sheet against his crotch and inching ever more backward away from her father's reach. Emma couldn't help but notice how warm Adrian's body felt pressed up against hers, but she banished that thought immediately in order to prevent bodily harm from coming to him, not to mention emotional harm to her. _Adrian is off-off-off limits, down doggie_ , she mentally repeated over and over.

"It's me, Daddy, Emma, your daughter," she shouted at her father above her mother's operatic yelping.

"Baby doll?" her father called out. "Sugar?"

"Yes, Daddy, it's okay. This is my friend, Adrian. He's not an intruder and he's not going to threaten Mom's virtue, trust me." She winked at Adrian. "Mom, you can calm down now. Everything is fine."

Her mother's noises settled down to a quiet whimper finally as her father regained his composure and smoothed his hair back into its normal slicked-back position. Adrian, though, held tight to Emma as he gazed with mistrust upon these two demented gray-hairs who'd accosted him. Her father was wearing a pair of very bright green pants with erect-standing English Pointers embroidered all over the things. His crisp knit golf shirt was red, white and blue plaid; his matching skills were notoriously ghastly. Adrian hesitated to look too closely at her mother, whose girdle was exposed from her kicking around in her floral print dress while flat on her back on the bed. He gave her a minute to straighten up before glancing at her again.

In the meantime, Emma noticed that Adrian was holding up the sheet only over the front part of him, and she could see in the nearby mirror that his back half was all hers to reach for if she just moved her hands a few inches downward, which she simply couldn't resist. It was a moral dilemma whether to look at the mirror, at him, or at her parents, who had no idea what was going on. Finally she had to suck it up and talk to her folks, keeping her hand firmly planted on that gorgeous butt of his nonetheless, hoping no one would notice in the dim light.

"Mom, Dad, or I should say, Ellen, Bob, I'd like you to meet my friend Adrian," Emma said, finally letting go of Adrian. Only Adrian realized there was no way in hell he was releasing her in this state, what with having had this hot girl pressed up against his sensitive male parts, one with whom he'd already experienced an unrequited make-out session already tonight. Just the mere touch of her body to his, coupled with a flashback to earlier in the evening, was enough to expose Adrian's true intentions toward their daughter to Bob and Ellen, a fact he would prefer to keep to himself, particularly under the circumstances.

He reached around Emma to shake their hands, holding the sheet around his crotch just so. All the while trying hard not to stare at Emma in her tiny pink camisole top with her luscious exposed belly — the one that was just in the most perfect contact with his own but a few minutes ago — and how much he'd love to be exploring that with his tongue instead of naked-meeting the woman's parents. All he knew was if his mother learned about this she'd kill him. That was, after frog-marching him down the aisle with that wretched Serena.

Normally Adrian wasn't naturally inclined to shake hands, being that most people bowed or curtsied in his presence. But he knew protocol was differed in the States, and he knew he had some making up to do in the parent department with Emma's folks. It was bad enough he was an uninvited guest, but to be one stark naked in their bed, well, he supposed it could be worse. At least he wasn't in it with their daughter in a mutual state of disrobing. Must look on the bright side...

"So very pleased to make your acquaintance," Adrian said, "albeit I'd prefer to have done so in a more conventional manner."

Bob eyed him with a modicum of suspicion even though Emma had already vetted the man. Nevertheless he stuck his own hand out, taking care to not get too close to Adrian in so doing, just in case he'd grab something else by accident. He'd lose his lifetime membership to the Manly Man Club for that type of transgression.

"To what do we owe this, er, surprise?"

"He's my friend, Daddy," Emma said. "Adrian and I were working together."

"Oh, a photographer?"

"Not exactly," she said, locking eyes with Adrian while trying to discern how much truth she could reveal to her father. "I worked with him recently and we got to be friends."

Her father looked from his daughter to Adrian and back again, sizing up the situation. The two of them wore game faces, not revealing anything more than one could while barely covered in the middle of the night. The fact that they had been in separate bedrooms on separate floors of the house attested to the veracity of the relationship.

"Not exactly the warmest of hospitality, dropping in on you like we did!" Ellen said, giggling. "Can't say I've ever had that happen to me before! I'm just grateful you weren't a dead body!"

"Since when have you ever found a body in your bed, Mom?" Emma asked, her eyes wide open, wondering what the heck had gotten into her vivid imagination.

"You missed the beginning of this whole fiasco, honey," she said. "Your father was being a joker and dropped me on the bed with a thud, right on top of your sleeping young man here."

_Your young man_. Leave it to her mother to slap on the possessive to the relationship. Wishful thinking, much?

"I suppose in hindsight it's all very funny," her mother continued. If they only knew Bob plunked her mother down on top of a very naked European prince. Her mother would probably pee her pants in horror at that one. But thank goodness this way Emma could be spared the indignity of maternal matchmaking with an entirely fruitless relationship. Because she'd not put it past her mother to try to pair her up with Adrian. Not that she wouldn't even without Emma's unwitting assistance. But throw in the royalty aspect and her mother would need a drool cloth to stop the slavering. Nevertheless, this forced Emma to think quickly to keep her mother from trying to pair the two up. It was what she did best. She winked at Adrian, indicating he needed to play along with her ruse.

"Adrian just got over a relationship with a colleague of his," Emma said.

"Oh, my, heartbroken over a girl?" her mother asked. She had a little bit of a ditzy old lady squawk to her voice, which sometimes made Emma cringe just a bit, especially when she was turning on the nosey.

"Actually..." Emma said. "His name is Darcy." She looked from her mother to her father and back again, then glanced at Adrian, who looked ready to flay her, something his ancestors probably did quite readily during the Inquisition. They probably first flayed then fricasseed their enemies over an open pit. While wearing suits of armor. And firing things from catapults. This was the extent of Emma's recall of European history of yore, so it was good she wasn't sharing her ignorance with Adrian, who was at that very moment stewing over being wrongfully outed from a closet in which he hadn't been hiding.

"Oh, so you're—" her mother started to say, then turned to her daughter. "Why is it the best-looking ones are always gay?"

Emma threw a surreptitious glance at Adrian. If her mother only knew. "I know, it's so unfair," Emma said with a pout.

"Excuse me, but—" Adrian started to say before Emma reached around and squeezed his behind to silence him. She clearly had the perfect touch to get her way, as he closed his mouth right up.

"Even right down to that delightful accent," her mother added. "Where'd you say you're from again?"

Emma piped in before Adrian could get a chance. "He's uh, he's British. Studying here for a while."

"Interesting," Ellen said. "What are you studying?"

"Royalty!" Emma shouted out before giving either of them a chance to come up with something better.

"Why would an Englishman, who is steeped in royalty in England, come to America to study that?" her father chimed in.

Emma felt like she ought to be wearing tap shoes, dancing around this mine-infused conversation as she was. "It's just that—"

"While there is clearly an American fascination with our royalty," Adrian said, picking up Emma's slack, "there's an equal fascination on why Americans are so obsessed with it. After all, you Yanks went out of your way to get rid of the royals, didn't you?" He gave her mother a sly wink, which she appreciated, keeping her on the inside and all.

"You mean like with Emma and me waking up in the middle of the night to watch the royal wedding of Kate and William?" Ellen smiled broadly, but Emma turned ten shades of red. Nothing like being called out as a shameless royal-sniffer by your mother in front of a prince to make you feel like a complete schmuck.

"Waking up in the middle of the night?" Bob cackled. "You don't know the half of it! They had their friends there too, fixed bangers and mash and had English Breakfast tea if I'm not mistaken. Although the bangers and mash were well worth the early wake-up call, mind you."

_Oh Lordie, just shoot me now_.

"Bangers and mash, eh?" Adrian asked Emma, one eyebrow cocked skyward. "What, no Pimm's Cup?"

"And those ridiculous hats they wore," her father continued, as Emma mentally melted into a puddle of embarrassment. "Feathers shooting everywhere. Practically poked my eye out. Couldn't believe they could find such monstrosities in the States. We have pictures if you don't believe—"

Adrian's grin grew wider the more details were revealed of Emma's secret fixation.

"Daddy, let's stop blathering about nonsense," she interjected. "It's late, we're tired. And I'm sure Adrian would rather conduct a lengthy conversation tomorrow, when he's more conventionally dressed. Can't we please just get back to sleep?"

Her mother covered her mouth in surprise. "I forgot! We woke you needlessly! We're so sorry about that!"

"I won't even ask what brought you here at such a late hour," Emma said. "Just let me find my bed already!"

"Why don't we let your gentleman friend sleep here and we'll take the fold-out sofa in Emma's room," her father offered.

"No, I couldn't deprive you of your bed, sir," Adrian said. If he had an ulterior motive in mind, it would be conveniently cloaked in his newfound gay status. "Please, allow me. No need in having the two of you give up your own bedroom."

Emma's mother looked at Adrian, then Emma, then Adrian again. To her great dismay, there would be no matchmaking with this one, so she knew Emma's honor would be well-protected even with this man sleeping in her room. "If you insist," she said with a tired sigh. "After all, I could use a good night's sleep and was looking forward to sleeping late in the morning."

"By all means, madam," Adrian said with a bow-like flourish, laying it on thick, considering he was still for all intents and purposes virtually naked. Not to mention he wasn't one to have to bow to anyone in his lifetime.

Emma gritted her teeth and fixed a hard look at Adrian. How in the world was she going to sleep a wink with him in the bed right near her? Naked, no less? Curses, he was too darned clever for his own good. But she could resist his charms. It might take some fortifications, but she could do it.

"Well...if you insist," Emma's mom said. "Can I help you make the bed at least?"

Emma interrupted. "No worries, Mom, I'll deal with that. You just get yourselves to sleep."

With that she grabbed the tail end of the sheet that had been dragging on the floor near Adrian, and twisted it around him three times, successfully covering up anything about him that might be even remotely tempting. And then she started wondering if she could dig up a snowsuit for him to sleep in for the next few days.

Copyright 2014 by Jenny Gardiner. All rights reserved.

Buy this book:

Jenny's website

# Maria Geraci

MARIA GERACI

Maria Geraci was born in Havana, Cuba, and raised on Florida's Space Coast. Her love of books started with the classic, LITTLE WOMEN (a book she read so often growing up, she could probably quote). She writes contemporary romance and women's fiction with a happy ending. The Portland Book Review called her novel, THE BOYFRIEND OF THE MONTH CLUB, "immensely sexy, immensely satisfying and humorous." Her fourth novel, A GIRL LIKE YOU, was nominated for Romance Writers of America's prestigious RITA ® award. Her next project, a contemporary romance trilogy will be available in spring, 2015.

<http://mariageraci.com/>

Do's And Don'ts of Public Speaking

When my first book came out in 2009 to say I was overwhelmed would be an understatement. I was new to the world of publishing and things like cover conferences and copy edits and deadlines were a stormy sea I had learned to navigate partly with the help of my agent and other writer friends, and partly by myself (I don't think anyone can really teach you to dog paddle. There is nothing more motivating than sink or swim.).

What I wasn't expecting, however, were the requests I had for interviews and public speaking. The interviews were easy because other than a few phone interviews and one live meet-and-greet at the local Starbucks, most of those were conducted online. I had time to think of my answers and produce some sort of semi-intelligent, semi-witty response. At least, I hope that's how they came across.

When I was asked by a friend from my Bunco group to come speak to the local Rotary club, I was a little flummoxed.

"Why would they want to hear from me?" I asked.

"Oh, we invite speakers all the time. Don't worry! You'll be fabulous. Tell them how you got published. Everyone is always interested in that."

Okay, I thought to myself. My friend was right. One thing I had learned early on is that most people are always fascinated by how authors get published. I jotted down a few notes on a set of index cards, dressed up in business casual and met my friend in front of the local civic center where the Rotary Club met for lunch and their monthly meeting.

When I walked into the room, my pulse began to jump. It was packed. Full of people in business suits (men and women) busy eating their sit down lunch and networking with one another. I was escorted to the "head" table in front of the room and placed between two gentlemen. The one to my left introduced himself as some sort of big shot with the Boy Scouts of America. The gentleman to my right was older (probably early to mid-seventies), polite, but a bit reserved. My friend was seated at the end of the table. She gave me a thumbs up and a big smile and told me not to worry. The president of the club, whom my friend had introduced me to earlier, asked me how long my speech was.

How long was my speech? How was I supposed to know? I mean, was I supposed to have timed this?

I shrugged and said something along the lines of, "Oh, not too long."

She frowned. Then said something along the lines of, "You have exactly twenty minutes and fourteen seconds. I'll be timing you." (Not really, but that's how it felt).

I then learned that I was going to be the 3rd speaker of the afternoon. Which meant I could relax a bit as the other 2 speakers did their thing. This would also be the perfect opportunity to slyly study my index cards.

The first speaker was introduced. She appeared to be a teenage girl and I immediately relaxed. I mean, how eloquent could she be? Then she made her way to the podium and that's when I noticed that she had some sort of physical disability. She was there to thank the Rotary Club for their sponsorship to a summer camp she had attended. Her speech was more than eloquent. It was elegant and full of warm gratitude to the group that had financially assisted her to fulfill a personal goal. There wasn't a dry eye in the house when she was done.

My damp palms were now clutching the Index Cards in a death grip.

Boy Scout Guy to my left must have noticed how nervous I looked because he leaned over and said, "You'll be fine."

I nodded numbly.

Then they introduced the next speaker who turned out to be older gentleman to my right. I heaved a sigh of relief. He shuffled his way to the podium and Boy Scout Guy whispered something like, "Yeah, you'll be great!" I mean, how good could this old guy be? Right?

Old Guy took a folded piece of paper out of his jacket pocket and read a small snippet of an article to the audience. The article was about a new form of social media called Twitter (remember, this was 2009). He then began to do an entire bit about his "generation" and social media and Twitter. I laughed so hard I was nearly in tears (as was the rest of the audience).

Then, it was my turn.

My friend introduced me and the audience politely clapped. I clutched my Index cards and began my not-so-prepared speech, fully aware that there was no way I could be as touching as the first speaker or as funny as the second. As I was fudging my way through the talk, I happened to notice someone out of the corner of my eye making hand gestures. It was the club president, tapping on her watch to indicate that my time was up. How long had I spoken? I glanced at my own watch and was horrified to see that I'd been speaking almost 45 minutes, and I wasn't even half-way through my life story! I quickly mumbled a conclusion and found my seat. More polite clapping ensued.

On my way out the civic center, I cornered my friend.

"Be honest, did I suck?"

"No! You were awesome."

Yes, she's a good friend. Luckily, I think over the years I've improved my skills just a bit. My own personal Do's and Don'ts?

Do:

Set a time limit on your speech. No one wants to hear someone go on and on and on and....

Find out about your audience ahead of time.

Pick a narrow topic. Be specific.

Try to maintain good eye contact.

Allow time for questions.

Thank your audience afterward. Mingle, shake hands. And don't forget to thank the person who invited you to speak.

Don't:

Wear something uncomfortable/unflattering.

Eat right before you speak (unless you can go to the bathroom and brush your teeth!)

Use inappropriate language. Be professional!

Above all: Be yourself and have a good time!

First published on the GBC website on April 17, 2014

Looking for Nora Ephron

Whenever I think of transitions, I immediately think of Fall, that most wonderful of all seasons–the time when the weather starts to cool off, pumpkins start popping up on the lawns of local churches, everyone gets caught up in college football and the stores deck out in Halloween gear (which we know will immediately come down November 1 to make way for Christmas).

But transitions also make me think of something else. Or rather, someone else. I think of Nora Ephron and how her films were such a visual tribute to the whole concept of transitions that flow from one state to another.

We all know that every good story is about change. You take a protagonist, give him/her a goal, toss a lot of conflict his/her way, and watch them struggle to overcome the conflict, which leads to the character's growth and an ultimate payoff. I can't think of anyone who did this better in the realm of women's films than Ms. Ephron.

Visually stunning and full of spot-on dialogue, I have to say I think the 1998 romantic comedy You've Got Mail is my favorite of her films. I could mute my tv and without hearing a word, I'd still get it. Not only do her characters transition, you see the city of New York transition through the seasons. Everything in the film is there to serve a purpose–to layer theme throughout.

Who can forget this Tom Hanks line from **You've Got Mail**?

" _Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me wanna buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address_."

Would I sound ridiculous if I told you that one line inspired me to be a writer? That one line, so perfect in it's simplicity has stayed with me for years. I want to write lines that stay with people for years. Don't you?

When I heard Nora Ephron had passed away, my first thought was a selfish one. Who's going to make the films I love so much now? Who's going to step up to the plate and deliver? I don't know about you, but I'm still waiting.

What are your favorite Nora films? Any great quotes you love? Here a few more of mine: " _I love that you get cold when it's 71 degrees out. I love that it takes you an hour and a half to order a sandwich. I love that you get a little crinkle above your nose when you're looking at me like I'm nuts. I love that after I spend the day with you, I can still smell your perfume on my clothes. And I love that you are the last person I want to talk to before I go to sleep at night. And it's not because I'm lonely, and it's not because it's New Year's Eve. I came here tonight because when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible._ " **When Harry Met Sally**

" _Tell me what was so special about your wife_?"

" _Well, how long is your program? Well, it was a million tiny little things that, when you added them all up, they meant we were supposed to be together... and I knew it. I knew it the very first time I touched her. It was like coming home... only to no home I'd ever known... I was just taking her hand to help her out of a car and I knew. It was like... magic._ " **Sleepless in Seattle**

And probably my most favorite line of all: (and yes, it's from **You've Got Mail** )

" _It wasn't... personal_."

" _What is that supposed to mean? I am so sick of that. All that means is that it wasn't personal to you. But it was personal to me. It's *personal* to a lot of people. And what's so wrong with being personal, anyway_?"

First published on the GBC on September 28, 2012

An Excerpt from **THAT THING YOU DO** by Maria Geraci

(Contemporary Romance)

### CHAPTER ONE

ALLIE GRANT AIMED HER flashlight at the padlocked door to the Margaret Handy Senior Center. On the surface, the abandoned building appeared like any other ranch style structure built in the nineteen-fifties. Lots of brick, lots of windows, lots of deterioration. But this wasn't just any crumbling building. According to her anonymous source, this building was haunted.

Unfortunately, it was also locked up tighter than the Spanx she'd worn on her last date. Which was so long ago that Allie could barely recall the details, the only memorable part of the evening being when she took off those Spanx. Alone. Right before crawling into bed with a Snickers bar and the worn out copy of _Anne of Green Gables_ Buela had given Allie on her seventh birthday.

Allie stifled a yawn. She wouldn't mind being in bed right now. It was nearly midnight and she'd been up since the crack of dawn. But she was a journalist in need of a story and a haunted building (as hokey as that sounded) was a potential goldmine in magazine advertising revenue. It was also the kind of story that could get a freelancer like herself a cover byline, but better yet, it was the sort of story that could land her a permanent job at _Florida_! magazine.

She raised her flashlight above the door illuminating a huge NO TRESPASSING sign. The way Allie saw it, she had two options.

The first involved going to her brother Zeke's house, getting a decent night's sleep, then waking up bright and early to seek out The Person In Charge. She'd make an impassioned (yet logical) plea on why she had to spend time inside the building, and The Person In Charge would comply, because, really, why wouldn't they?

Under normal circumstances, that's exactly what she'd do. She simply couldn't help herself. Buela taught her early that good girls finish first. A thought that had remained stuck in her head the way her Cuban grandmother's lumpy cheese grits used to stick to Allie's ribs on a cold January morning. Although she'd been gone over twelve years now, Allie could still hear Buela's voice telling her what to do. But right now that voice was being drowned out by yet another sign stating that the building was scheduled for demolition at nine a.m. tomorrow, giving Allie basically zip time to contact The Person In Charge.

Bringing her to option number two.

An option Buela would definitely not have approved of. Not to mention Zeke, who also happened to be Whispering Bay's current chief-of-police. Nope. Allie was beyond certain Zeke wouldn't take too kindly to his baby sister committing a B&E.

But was it really a crime to break into a deserted building scheduled for demolition in less than nine hours?

A shiver skated up her spine.

It wasn't cold. Not really. It was October and still seasonably warm enough for the Florida panhandle, but the building was isolated from the rest of the ocean strip by at least half a mile. That on its own made it creepy enough, and then of course, there was that haunted thing.

Maybe she should channel the lion from The Wizard of Oz and begin chanting I don't believe in ghosts...I don't believe in ghosts...

But there was something to be said about Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore and that whole pottery wheel scene.

Hopeless Hollywood romanticism? No doubt. It was lovely to believe that even after death there was something so powerful about the feelings we had while we were alive that they pulled us back to the people and places we once loved.

But all corniness aside, she was a journalist, and at the behest of _Florida_! magazine's editor, Emma Frazier, Allie had just driven nearly six hours to investigate a story on what most people (herself included) would consider the flimsiest of leads. But if Emma wanted a ghost story, then that's what Allie would give her. Impressing Emma Frazier was the key to landing her dream job, which happened to be Goal Number Three on Allie's four part Life Plan. So despite the NO TRESPASSING sign, she wasn't leaving until she got her story. A padlocked door was beyond her capabilities, but no building this old could be burglar proof.

Using her flashlight to guide her, Allie made her way through a patch of weeds to study the windows on the side of the building.

Bin-go! Jalousie glass panes. Popular in Florida during the last century before central air-conditioning became standard. Those windows might provide excellent ventilation but they looked easy as all heck to break into. Not that Allie had any experience sneaking in or out of windows. Once upon a time, that had been Zeke's forte. Before he'd cleaned up his act, of course. Nowadays, there wasn't anyone more upstanding than her big brother.

She noticed the window in the middle was missing several of its glass panes. Had someone already broken inside? Maybe. Or more likely those panes had fallen out over time, and since the building was scheduled to come down, it wouldn't have made sense to fix them.

Which brought Allie to her third option—it wasn't really a B&E if she didn't actually break anything. Yes, there was that big NO TRESPASSING sign but the window was practically open. Some people might consider that an invitation.

Ha. Her brother would call that delusional thinking. Fuzzy morality, at best. But what were her options? Despite the late hour, she was now fully awake.

She sent up a silent apology to Buela (Zeke, she would deal with later) and went into action. With the flashlight tucked beneath her arm, she knocked the flimsy metallic screen out of the way. Balancing her bottom on the open window ledge, she lowered one sneakered foot inside—when the tinny-sounding ring tone version of Adele's _Rumour Has It_ startled her into falling butt first onto a hard wooden floor.

Her cell phone flew out of her shorts pocket. Allie scampered on all fours to retrieve it, causing her right knee to come in contact with something sharp. Ouch! She ignored the pain and glanced at her cell phone's caller ID telling her (warning her) that it was her roommate, Jen.

"Where are you?" Jen asked.

"Check the fridge." Allie had purposely left Jen a note taped to the refrigerator door. It was the first place Jen always went when she got home from her evening shift at the hospital where she worked as a respiratory therapist.

After a slightly too long pause in which Allie imagined Jen not only finding the note, but last night's leftovers as well, Jen said, "You're in Whispering Lakes? Isn't that where you grew up?"

"Yep, but it's Whispering Bay." Allie went on to explain about the email that had caused her to jump in her car and make the six hour drive to her hometown.

"So, let me get this straight," Jen said. "Someone sent you an anonymous email telling you there's a ghost inside the building? And you, what? Jumped in your car and drove up there? Just like that?"

Yes, just like that, she wanted to say, but something warm and wet trickled down her shin, distracting her. She pointed the flashlight on her leg to investigate. Blood! The sight of blood (especially her own) made her light-headed. Allie took a shaky breath. "Are ghosts attracted to blood?"

"That's zombies. Or is it vampires? Yep, it's definitely vampires. Wait. Did you say blood? Allie, whose blood are we talking about here?"

"Mine. I kind of cut my knee going in through the window." No need to mention the knee incident had occurred as a result of Allie's own clumsiness. Of course, that clumsiness had been caused by Jen's poorly timed phone call, but Allie wasn't one to point fingers.

"Ooh! You broke into the building? How very Woodward and Bernstein of you. But if you get arrested, don't expect me to bail you out of jail."

Jen was right. Allie didn't normally go this far to get a story. Yes, pleasing her editor was a large part of her motivation, but the fact was, despite its run down appearance, there was something about the old building that called out to her.

"The thing is, I have a hot date tonight and driving all the way up to Whispering Pines to save your butt isn't on my agenda," Jen said.

A hot date at this time of night was code for a booty call from Jen's boyfriend, Sean. For the first time this evening Allie was glad she wasn't home tucked away in bed. She wasn't sure what Jen and Sean were into, but they'd met at a Tarzan yodeling contest. If Sean spent the night, it meant Allie didn't get any sleep unless she wore earplugs.

"It's Whispering Bay," Allie said, unable to stop from correcting Jen. Allie hadn't called Whispering Bay home since she was eighteen, but the only family she had in the world lived here, and she still visited frequently enough that she was on a first name basis with most of the town's population. It was only natural she felt protective of the place.

"Whatever. You're so uptight. You know, you could use a hot date yourself. Hey, maybe the ghost is male," Jen added.

"And probably like eighty-years-old. This place used be a senior center. Plus, I kinda like my guys alive.

Jen, listen, I really have to go—"

"Alive does come in handy. So...the reason I called is we just got a notice saying our electricity is going to be turned off in two days. Didn't you pay the bill?"

"I thought it was your month to pay the bill."

"No, I paid it last month."

Allie was positive she'd paid the electricity last month, but without checking her online bank statement, she had no proof.

"I'd pay it, but I'm kind of short," Jen said. "Plus, you know, it is your turn."

_Argh_. Why did money (or the lack of it) always seem to pop up at the most inconvenient times? At this point in her life, Allie should have been well on track with Life Goal Number Three—a permanent job with benefits. But Life Goal Number Two had taken her longer (and been more expensive) than she'd originally thought, putting her woefully behind schedule. Which meant she was still freelancing, which meant she lived article-to-article.

Translation: Paycheck-to-paycheck.

Hence, she had to supplement her income with the second oldest profession known to womankind. Waitressing. Weekdays, she lived her dream job. Weekends? Not so much. But the tips she made waiting tables at The Blue Monkey, a hipster Vegan restaurant in downtown Tampa, had saved her carnivorous butt from starving on more than one occasion. There was no way around it. She'd have to transfer money from her dwindling savings and pray she didn't break her neck trying to crawl back out the window.

The sound of crunching gravel made Allie stop in her tracks. "Jen," she whispered into the phone, "I think I just heard something."

"Like what? Moaning? Chains rattling?" Jen's voice hitched with excitement. "Sounds like my kind of place. And why are you talking so low? I can barely make out what you're saying. It's not like the ghost couldn't hear you if it wanted to. It can probably even read your thoughts."

If Allie hadn't been so creeped out she would have laughed. "What are you, a ghost expert?" Another sound. This time it did sound like a chain rattling.

Blimey. A ghost after Jen's own kinky heart!

"Jen, I gotta go—"

"But the electric bill—"

"I promise I'll pay it tomorrow online."

"Okay. Awesome! So, good luck with that ghost. And don't do anything I wouldn't do!" She hung, up leaving Allie to wonder exactly what those last words meant.

Keeping herself as still as possible, Allie slipped the cell phone back into her shorts pocket. The building was now eerily quiet. No gravel crunching. No chains rattling. Had she imagined it? Probably. Allie let out a pent up breath. She didn't know whether she was relieved or disappointed. Both, maybe.

She waited a few minutes so that her vision adjusted to the darkness. Years ago, she'd been inside this building. Buela had brought her here after Allie had graduated high school, proud of the granddaughter about to go off to college that she'd raised almost single-handedly. Back then the senior center had been alive. Full of noise and energy. Now, the place just looked sad. Empty, with bits of scattered trash strewn on the floor.

Something small and dark scurried past her.

Correction: Not exactly empty.

Cockroaches!

The place was probably crawling with them. Allie was a native Floridian, so she should be used to all manner of creepy crawly things, but sorry, she'd never get used to cockroaches. Best to get this over with as quickly as possible.

"Hello?" she called out. Unable to help herself, she giggled. More out of nerves than a comedic response, because it wasn't as if she expected someone to answer.

A chain rattled—louder than before—followed this time by a distinct clang.

This was no product of her imagination.

Her mouth went dry. She squeezed the flashlight in her hand, nearly cutting off the blood flow to her fingers.

She tried to concentrate on the rattling sound but all she could hear was the soft whoosh of waves lapping onto a beach. Was her mind playing tricks with her? Because it would be impossible to hear the ocean from inside the building.

Then she remembered the window she'd crawled through.

Of course. The sound was coming though the now open window.

A rush of air swept through her. But instead of the cool night air she'd expected, this was a warm tropical breeze. A pleasant smell assailed her nostrils. Slightly sweet, and vaguely comforting. Lemons, maybe? Her arms erupted in goose bumps. But strangely enough, she was neither cold nor frightened.

A door slammed behind her. She spun around just in time to see a shadow dash across the room. The warm lemony smell vanished, replaced by a voice inside telling her that she was in big trouble. The door was padlocked. Which meant that whatever had gotten inside the building had bypassed the lock. Which was...impossible.

Allie tried to scream, but her throat wasn't cooperating.

Luckily, her legs weren't so chicken shit.

She turned to run but something charged at her, smacking her solidly in the chest. The air flew from her lungs. Her last thought before hitting the floor was that ghosts weren't supposed to make physical contact. They needed Whoopi Goldberg for that.

She struggled to roll out from under whatever had attacked her, but it was no use. The thing on top of her was composed of solid bone and muscle.

"Hold still," hissed a deep voice. For a second there, it sounded like... No, that too was impossible. "I told you the next time I caught you breaking into the place I'd call the cops."

Allie nearly swallowed her tongue. She knew that voice. Hot, dark, male. And definitely alive.

"I think you have me confused with someone else," she gasped.

The body above her stilled. Did he recognize her voice, too?

A light shone directly in her face, temporarily blinding her. Enough was enough.

She found the flashlight clutched in her hand and aimed it in retaliation at the two-hundred-pound mass pinning her to the ground. "Hey, can you stop with the Dragnet treatment?"

It was almost worth being crushed to death to see the incredulous look on Tom Donalan's face. "Allie? Allie Grant? What the hell are you doing here?"

"First things first. I'll drop my flashlight if you drop yours. And if it's not too much to ask, maybe you could get off me while you're at it? You're not exactly made of air, you know." He jumped off her like she was on fire.

After a few long and tortuous moments, he reluctantly extended his hand. Considering that she was flat on her ass, she should have taken it. But it would be a snowy day in Florida before she accepted help from Tom Donalan. She pushed herself up on her elbows and rose as gracefully as possible under the circumstances.

It had been twelve years and two months since she last saw, talked, or even thought about Tom Donalan. Not that Allie had been counting. Six hours ago he'd been nothing more than an unpleasant memory. Like a pimple on the chin on prom night, or a lost library book racking up fines. Okay, so maybe she had thought about him some.

The fact was she couldn't cross over the Choctawhatchee Bay Bridge without thinking of him, and she couldn't get to Whispering Bay without crossing that bridge. Hence, he was the first thought (regret) she had whenever she drove home for a visit. The last she'd heard of Tom Donalan he'd made it big in Atlanta. Some kind of hot shot in the construction business, recently divorced from his perfect hometown sweetheart.

Allie tried not to stare, but it was impossible. This certainly was not the Tom Donalan of her fantasies. The ones she had (only occasionally) after eating too much Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey. In that world Tom Donalan had a beer belly, was bald, and missing a couple of front teeth. A lot of deterioration for only twelve years, but, hey, a girl could dream, right?

This Tom Donalan, on the other hand, had far superseded the promise made by his high school boyish good looks. Tall. Broad shouldered. With a full head of dark blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He stood there staring at her with his arms crossed over his chest like he was Captain Friggin' America in charge of the planet.

He looked angry, which didn't make sense. She was the wronged party here! He'd practically attacked her, for Pete's sake.

She took a deep breath and tried to act as if running into her ex was an everyday occurrence. "Well, well, well, if it isn't Tom Donalan. I see you still have all your teeth."

He blinked and shook his head. "What?"

_I see you still have all your teeth_.

Argh!

Of all the Tom Donalan scenarios she'd played in her head over all the years, this was not what she was supposed to say to him. She was supposed to be witty. Charming. He was supposed to be dumbstruck by her brilliance. He was at a loss for words, all right.

Allie pasted a smile to her face and tried again. "You need to be more specific. What, as in, what's my favorite color, or what do I have programmed on my DVR for tomorrow night, or what—"

"What, as in, what are you doing inside this building?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I could ask you the exact same question. Where'd you come from anyway?"

"I was driving by and I saw a car in the parking lot. So I stopped to investigate. Now it's your turn. What are you doing back in town? I thought you lived in Tampa."

He knew where she lived? "I don't need a reason to come back home. Certainly not one I need to run by you, anyway. And I thought you lived in Atlanta."

"Things change," he said.

"Right. Things change."

"So are you going to answer me or not?"

The way he stared at her made Allie squirm. Instinctively, she went to run a hand through her hair, then remembered that she'd pulled it back in a ponytail. She didn't need a mirror to know exactly what she looked like. Ratty shorts, skinned up knee, no makeup. Her When-I See-Tom-Donalan-Again-Revenge-Fantasy was officially zero-for-two now.

"I don't have to explain myself to you," she said.

He shrugged in a way that made her want to punch him. How could she have ever thought the two of them were kindred spirits?

"Suit yourself," Tom said. "But you have about three minutes before the cops show up, and if you don't want me to press charges you better have a damn good reason for breaking into my building."

_Copyright 2015 by Maria Geraci. All rights reserved_.

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# Tonya Kappes

TONYA KAPPES

Tonya Kappes has written more than fifteen novels and four novellas, all of which have graced numerous bestseller lists including USA Today. Best known for stories charged with emotion and humor and filled with flawed characters, her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews. She lives with her husband, two very spoiled schnauzers, and one ex-stray cat in northern Kentucky. Now that her boys are teenagers, Tonya writes full-time but can be found at all of her guys' high school games with a pencil and paper in hand. More than anything, Tonya loves to connect with readers, with a loyal 'street team' of fans and followers on social media. Be sure to check out her Facebook, Twitter, blog and newsletter!

tonyakappes.com

Just One

I'm not like most authors. I didn't come out of the womb wanting to be a writer. In fact, I didn't even like to read, giving my parents fits when I didn't do book reports or required reading. But I did okay. I graduated from college, got married, had a baby boy, got divorced and got depressed.

My ex husband's custody was every other weekend and every other weekend I found myself lying in bed, not eating, not sleeping, not among the living until my son came home. I had gone to my doctor and begged to be put on medication. She refused, telling me I needed a hobby. During this time knitting was becoming very popular and a yarn shop had opened near me. If I could've burnt the steel needles I had bought, I would have. That hobby lasted three week and I was still depressed.

The only thing I knew to do was go back to school and get my masters. School had always come pretty easy to me and any type of studying I needed to do never took up the entire weekend while my son was gone.

One of my fellow classmates asked me to join her book club. I laughed and informed her I was not a reader. But she insisted I needed to get out among the living and I insisted I was fine and politely declined her book club offer. She was relentless and even offered to have it during the weekend my son was gone to his dad's. She continued to ask me and I continued to decline until she told me they had chocolate and wine. I asked what time.

I went and was pleasantly surprised at how book club worked. I had no idea the first twenty minutes was spent waiting on every member to get there, the next five minutes we discussed the book, the next book was selected, and the next hour was spent catching up on the local gossip. Book club was kind of fun.

I actually got out of bed the next day and went to the bookstore to just buy the next book, though I had no intentions of reading it. In fact, the book sat on my nightstand until my son went to his father's on his next visit.

I was back in depression mode, lying in bed when I looked over at the book. After staring at if for three hours, I picked it up and read one page, then two, then three. The next thing I knew, I was fifty pages in and had gotten lost into a world other than my own. I even found myself laughing out loud a few times and forgetting about my own hurt.

The fifty pages turned into one-hundred. One-hundred pages turned into me finishing the book, getting out of bed, driving to the bookstore and purchasing another book by the same author. I found myself unable to put books down. I went to the bookstore on a regular basis. I even got a library card. I was discussing books with co-workers, friends and even exchanging books.

The world of fiction had become my hobby, my drug. And when my son was gone to his father's I no longer stayed in bed. I was walking and functioning among the living. My world had become a whole lot brighter from reading.

Fast forward a few years, I'm remarried with four little boys and still in book club. I was happy. Then...my husband realized my spending for books had exceeded my spending on my shoes. He picked up one of the books I was reading and he began to read it. For twenty minutes, while I get ready to host book club, he read the book. He sat the book on the kitchen table and leaned against the counter with his arms folded. He told me that I could write a better book. I laughed, shooing him out of the kitchen and get the boys out of the house so I could host book club.

The book club members came and we did our twenty minutes of waiting until others showed up, five minutes of discussing the book, picking the next one, and the next hour catching up. During this time, Cincinnati (a stones throw from my home in Kentucky) was having some rioting in the downtown area of Over The Rhine. We were discussing it and I was telling them the riots saddened me because I had fond memories of Over The Rhine because my Great Aunt Grace had owned and lived in an apartment building there in the 50's, 60's and 70's.

Aunt Grace was eccentric. She was fun and her life was true to the saying: truth is stranger than fiction. I told my book club members some of my stories about my eccentric Aunt.

One of the book club members told me that I should write a book about my Aunt Grace because I could tell a good story. I laughed, but her words and my husband's words became tattooed in my brain.

After the book club members left, I went up stairs and woke up my husband asking him if what he had said earlier about me writing a book was true. He said yes. Then I asked him if he thought I could help one reader come out of depression like books had done for me. He said yes.

That was all it took. I never looked back. Twenty-six novels later, I'm a full time author with four teenage boys (ages 21, 17,17, and 15). My novels have graced the USA Today Bestsellers lists, Amazon top 100, Amazon Movers and Shakers, and International Bestselling lists along with many prestigious awards.

Those aren't my greatest accomplishments and isn't what validates me as an author. It's the reader emails I receive telling me how I have helped them in their daily struggles by giving them a world to escape. I started this career with one thing in mind, the reader and helping them. I continue to keep that as my goal and hope to continue to help them, give them hope, and make them smile.

I'm thrilled to be the newest member of the Girlfriends Book Club! I promise my posts won't be nearly this long all the time, but I had a lot to say....after all, I am a writer. *grin*

First published on the GBC website on January 16,2015.

Practice What You Preach

Anyone who follows me on the internet or knows me in real life can tell you I'm a positive and upbeat person. I'm a glass is half full kind of gal. Of course I have had rejections and it hurts, but it's up to me and only me to how I react to those rejections.

Just like the rest of the girlfriends here on our blog, I was rejected so many times that I turned it into a game. When I'd send my manuscript off into the world of agents and editors, my kids and I would would shout out a number of how many agents/editors weren't GOOD ENOUGH for my story. Instead of saying I was REJECTED...I'd turn it around and say they couldn't handle me. Now that might sound a little arrogant and I'm far from arrogant. I have four boys and I was trying to teach them a lesson about persistence and staying positive.

I cringe when I hear people say "life is hard!" Life isn't hard, it's all in how you look it. Of course there are obstacles that get in our way, it's up to you to find out how to get around those obstacles. If you want something bad enough...you will keep at it.

I continued to write and write and get rejected from "experts". There is no better expert than readers and what readers will read and that was when I decided to self publish. It wasn't until I sold over 80k copies of my self published mystery novel, A GHOSTLY UNDERTAKING, over a couple months time did the "experts" deem me worthy of a traditional publishing contract. Did I deem them worthy of republishing my novel? I'm glad to say that A GHOSTLY UNDERTAKING along with three other books in the GHOSTLY SOUTHERN MYSTERY SERIES was bought by HarperCollins on my terms and my expertise I had gathered since self publishing for over three years.

My kids....well, they are go getters and glass is half full kinda of guys. They don't take rejections as a failure, they take rejections as a reason to hustle and keep going. Our oldest son took a dream and hustled through rejection, fear, and hundreds of kids to make his dream come true. We are proud parents of a college soccer player.

I'm also proud to say that my rejection and persistence paid off for me to realize my dream. Yesterday was the rebirth of my novel, A GHOSTLY UNDERTAKING, with a traditional publisher, HarperCollins. And now I have a whole new set of rejections that might come my way or do I? Nah...any negative I will turn into a positive and a teachable moment to make my next book release even better!

First published on the GBC website on February 25, 2015.

An Excerpt from CHECKERED CRIME by Tonya Kappes

(Mystery)

### CHAPTER ONE

"Thank God you're here," I hollered to Derek Smitherman who had his head stuck under the hood of a car, his usual position. I slammed the door of the old VW van. "Thanks for lunch." I waved off the guy I had hitched a ride with after our lunch date.

I adjusted my black wrap dress so it was wrapped in all the right places.

Contorting his body, Derek stood up and turned around. He took the dirty oily rag from the back pocket of his blue mechanic overalls and wiped his hands, leaving some smudging on them. He pushed the large-frame black glasses up on the bridge of his nose.

It was a shame he covered up that body; I bet every single woman in Walnut Grove, Kentucky would take their car to him for all of their repairs if he wore a white v-neck t-shirt and a pair of snug Wranglers. Most of the time women got lost in his steel-blue eyes, so bright against his black hair. But if they only knew what was underneath all the clothes...

For years Derek and I used to go skinny dipping in the river until one day our stares lingered a little too long, and we realized our bodies where no longer those of little kids. Derek had grown into a hot dude right before my eyes and I never saw it coming. Too bad I could only think of him like a brother.

"I need your help." I stuck my hands out to the side like I was on a balance beam, trying to keep my five-foot-eight frame upright on my high-heels because the loose pieces of the beat-up concrete walkway made me a little wobbly. I grabbed the lanyard from around my neck with my Porty Morty's ID stuck in the clear pouch and threw it in my bag. "I'm not going to need that any time soon. What about that help?"

I hopped onto a piece of concrete slab that was mostly intact, once again having to readjust the wrap dress.

"I learned my lesson a long time ago that before I agree to help you with anything that I better have all the details of what it is you want." His brows frowned, his eyes narrowed. "Every single detail."

"Simple. I need a car." I took the toe of my heel and batted around a piece of loose concrete to avoid all of the questions that were going to follow.

"No way, no how am I going to help you out." Derek looked over my shoulder at the beat-up van. His five o'clock shadow was a little thicker than normal.

The gears grinded before the driver of the VW gave us the peace sign and took off.

I took a couple steps forward and rubbed the back of my hand down his chin.

"No wonder you can't get any ladies. Clean yourself up." I messed up his hair.

He jerked his head back. He quirked his eyebrow questioningly.

"Who was that?" He asked in a "good ole boy" voice and jerked his head to the right, getting a better view of the VW.

"Gary...um...Barry I think." I shrugged off his interrogation. "Lunch Date Dot Com."

"Good grief." Derek shook his head. "I'd rather stay single."

Lunch Date Dot Com was a dating website where you met for lunch on your lunch breaks. I didn't even bother to read the guy's profile before I accepted his lunch offer because I was starving and I needed a ride to come out here and see Derek.

"So what about that car?" I wiggled my brows that were in desperate need of a wax.

Given my current money status, I was going to have to settle for Trixie's hot pink jeweled tweezers she picked up on her weekly run to the Dollar Store.

"I don't think so." Derek resumed his position under the hood of the elevated car. "Besides, where is your company car from Porty Morty's?"

"I got fired," I murmured. I adjusted the tight black Diane Von Furstenberg dress I had picked up from the local Salvation Army. Wrapping a piece of my shoulder-length honey-colored hair behind my ear, I batted my grey eyes and used fifteen hundred dollars cash to fan my face. "I've got fifteen hundred dollars. You can use it to fix that little concrete problem you have." I pointed to the chipped-up material.

"Laurel London, did you say fired?" Derek swiftly turned back around and waved a wrench in the air until he saw the cash. There was a little twinkle in his eye. I knew Derek like the back of my hand. He loved cash just as much as I did.

I waved the dough under his nose. "That is why I need a new car."

When I heard a faint sniff as the cash passed his left nostril, I knew he was on the line. It was time for me to hook him and reel him in.

"Trixie will skin my hide if I take that stolen cash."

"Stolen?" Okay. I was officially offended. "You think I stole this money? I want you to know," I jerked my shoulders back and cocked my chin in the air. His eyes were on the cash. "This is guilt money from Morty. That no good sonofa...," I muttered a few curse words under my breath.

"See, why do you have to go around talking like that?" Derek asked. His face contorted. "That along with your...um...sticky fingers don't make me want to do any sort of favors for you anymore."

"Sticky fingers? Geesh." I threw my hands in the air. "When is this town ever going to get over that?"

"Over it?" He laughed. "Over it?"

"Yeah, heard you the first time." I spoke softly and narrowed my eyes.

"You have pick-pocketed every single person in the town, not to mention how you hacked into the Wilsons' accounts after they took you in."

"Oh that. Phish!" I gestured. "That was seven years ago. I was fifteen years old. Besides, it wasn't like you weren't right there with me." I tapped my temple and then brushed a strand of my hair behind my ear and again fanned myself with the money. Clearly the sticky, humid weather wasn't doing me any favors. "I clearly remember you threading the fishing line on the Quantum Rod and Reel you had on your Christmas list. I played Santa, that's all." I shrugged, recalling all the crappy Christmas presents the orphanage gave all of us year after year and when I had decided to use the Wilsons' credit card to buy all the orphans real Christmas presents.

"It was your chance to get out of the big house and you blew it." Derek shook his head. He put the wrench in his back pocket and crossed his arms in front of him. "Anyone would have given their arm to get out of there and have a real Christmas for once."

True, true. I didn't have a leg to stand on with his argument.

I admired Derek. He got out of the orphanage with a great job and was working on his dream to become a police officer. He was almost finished with night classes at the University of Louisville.

"You didn't tell me the truth about those Christmas presents or I would've never shown up to meet you." Derek's lip turned up in an Elvis kind of way exposing a small portion of his pearly white teeth and deepening the dimple on his cheek. A distant twinkle flickered in his blue eyes. "You sure were believable when you told me they bought all the presents for the orphanage. Genius in fact." He pointed his finger at me. "I credit you for me wanting to be a cop. Since I know how you work, I'm going to be able to figure out how criminal minds work."

"Ha, ha." I slowly clapped my hands. "Very funny," I sneered.

"That was then." I waved the money again. "Before I made myself an honest girl and got a big girl job."

"Getting fired from Porty Morty's is a big girl job?" Derek chuckled. "How did you get fired from selling port-a-lets?"

I wasn't sure, but I detected a little hint of sarcasm in his tone.

"Morty let me go. Something about overhead and people aren't using port-a-potties anymore." My mouth dipped down.

"Where are the people pooping?" Derek's nose curled up.

"Got me." I shrugged. "Anyway, I need a set of wheels. That old 1977 beat-up Caddy was Morty's. He let me borrow it because my job was to get all of those outdoor venues to use Porty Morty's at their events. He made me give it back. I need a new set of wheels to find a job before Trixie finds out. She is going to kill me when I tell her Morty let me go."

Kill might be a strong word to use, but she wasn't going to be happy. Trixie had been in charge of the orphanage for years. It just so happened that when I turned eighteen, the state shut down the orphanage forcing Trixie to retire.

She said I needed guidance and in no formal sort of way she became my guardian. The only mother figure I'd known. In truth, I think she was really worried about me and wanted to make sure I did well. She was the first person to ever see potential in me. Then and there I'd decided I was going to make something of myself. She got me the job with Morty and I'd been working there ever since, bringing home a steady paycheck. Not much. But it was reliable. I was able to get a studio apartment, though my rent was always a tad bit late.

"I love you like a sis' and all, but how am I going to do that?"

"You got all those cars out there." I pointed to the field filled with abandoned cars that Derek used for parts. The grass had grown up around the tires which were probably dry-rotted, and they all had a little rust. Nothing a set of new tires and paint job couldn't fix.

"Those old clunkers? Nah, I don't have anything that's reliable and good enough to drive." He bit the side of his lip.

I waved the money again. "Morty called it compensation." Compensation my ass. It was guilt money. "It's all I have to get me a car. Come on. I've been on the straight and narrow for five years. You know it, and I know it. All I need is a car to get around so I can get another job."

Jobs were slim pickings in our little town of twelve hundred. Louisville was only thirty minutes away and surely I could score some sort of job there.

"I don't know." Derek shook his head. "There really isn't anything out there that fifteen hundred will fix."

I put my hand up to my brows to cover the sun beaming down and scanned the field. There had to be something.

"What about that one?" I pointed to the black-and-white-colored one to the far right. Sort of off by itself.

"That old '62 Plymouth Belvedere?" Derek laughed so hard, he was hyperventilating.

"Yeah. What's wrong with it?" There was no humor in my voice. "Other than the faded sign on the side."

"Come on." He tugged his head to the side. "The engine may need a good clean up."

"Okay." Like I knew what that meant. I followed him to the edge of the grass and stopped to take my shoes off. The heels would've gotten stuck in the ground and I had to keep them clean. It was going to be a long time before I bought any new shoes. "Oh." My face contorted. Up close I could tell the old Belvedere had seen better days.

I swiped my hand across the dusty old door.

"Taxi?" I laughed, never recalling a taxi service in Walnut Grove.

"I got that when the police academy tore down the old building on the edge of town." He pointed to me. Derek was also training to be a deputy with the sheriff's department. On Monday and Wednesday he drove to the University of Louisville for the police academy. "Remember? I told you about how they had us running around the old building and things popped out at us and we had to assess the situation before we pulled the trigger."

Vaguely I remember him saying something about it.

"Still. I'm serious, Derek. I need a ride." I tapped the car. "Even if it does say taxi."

"Can you imagine if you drove that thing down Main Street." He slapped his knee. "Everyone would know you were crazy, not just wonder."

"We could repaint it," I suggested.

"We? We?" He gestured between the two of us. "You mean me."

"Come on," I begged. "You are my only hope of not letting Trixie down. You don't want to do that, do you? After she has done for us. This place." I pointed to his garage.

Trixie owned the property and when Derek graduated from mechanic school, she gave him the run-down building that he had turned into his business.

"Oh." He shook his finger at me. "You are good at playing the guilt card. I worked hard for this place. I went to work every morning before school and every day after school."

"Yeah, but Trixie gave you the car to do it." I reminded him of her other good deed.

His chest heaved up and down as he let out a heavy sigh. He knew I had him.

"The only real problem with it is the rust." He rubbed his hands along the side of the car and walked back to the bumper. "It was garage kept and it has low mileage. I probably should have covered it with a tarp or something, but I thought I'd be using it for parts. I suppose it would look fine if you painted it."

"You can do that for me right?" I squinted to keep the sun out of my eyes. The skies were blue and the sun was bright.

"No. I don't do paint," he protested.

"I bet you could." I tilted my head around the edge of the car to see the other side.

"Laurel, you exhaust me." He bit the side of his lip.

I could tell he was thinking about it so I put the unexplained shadow behind me and batted my lashes. I put my hands together in a little praying way and mouthed please.

"Fine." He jammed his hands in the pockets of his overalls. "It's not going to be perfect," he warned.

"I don't care." I smiled from ear to ear. I held the money out in front of me.

"Nope. I'm not taking the only money you have." He shoved my hand back toward me. "Consider it an early Christmas gift."

"You do love me." I jumped up and down before throwing my arms around his neck.

"No. I love that Quantum Rod and Reel still." He gave me a slight hug back.

Copyright 2013 by Tonya Kappes. All rights reserved.

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# Leslie Langtry

LESLIE LANGTRY

Leslie Langtry is the author of the Merry Wrath Mysteries, Bombay's Greatest Hits series, The Adulterer's Unofficial Guide to Family Vacations, The Hanging Tree Tales as Max Deimos and several books she hasn't finished yet, because she's very lazy. Leslie loves puppies and cake (but she will not share her cake with puppies) and thinks praying mantids make everything better. She lives with her family and assorted animals in the Midwest, where she is currently working on her next book and trying to learn to play the ukulele. Leslie's favorite color is orange and her favorite flavor is sugar.

www.leslielangtry.com

The Funny Thing About Rejection...

Rejection is the subject of the week here at Girlfriends. It's something every writer fears, ranking right up there with the fear of our fingers suddenly falling off for no apparent reason. We deal with rejection all the time: rejection from agents who don't like our story (because they're afraid of rejection from publishers); rejection from publishers who say it'll never sell (because they're afraid of rejection from reviewers and readers); rejection from reviewers – whether it's the New York Times or just a reader on Amazon.com (they really aren't afraid of anything – which kind of sucks); & rejection from readers who don't like a new direction we've taken or that we killed off a beloved character (because they feel rejected by us).

My father said something about rejection that really stuck with me. He told me about Ricky Nelson and the song _Garden Party_. The singer goes to a garden party where he wants to play new songs, but the guests only want his old hits. The line, "...you can't please everyone, so you have to please yourself" really rings true. By the way – this is a far better listen than his single on cheating, _Travelin' Man._ Oh. I guess I just rejected him there. See how easy it is?

I, as a rule, try to avoid rejection – because it makes me eat large quantities of comfort food. I don't always read reviews and I have, over the years, learned to laugh at the really bad ones. In fact, I got one the other day where the reader didn't like my well-labeled romantic comedy because, "I'm a man. This is a book for girls." But I still feel that little twinge at first when I realize someone doesn't like me, because WHY DON'T THEY LIKE ME???

Oh well. Everyone gets rejected. We've all heard the stories about Harry Potter and _The Help_ getting numerous rejections before going on to fame and fortune (btw – I would like to experience that kind of 'rejection' please). That's just how it is in a creative field. If you're going to put something out there – you have to understand that some people will not like it. In fact, some people will hate it. And they'll tell you how much they hate it too (because they're done feeding their 32 cats and they have a little time on their hands).

None of this will or should stop us from writing, because the voices in our head want OUT. So we keep at it, and know that rejection just comes with the territory...like the good stuff – including readers who love us.

And that's what it's really all about. Right?

First published on the GBC website on February 6, 2015

My Ideas – And No, They Don't Come From Drinking Binges...

Years ago, at a Romance Writers of America conference, a best-selling author (I forgot who – but then sometimes I forget my middle name...) said, _"Where do I get my ideas? If I knew, I wouldn't tell you, because then you'd go there and get them."_

This is probably the number one, most asked question for authors at speaking events and signings (outside of _'where's the bathroom?'_ ). I guess it's a totally natural question. But it is a frustrating one to answer. I'm not sure any author can tell you. It's not like a real place, _"I get all my ideas from Saskatchewan,"_ or _"I get all my ideas at the Dollar Store."_

And yet the first word, _"Where,"_ implies that a location is involved somehow. And it implies that we get all of our ideas at one place. Which would be silly, because then we'd be making constant trips to Saskatchewan. Who has time for that? And writers aren't magical unicorns (although that would be cool) who can just conjure up great ideas with a shake of our lustrous manes (they always have lustrous manes).

So let me tell you how I've gotten some of my ideas:

For my first book – 'SCUSE ME WHILE I KILL THIS GUY, I was actually working on something entirely different (don't ask – it was dreadful). Then one morning I woke up with this dream about a widowed, soccer mom assassin whose family are all assassins. The main character, Gin Bombay (she came with that name) started talking and wouldn't shut up until I sat down and wrote the whole first chapter. So, I guess a dream is the answer there.

For SEX, LIES & FAMILY VACATIONS, the idea came from a news article that said after the 9/11 attacks, a large number of people were finding their high school and college sweethearts and reconnecting. The writer suggested that in a time of terror, those people were reaching out for something familiar that they knew well. I have no idea if that was a solid reason, but it gave me the idea for two, former college lovers who find themselves next door to each other in a hotel at a theme park. We'll give that idea to the newspapers.

For FOUR KILLING BIRDS, a holiday short story series I did with 11 other authors last year, I was handed my idea, sorta. We each took one of the 12 Days of Christmas. Only I wasn't paying attention (I do that sometimes) and ended up with what was left, Four Calling Birds. So, I did what any writer would do and googled, "World's Deadliest Bird." And there I found the cassowary – a kind of killer, prehistoric ostrichy bird that lives in the jungles of Australia. I built the story around that. Chalk that one up to the internet, I guess.

For MERIT BADGE MURDER, a new book in a new series coming soon, the idea came from a suggestion by Gemma Halliday – who wanted me to develop a new project that didn't involve characters who kill people for money. She said she loved the assassin/Girl Scout leader, Gin Bombay and what about me doing something similar (just not so killyish) with a new character. So, I sat down in my office and by the end of the day, I had Merry Wrath, an unfortunately outed CIA agent, licking her wounds in her small hometown while leading a troop of second-grade Scouts. Gemma and my own brainstorming win that one.

Okay – so none of that helps because it's not Saskatchewan and it's not an easy answer. But there are no easy answers. At least, not with me. Someone else may actually get their ideas from Saskatchewan. Or they might secretly be a magical unicorn.

But I doubt it.

First published on the GBC website on September 4, 2014

An Excerpt from MERIT BADGE MURDER by Leslie Langtry

(Cozy Mystery/Humor)

### CHAPTER ONE

It's not every day you find al-Qaeda's number four operative dead in a Girl Scout camp in Iowa.

The body was twisted unnaturally in the rope course's spiderweb element that consisted of a large wood frame crisscrossed with elastic bungee cords. Sadly, it was my troop's favorite thing to do at camp. Now I had to disappoint them. I hated disappointing them.

A man hung there. He had been in his twenties and of Middle Eastern descent. The neck was clearly broken before he was placed into the ropes at Camp Singing Bird. He looked surprised to find himself here. I'm sure the irony would be lost on him that in death, he really was surrounded by seventy-two virgins. Did it matter that they were grade-schoolers, I wondered? Maybe that was just splitting hairs.

I would've been surprised too, had I not been through this kind of thing before. But I'd seen this stuff in Syria and Uzbekistan. Not in the placid, wooded hills of eastern Iowa.

And my second grade troop was due at any minute. I was pretty sure I couldn't pass this off as something adorable, like I had with the bats in Tinder Trails Cabin or the mice in the latrines. Troop Leader's Helpful Hint #1—if your Girl Scouts freak out upon meeting a bat/mouse/wolf spider for the first time, tell them it's just a baby bat/mouse/wolf spider. Little girls are suckers for that, and soon what was scary is adorbs!—whatever that means.

I bent to take his pulse, just to make sure. Yup. He was dead. His glassy eyes were opened wide, and his mouth hung open. Dammit. I need this like I needed wet work in the slums of Rio.

The sounds of giggles and singing came from the trees just around the corner. Any minute the fourteen seven- and eight-year-old girls who called me their leader would appear. I was pretty sure I couldn't convince them that this dead terrorist was a cute, dead baby terrorist. I pulled the parachute I was going to use for games later out of my backpack and threw it over the spiderweb.

"Mrs. Wrath!" The girls squealed in unison before tackling me in a sticky group hug. Kelly, my co-leader, smirked at me. She could get away with smirking at me because she's known me since we were six-year-old scouts.

"Girls!" I gently pushed them away. "How many times do I need to tell you—it's Ms. Wrath. I'm not married." Of course, I knew the answer to this question. Ad infinitum. Meaning, they'd always call me Mrs. Any woman over the age of twenty-one in Iowa was Mrs. Clearly it was me who didn't get it.

"Mrs. Wrath?" The third Katelynn asked. Or was it the Kaitlin the Fourth? They all looked the same to me. And each one of them spelled their name a completely different way. Spy work had not prepared me for that.

"It's Ms. Wrath, Katelynn," I said with a smile. Leader Helpful Hint #2—when talking to little girls, always smile. They cry if you don't. I'm not kidding. You don't know real terror until you've stared at the watery eyes and rubbery bottom lip of a cute kid.

The second-grader looked confused for a moment, which was to be expected. "Okay. Mrs. Wrath?" she asked again.

I sighed. "Yes, Katelynn?"

"Why is the parachute over the spiderweb? And why is it all lumpy?"

Kelly squinted at the parachute, eyebrows knit together. She'd probably figure it out, being a nurse and all.

"The spiderweb is out of commission, girls," I announced, stepping between them and the dead man.

A chorus of complaints came from the little girls, and I held up my right hand in the universal Girl Scout symbol for silence. They quieted down immediately. I once again really wished I'd known about this trick when I was surrounded by FARC rebels in Colombia.

"Head on over to the Peanut Butter Pass. I think you're old enough for that one now," I said in a nice save worthy of someone of my caliber.

"YAY!" The girls exploded in shrieks and raced off to that element, leaving me in the dust.

Kelly narrowed her eyes. "They aren't old enough for the Peanut Butter Pass."

"You'd better get after them before they start scaling the rope, then. I'll be there in a second." I shoved her in the direction of the squealing herd before she could respond. "We can't leave them alone for a minute, you know."

Kelly gave me a weird look but took off after the troop. I turned back to the dead man in the parachute. It kind of looked like he was cocooned in the web—as if a giant spider had caught him, poisoned and wrapped him to save for later. If only that was what had really happened. No way I could get that lucky.

With a heavy sigh, I took out my cell phone to call the ranger. This was going to suck. You think the CIA is bad with paperwork? Langley (CIA headquarters near DC) has NOTHING on the Girl Scouts of America when it comes to filling out forms and accident reports in triplicate. Nothing.

My name is Fionnaghuala Merrygold Wrath Czrygy. And I'm a Girl Scout leader. Well, I used to be a covert operative in the CIA—a career that has remarkably prepared me well to lead Troop 0348. (And yes, you have to have a zero at the beginning—it's very important for some reason that no one can explain.) I was a CIA agent, that is, until I was unceremoniously and allegedly mistakenly outted by the Vice President of the United States' Chief of Staff.

That's right. I was outted. My name and photo were leaked to The New York Times "inadvertently." This is a fancy way to say that the Vice President was pissed off at my father, who was the head of the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, because he didn't back the Veep's re-election campaign (a fact even more curious because the VP was a Republican, and my dad was a Democrat). So, my name got leaked, and the Chief of Staff took the fall, and was fired the next day just before going to prison (and of course, pardoned later by the President).

I, however, was not in a cozy corner office in the White House with a nice view like he was when my name and face were broadcast live worldwide. I happened to be in Chechnya where, to my surprise, the rebels in the bar I frequented had internet and were devoted followers of the New York Times' online edition. (They also read Cosmo but that's a story for another day.) It took me forty-two hours, two gunfights, a strange encounter with an armed chicken, calling in fifteen favors that I'd been saving, and a rather dicey drive to Estonia in the back of a jeep with no shocks to get out of that mess.

Back in DC I testified before Congress, got a nice fat check from my boss at the CIA, along with a short letter explaining why I couldn't work there anymore, and just like that, I was out of a job and internationally infamous.

It was Dad's idea for me to change my appearance, use my middle name, take on my mother's maiden name, and move to my hometown in Iowa. Dad's name was Czrygy. So brunette, brown-eyed Finella (the true pronunciation of my name) Czrygy became blonde, blue-eyed (You have to love what they do with contact lenses these days.) Merry Wrath.

The sheriff and a few deputies arrived at camp half an hour after I'd called. I'd managed to get my troop back to the cabins without them seeing the dead guy, staunching their protests with promises that Kelly would make them endless s'mores in the middle of the day—something that would probably bite me in the ass later. The ranger—Bob Williamson—sat with me as we waited. He wasn't very happy to find a dead man tangled in his newly refurbished ropes course. That meant a lot of paperwork for him too.

"Huh," The sheriff said as he poked the dead body with his finger. He stood up and tried to tug his belt up over his beer belly with little success.

"So, what happened here?" he asked Bob.

I tried not to roll my eyes. We'd already told the sheriff that I'd been the one to find the body. But this old, redneck sheriff was only interested in what a man had to say.

Bob pointed at me. "Ask her. She found it."

I once again told the sheriff about how I'd found the body. I once again suggested that they comb the camp for whoever did this, since they were probably still around. And once again, the sheriff looked to Bob for answers.

"Is that right?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I have my troop to get back to." I left before I could see their responses. If the sheriff was going to write me off, I was done with him. Besides, this wasn't my problem anymore. I could care less what happened to the dead guy. I was off the clock permanently these days.

Back at our campsite, fourteen girls were bouncing off the walls after mainlining a LOT of sugar. Kelly gave me a glare that said I owed her big time.

With the possibility of a murderer running around camp, I decided our trip was over. Kelly and I packed up and called the other moms to help us carpool the thirty minute drive back home. The girls were too keyed up to even notice it was over until we arrived in my driveway. But by then, they had parents there ready to wrangle them into waiting cars.

Kelly and I watched and let out a very visible breath as the last girl was picked up.

"So, what the hell was that all about?" Kelly said as she led the way into my little house. Once inside, my friend and co-leader helped herself to a glass of wine and sat at my tiny breakfast bar.

"Dead guy," I muttered as I made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. We had tons of the stuff left over since we'd cut the camping trip short. Little girls love peanut butter. I had to admit— they really had something there.

Kelly nodded, "Yeah, I got that part. But why was there a dead guy?"

I shrugged, my mouth glued shut. "Don't know." Only it came out like, "nnnt no" due to the aforementioned peanut butter. I really shouldn't talk with my mouth full.

"You don't think it's a little odd that you retire from the CIA and a dead Middle Easterner shows up at Girl Scout Camp the same weekend you are there?" Kelly crossed her arms. I should never have told her, in that drunken haze, about my past. She waited. I'd have no chance to stall with another bite of sandwich.

I swallowed. "Yes. I think it's odd. But it might just be a coincidence." That was a lie. There was no way it was a coincidence. I mean seriously, al-Qaeda's Number Four? In Iowa? And me being former CIA? Not a chance.

Kelly studied me. "Are you going to be alright?"

I nodded. "I'll be fine. Don't worry about me." After all, I'd handled things like this before, on my own, and in a Third World country. No sweat. And this wasn't my problem anyway. Let the authorities take care of it. I didn't do that anymore.

Kelly drained her glass and walked to the door. She paused and looked around my little, beige living room.

"When are you going to get some drapes?" she asked, looking at the sheets I'd had hung in the windows. They had Dora the Explorer on them because I got them on sale. It had really seemed like a good idea at the time. I'd always thought Dora was undercover CIA, recruiting kids to be double agents.

I shrugged. "Soon? I just moved in, remember."

She laughed. "Yeah, one year ago. It's time you had drapes." And with that she was gone.

I leaned against the door and looked around my house. She was right. I didn't have any drapes. I had very little furniture. After being recruited by the CIA right out of college, I'd never really had a place with things like furniture and curtains. I kept a very sparse apartment in DC but spent most of my time in dingy hotel rooms and safe houses all over the world.

When I was "retired," I moved back to the small city my dad grew up in and bought the first house I looked at. This house. The realtor told me it was something called a "craftsman." It was small and quiet and had a nice little fenced in yard in back. I bought a little car to put in the little, attached garage. I bought groceries and paid the utilities. But furnishing it was completely out of my wheelhouse.

Instead, there was a green couch in the living room that I'd bought at a consignment store on impulse. A flat screen TV sat on the floor. The kitchen had a built-in breakfast bar, so I didn't think I really needed a table and chairs. I did buy an expensive queen-sized bed with a mattress made of something called "memory foam." Years of sleeping on floors and crappy mattresses got old quickly when I finally stayed in a five star hotel in DC while visiting Mom and Dad.

I knew I needed furniture and drapes and stuff. I just didn't know how to do it. Do you just go to a store and ask for drapes? Do you need measurements? Where do you measure from? And should they be beige like the walls and carpet or green like the couch?

Every time I thought about these things, I needed to go and lay down. But today was the day. Today, I'd think about getting drapes. I wandered over to the large, picture window and started examining it. Which is when I noticed the moving van across the street.

Huh. I didn't know my crazy-old-lady-cougar-neighbor had moved out. A U-Haul was backed up into her driveway, and men were unloading furniture. There was a lot of it too—tables, chairs, a desk, various lamps of various sizes, rugs, you name it—they had it. Must be a family or something.

I found myself strangely fascinated watching this whole bizarre process. For a brief second, I ran into my bedroom and got a pen and pad of paper. I needed to take notes on this. Maybe I could learn something.

Oooh! A potted tree! I liked that idea! I should do that. I made note of the stuff with great glee. The desk and desk chair was nice. I just used a laptop so I worked on the couch or in bed. But maybe it was time I put together an office.

Not that I had anything to do in it. I didn't have a job. I didn't need one. The settlement from the Agency would take care of me for at least the next ten years. The only thing I had was the Girl Scout troop that met every other week. Huh. I wondered if that was weird. Maybe I should have a job or a hobby or something. It seemed to be what normal people who hadn't previously been CIA operatives did.

A car pulled up in front of crazy-old-lady-cougar-neighbor's house but didn't pull into the driveway. I drew back into the shadows behind Dora and her monkey (who was clearly her case officer) and realized that curtains really might be a good idea after all. I'd have to get on it. But first I needed to check out the new people. Slouching behind the cover of the sheets, it kind of felt like the old days, spying on that politician in Spain or that drug runner in Colombia.

Whoever was in the car across the street wasn't in a hurry to step out. When I'd first moved into the neighborhood, I noticed people mowing their lawns, walking their kids to school, or walking their dogs, just doing normal things. Until day two. That's when I first saw her.

The woman had to be in her seventies, with bleached blonde hair up in a ponytail and a ton of makeup on. It was sixty-five degrees, and she was out mowing her lawn. In a bikini. I watched open-mouthed as she worked her way up and down the lawn, smiling and waving at any men who were out and about. She did not wave at the women. I also noticed that about halfway through the yard, she let both shoulder straps "accidentally" fall to her elbows.

She was in pretty good shape for an old lady. But the saggy skin and varicose veins were enough to make me want to go back undercover. For the first few weeks, I was fascinated. After a month, I wanted to burn the image from my brain. Forever. It was worse than some of the things I'd seen in the field. And that's saying something.

The black SUV with tinted windows finally moved forward up into the driveway. This was it—the big reveal. I slid back even farther into the Dora sheet/curtain. The driver-side door opened, and a man, maybe in his early thirties, stepped out. He stretched for a moment, then looked at the house.

Oh yeah, and he was GORGEOUS. Short, black hair, athletic build, handsome, boy-next-door face, and lean muscles in all the right places. He wore a fitted, black T-shirt and blue jeans. Was this my new neighbor? If so, the view just got a lot better.

I stared as he walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. He reached in and pulled out a large duffle bag. Slinging it oh-so-casually over his shoulder, he closed the door to the SUV and went into the house. His house. My new neighbor's and the possibly future Mr. Wrath's house.

The doorbell rang, and I jumped backward, tripping over my own feet and crashing into the green couch. What the hell? How did I miss someone coming to my own door? That was just bad spy craft, retired or not. I stumbled across the living room and looked out the window next to the door. Oh, my God.

"Hello Riley," I said as I opened the door, trying to act as if it was totally normal that my previous boss and handler was standing on my doorstep.

"Hey Wrath." Riley smiled lopsidedly. He was a very attractive man in his late thirties, with wavy, blond hair and deep blue eyes. I always thought he looked more like a surfer than a CIA case manager. I motioned for him to enter and followed him into my house.

He was standing in the entryway, staring at my living room. "Did you just move in here?" Riley frowned. "I thought you'd had this address for a while, but maybe I'm wrong." He knew he wasn't wrong. Riley was a notorious fact checker. He double-checked everything before he did anything. We called him "Nerd OCD Boy" behind his back.

I scowled. "No. I just haven't gotten around to decorating yet." Riley pissed me off. He always did. Even when he wasn't speaking, he usually irritated me. Still, he was a good guy to have in your corner when the chips were down and the Russians were fully armed outside your door.

Riley shrugged. He just stood there looking at me. Oh right. This was one of those host thingies that I had no experience with. I rarely had guests in my tenement in La Paz or my yurt in Mongolia.

"Come into the kitchen. Can I get you some coffee?" I didn't really have coffee. Never touched the stuff. I was more of a tea drinker. Ninety-percent of the world drank tea—well, at least the places I'd been stationed in did. So I drank tea.

Riley followed me into the kitchen and climbed up on one of the breakfast bar stools. "Nothing for me, thanks." He grinned at me, and I felt my hackles rise. "Although I must admit—it is interesting to see you being so..." He waved his arms around. "Domestic."

"Fuck you, Riley. What are you doing here?" I asked as I got out the bottle of wine Kelly had opened earlier and poured myself a glass. CIA case officers never checked up on retirees. Something was up.

"Dead Ahmed," he answered. "Found in your neighborhood. What's up with that?"

Riley rarely messed around. He always got right to the point. Of course he'd notice a dead terrorist showing up where I was in Iowa. Any good employee of "The Company" would.

"Oh right," I said, looking off into space as if I just remembered the dead al-Qaeda operative at Girl Scout camp. "Him."

Riley nodded, "Right. Him. Ahmed Maloof. Why was he there?"

I shrugged, "Don't know and don't care. Not my problem. Not anymore, at least." I took a gulp of wine and pointed at him. "I don't work for you guys. I'm retired. Remember?"

Riley smiled his easy, surfer smile. He really was cute, if you liked that California golden boy look, that is. "You can't be surprised I'm here, Finn." He said.

"Actually, I am." That wasn't entirely true. It was only a matter of time before he or someone like him showed up. "I had nothing to do with it. And don't call me Finn. I'm Merry now."

I started working with Riley ten years ago. Our first assignment together was in China. I'd thought he was cute back then. But then I discovered that Riley was a serial lady-killer. I think I found him in bed with women more than a dozen times. The attraction wore thin after that.

My former boss held my gaze for a moment. He was reading me. Trying to figure me out. Riley had the reputation of being a sort of mind reader. He was very good at it.

"Actually," he said slowly, "we think you did have something to do with it. I've been sent to investigate."

I slapped the breakfast bar hard. "Are you serious? You think I was involved? Why in hell would I do that? I got kicked out of Langley. Or did you forget that?"

"I didn't forget that, Finn," Riley answered, ignoring my request for him to call me Merry, "and personally, I don't think you killed Ahmed. But I do think there's a connection."

"There's no connection, Riley. I've been out of the agency for a year now. And I haven't worked the Middle East in a long, long time. I barely knew the guy." Uh-oh. I'd slipped up there. Maybe I should quit with the wine.

Riley grinned, "That's right. You barely knew him. But you did know him. And that makes you a person of interest."

Dammit! You make one mistake with a terrorist years ago, and nobody lets you forget it, ever! How the hell was I supposed to know my driver in Kabul was Ahmed's brother? The Kabul Office should've known that before they hired him. Anyway, I was a professional, and I was retired. Enough of this crap.

"You need to leave now, Riley, before I get mad and get my ice pick. Remember how good I am with an ice pick?" My voice dripped with fury. And the ice pick thing was just thrown in to aggravate him. I was hell on Earth with an ice pick, and he'd once seen the results of my work. I was also good with a shotgun, and throwing knives, and once I did this thing with a didgeridoo that would probably be classified as a serious violation of the Geneva Convention—but that's another story for another time.

Riley rose to his feet, placing his hands defensively in front of him. "Fine. I'll go." He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a blank piece of paper with a phone number on it. A local number. Damn it.

"I'll be staying at the Radisson. Call me when you want to talk like a normal person." He set the slip of paper on the breakfast bar before heading for the front door. He turned in the doorway and looked at me.

"You know, Finn, you really should get some drapes." Then with the flash of his oh-too-white smile, he left, closing the door behind him.

Perfect.

_Copyright 2014 by Leslie Langtry_. _All rights reserved_.

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# Leslie Lehr

LESLIE LEHR

_Leslie Lehr, prizewinning author, essayist, and screenwriter, is the Novel Consultant for Truby Writers Studio. Her new ebooks, Wife Goes On and Wife Goes On ...and Laughs, follow her literary thriller, What A Mother Knows, and three nonfiction books. Her essays appear in the New York Times, Huffington Post, and anthologies including_ _Mommy Wars_ _. A graduate of the USC School of Cinematic Arts with an MFA from Antioch University, she's taught at the Writers Program at UCLA and is a member of WGA, Women in Film, PEN, Authors Guild, Women's Leadership Council, and contributes to the series "Now Write."_

www.leslielehr.com

Call Me Crazy

One of the main reasons I write is to get the crazy out. I'm not just talking about wild ideas, rants about the universe, or a need to share experiences. No. I am talking about getting to say and do all the things I would never say or do in real life.

Most writers limit the crazy to supporting characters. My crazy comes out in my heroes. You know, the one that is secretly _me_.

My first novel, _66 Laps_ , was inspired by my desire to throttle a model/mom who pointed out my first gray hair during a play-date for our toddlers. I wanted to slap the, um, rhymes with 'witch.' Guess what the first line of that novel is? "I slapped the bitch." Audrey, my fictional counterpart, could not only say that word, but give in to temptation. While I smiled and let the comment slide, poor Audrey's identity issues made her the kind of character who reacted, so she was also the kind of person who would react to larger things. In fact, when she thought her husband was having an affair, she allowed herself to be seduced by a younger man. Unfortunately, tragedy ensued. Poor Audrey. But me? My consequences were far better: a literary prize and a contract with Random House.

Clearly, crazy was working. In my next novel, _Wife Goes On_ , there are four protagonists, so I spread the crazy around. There's an overworked mom who gets to rule the world, a ball-busting lawyer who wears designer clothes, an actress who humiliates her cheating ex on national TV, and a sweet young prom queen ex-football wife who sells sex toys. They become the kind of friends we all need. And they do crazy things that I've only imagined.

In _What A Mother Knows,_ I explore the impulse to kill someone who threatens my daughter. You'll have to read the book to find out whether I did. I mean, whether Michelle did. But that's not all. Michelle faces all my worst nightmares and comes out okay. She also gets to have a makeover, a fabulous love affair, and a new career. See the pattern?

The greatest challenge to this method is that editors sometimes complain that my main character needs to start out more "likeable". When they say that, it's hard not to be insulted – they are talking about me. Then I realize they just need to see more of the real, boring me before they meet the hell raiser reacting to a gray hair, a divorce, or a threatened child.

So far I've gotten to swear, have an affair, come very close to committing murder, and have a happy ending. Call me crazy, but it works.

First published on the GBC website on June 15, 2014

Novel or Memoir? 8 Questions to Ask Before Writing Your Story

As the novel consultant for Truby Writer's Studio, I'm often asked whether a writer should tell her story in a Memoir or a Novel. Since they share certain structural techniques, I work with writers on each path. I truly believe that there are benefits to both.

Only recently did I realize that my own work was proof of this. During a conference interview, the Director for the California Center for the Book asked what would develop from my NY Times "Modern Love" essay. She'd read all of my books, essays and scripts – my entire oeuvre. I hadn't realized I had one, until she pointed out a pattern: I used creative nonfiction as a springboard for my fiction. From my first nonfiction book, _Welcome to Club Mom_ , and the essay for the infamous _Mommy Wars_ anthology, "I Hate Everybody," to my recent novel, _What A Mother Knows_ , I've been exploring the challenges of modern motherhood this way for 20 years.

To be honest, I have written a full-length memoir, but it was painful for family members, so I put it in a drawer. Then I took the most important themes of the memoir and expanded them in my next novel. In fact, when I faced mortality recently, I realized that if I never wrote again, I would be satisfied with _What A Mother Knows_ on my tombstone. Here's why: all the important ideas I have about love and about life are woven into - yes - a literary thriller.

While I've made my choice, I see many writing clients and students struggling to make theirs. Here's what I tell them. If you are torn between memoir and novel, here are EIGHT questions that will help you decide:

MEMOIR – Since every event is revealed to express the true emotion...

  1. Do you want to explore the real truth behind what happened?

  2. Will it be easier to tell the real story than to make one up?

  3. Will the writing process help to create a profound understanding of your life?

  4. Can you frame the story dramatically to focus on a particular theme?

  5. Are you willing to shape the story by expanding or compressing time?

  6. Do you want to use internal narrative as a way to reflect on events?

  7. Do you understand that the story may gain or change meaning as time passes?

  8. Can you handle the challenge of baring your soul while also translating it into the words needed to tell a compelling story?

NOVEL – Since every element is designed to express an emotional truth...

  1. Will it be easier to fictionalize certain events?

  2. Do you forget some of the things that really happened?

  3. Will it help get to the heart of the story by including events you did not witness?

  4. Do you want to protect yourself and others?

  5. Do you want to rewrite history?

  6. Are you interested in exploring personal issues in a larger framework?

  7. Do you want to create a more vivid story?

  8. Will you have more fun creating characters and magnifying themes?

Whether you choose memoir or novel - there is no wrong answer. The choice is up to you!

First published on the GBC website on November 11, 2014

An excerpt from WIFE GOES ON by Leslie Lehr

(Commercial Fiction)

Did it ever occur to you that "w-i-f-e" is a four letter word? The first time I cringed at the sound of it, I knew my marriage was over. But I refused to get a divorce. Sure I was miserable, but I made a commitment, dammit.

The truth is, I was afraid to be alone. Then I heard my daughter swear she'd never get married and I realized sticking it out wouldn't win me Mother of the Year. If I wanted my kids to be happy, I would have to show them how. So I tore off those golden shackles – and found out I wasn't alone. I had joined a club that I didn't know existed. I never wanted to join this club, but now I'm glad I did. Everywhere, there are members who have paid their dues, know the secret handshake, and are reaping the benefits of true friendship ...

Welcome to Club Divorce

### CHAPTER ONE

DIANE

You know you're in the Club when... you wish you had married for money.

"I hate you," Diane said. She plopped down on the velvet sofa her husband had proposed to her on eighteen years earlier. She would miss her grandma's antique furniture even more than this Brentwood estate, sold on the eve of foreclosure.

Steve yanked her white cotton briefs down her unshaven legs and over her feet, then tossed them over his shoulder. The flat circle of a poker chip pressed against the straining denim of his pants pocket. "A deal's a deal."

"You would know," she said. He was an asshole, but it was nice to see him on his knees. Plus, she hadn't had sex in two years. She dropped the legal documents and leaned back until all she could see was the chandelier. At least she wouldn't have to clean those crystals again, she thought, as his gray head lowered out of sight between her legs. She flinched. A jolt of electricity surged down her naked thigh and burned the sole of her left foot, making her toes cramp.

Her Volvo horn honked from the driveway. She opened her eyes and struggled up to peek out the living room window. The sky above the palm trees was nearly dark.

"The kids are fine," Steve said.

Diane hesitated, then reached for the collar of his Hawaiian shirt and pulled him up on 3 top of her. He was little heavier than she remembered, but he still had all the right parts. She yanked down his zipper. What harm was there in a quickie? Then his mouth was on hers and he was inside her and it felt so damn good. They had made love 1999 times in this house. Might as well go for a record before they reset the counter to zero. According to those books at Barnes & Noble, she could be at zero for a very long time. Right now she had an itch the size of Disneyland, and who could resist the Happiest Place on Earth? A sheen of sweat broke out beneath her T-shirt. She felt the warm flush of blood on her chest.

The car horn faded behind the sound of her breathing. This was the true meaning of wedded bliss. Steve knew exactly how she liked it: how hard, how fast, even how to make her ears ring.

No, that was her cell phone. Her hand automatically groped for it on the floor. "Mother," fifteen-year-old Quinn whined from the car. "What's taking so long?"

"I'm...coming." Diane said.

What a woman will do to get her divorce papers signed.

Two minutes and a gulp of water from the kitchen faucet later, Diane dragged a potted palm out the front door of the house. She felt dizzy, but not from the sex. She couldn't believe this was really happening. That could not possibly be her hand shaking as it locked the door for the last time. Those were, however, her kids' pictures and her Ralph's club card on the keychain. Diane wiped her fingers on her sweatpants and pried the Happy Face house key off. Perfect. Now she had a complete set of broken nails to go with her broken family.

She kissed the key goodbye and put it under the welcome mat for the new owner. Then she looked across the yard to make sure the kids were okay. They were waiting in her filthy 4 Volvo station wagon, parked in the driveway next to the Brentwood Realty sign. The sign was already surrounded by weeds. Diane felt awful when she had to let the gardener go last month, but to hell with the Homeowners Association. Diane was no longer a homeowner.

In the car, Quinn and her nine-year-old brother, Cody, were pinned between moving boxes. Cody was engrossed in his Play Station, thank God. Quinn was painting on lip-gloss as if she had a date, which she sort of did, with a whole new life in a tiny rent-controlled apartment a few blocks away in Santa Monica.

The wrought-iron gate next door clanged open. Diane jumped behind a square porch column as her neighbor's headlights swept past. The last thing she wanted was for Olivia to return home from the neighborhood picnic—if you could call a catered barbecue a picnic—and spot Diane fleeing in the dark of night like a criminal. The T-shirt sticking to her back might as well be an orange jumpsuit stenciled with the number of yet another fallen woman. Diane might be a statistic now, but she was not one of them...those walking clichés, those bitter divorcees. Diane was not a quitter. She was a starter, that's all. Starting over. With a mountain of debt, two kids and a deadbeat ex who had screwed her in more ways than one.

Diane pushed a lock of limp hair behind her ear and prayed for Olivia's gate to close. The kids were restless and they were already late "vacating the premises," but if Olivia saw Diane, she'd run out to say goodbye. And if that woman brought over another plate of those God-awful Crème de Menthe brownies, Diane might have to run her over. She was tired of hearing that a reliable maid could save a marriage. A reliable husband would be a better bet. Not that she was the betting kind; she left that to Asshole.

Diane knew what people like Olivia thought: that Diane was one of those brides who got married with their fingers crossed behind her back. But that wasn't true. Diane had not eloped, 5 planned a pre-nup, or shouted her vows while jumping out of an airplane. She had a proper church wedding—except for the usual obscenities exchanged between her mother and stepmother whenever they were on the same side of the Rockies. Which was why Diane truly meant it when she swore 'til death do we part.' If only she hadn't given her husband so many multivitamins.

Ex-husband, she reminded herself, now that the papers were signed and sealed in the envelope in her hand. Or did she have to suffer the name Wolske until the LA County Court recorded her failure for posterity? She used to think divorce was the easy way out—that people got lazy and didn't try hard enough. When other couples bit the dust, she and Steve used to feel superior, as if sticking it out was the key to happiness. But now, after eighteen months of torture from fancy lawyers and forensic accountants, she knew differently. Happiness was the key to sticking it out.

The blare of the Volvo's horn shook Diane from her reverie. She saw an upstairs light flash on at the Colonial across the street. Faces peeked between the curtains above a jumbo American flag. She knew what they were thinking: the Wolske's are at it again. At least the screaming was over. Diane waved to the kids to lay off the horn, but who was she to demand loyalty? If there were only her life to consider, she would have split a long time ago. And her stomach wouldn't be cramping like a permanent state of PMS.

Diane glanced at the plastic Cinderella watch she had borrowed from her daughter. Time to move. She hurried to the custom-made oversized mailbox and pulled out her last pile of mail at this upper-class address. Aside from the bills she couldn't pay and the catalogs she could no longer order from, there was a padded envelope from London, the home of her old Business School roommate. A belated forty-second birthday present? Or had her friend read between the cheerful lines of Diane's emails? She pinched the bulge. Didn't feel like a self-help book, thank goodness; Diane had read them all.

She pinned the mail under her arm, picked up the potted palm, and hurried across the front yard towards the car—just as the sprinklers turned on. Oh hell, she knew she had forgotten something. Besides her panties.

Diane shoved Scout, the black Lab, to the back seat with the kids and wedged the plant into the front next to the pet crate, in which their black cat, Boo, was hissing at the bottle of red wine. Diane had swiped it from the otherwise fully stocked, climate-controlled wine cellar. It would be Two Buck Chuck from here on out, so what the hell. Let the new owner sue her over a missing bottle of Montrachet. The bright side of bankruptcy is that no one can touch you. Still, she didn't want to set a bad example for the kids. One criminal in the family was enough. Scout barked again and trampled Cody to get to the window. Diane couldn't reach far enough to pull the dog back from smothering her son. She tapped her daughter's sunburned shoulder. "I need your help, Quinn."

"Ouch. Okay, but don't get me wet." Quinn dropped her copy of Hawthorne's Scarlet Letter and opened the back door. A sleeping bag rolled out onto the driveway.

"I meant help with the dog."

"Can't Daddy take Scout?" Quinn asked. She retrieved the sleeping bag and climbed back in, tugging Scout's tail until the beast sat. "I want a purse poodle."

"You know Daddy's apartment doesn't take pets." Theirs didn't either, until she pawned her Cartier watch for the extra cleaning deposit.

"Isn't Daddy coming with us?" Cody asked.

Quinn sniggered.

Diane shook her head and toyed with her wedding rings. Asshole offered to have them cleaned just before the end, but she had wised up by then. He would have sold them and claimed they were stolen to get the insurance money. Still, she couldn't take them off; her finger felt naked without them. "He said he'll pick you up for a barbecue tomorrow." Diane wrung the excess water from the hem of her sweatpants and climbed in the driver's seat. "Seatbelts!"

"Can you turn on KROQ?"

"I'm hungry," Cody wheezed.

Diane dug his inhaler out of her purse and tossed it back. "Give me a minute, you guys. It's been a long day."

"I am so sick of this whole divorce," Quinn said.

Diane met her daughter's eyes in the rear view mirror. She resembled her father, when he had long hair and played the drums. Diane smiled at her, but Quinn was back to bickering with her brother as they pushed the dog back and forth between them. The cat hissed in her crate. Diane sighed. She was sick of the divorce, too, and this was only the beginning.

Diane tilted the mirror back from where the palm frond had tweaked it. Who was that scrawny woman in the mirror? Her hair was a frizzy cloud and her eyes were ringed with circles as dark as Quinn's mascara. And how long had she had that smudge of dirt on her forehead? It looked like a "D", the scarlet letter, announcing her failure to the world. Diane was marked for life. A long, lonely life.

She caught a glimpse of Olivia coming out of the gate next door. She let go of the mirror and jammed her key in the ignition. Diane was in no mood to make nice with a woman who had no idea what she was going through. The truth was, Diane had been lonely for a very long time.

A moving truck lumbered up to the curb. The night air seemed to thicken and settle over the car like a blanket. Everyone quieted down, even the animals. Diane took one last look at the only home the kids had ever known, and blinked back her tears. She had to set a good example. Act like this was an adventure. She lifted the collar of her T-shirt and rubbed the smudge off her forehead. Then she revved the engine. "Say: goodbye, house."

"Goodbye, house." The three of them waved.

There was no turning back now; she had to make the best of it. In LA, that only meant one thing.

"Who wants In N Out burgers?"

The kids shouted, "I do! I do!"

Diane smiled at those two ironic little words. She hadn't had an appetite in months, but now her stomach was growling. She cranked the radio to the classic rock station. Then she hit the gas and sped off into...she had no idea what.

Copyright 2015 by Leslie Lehr. All rights reserved.

Buy this book:

Leslie Lehr's website

# Maggie Marr

MAGGIE MARR

_Maggie Marr is an attorney and the author of steamy contemporary romance, women's fiction, and steamy new adult books. Her books contain smart, sexy, women and the men they choose to love. A former motion picture literary agent, Maggie is the author of The Hollywood Girls Club Series, The Powder Springs Series, The Glamour Series, The Eligible Billionaires Series, and the soon to be released Hollywood Hitmen Series._ _Maggie loves all things pop culture. When not writing can be found reading, binge viewing TV, or exercising her rescue pup. Maggie is grateful for the support of her readers. She lives and works in Los Angeles._

http://maggiemarr.blogspot.com

My Indy Author Five Year Plan

I am what is called a hybrid author. No, not half human half thesaurus, though that could be helpful. I am an author who has been published through New York and one of the Big 5 (now 4 and soon to be 3) publishers and an author who has published my own books. The best of both worlds? Maybe. Who knows. They are definitely two different worlds.

When I began indy pubbing, I didn't really have a plan. Nope. Nothing. I got the rights to my first two books back from my New York publisher and put those two books up on multiple distribution platforms. I also had two more books, one of which had languished in limbo-land with Harlequin for nearly a year and another that went up up up through several houses but never sold. In 2012 I had four books available as ebooks as well as paperbacks and the momentum built. But instead of capitalizing on that momentum, I did a very NY publishing thing to do, I took all of 2013 to write a 5th book. Taking a year to write a book, in 2013, still worked in the world of traditional publishing. Not so much anymore as even traditional authors are getting pressure to publish a minimum of 2-times a year. Well, what used to work in New York, publishing one book a year, definitely didn't work in indy publishing. My momentum dissipated.

My agent. Damn I have the most brilliant agent. My agent, Kristin Nelson, took me to lunch and told me to 'write faster.' She said if I really wanted to be an indy author I needed to write faster. About that time I also read The Ultimate Cheat Sheet for Reinventing Yourself by James Altucher. Then I had the luck of joining the Indy Authors Loop. A yahoo loop that was begun by Marie Force. There I found out about the Indy Uncon in San Francisco where I met, listened to, took notes from, and asked questioned of some of the biggest, baddest, and most wonderful indy writers in the world.

Finally, after all that, my Indy Author 5-year plan emerged. This plan included publishing schedules, deadlines, series, and benchmarks. Basically, I was creating my own business plan for not only being an author, but being a publisher too. Because that is what happens when you indy pub, you become a publisher. You are now responsible for overseeing an entire team which consists of creative, promo, marketing, advertising, editing, branding, cover design, sales, finance, contracts, travel, audio, foreign, and anything else that needs to be accomplished. All while writing faster.

I. Love. It.

2014 is year three in my indy adventure. My goal was to launch a new series and publish a total of eight new titles. I have launched two new series The Glamour Series (Hard Glamour, book 1 is **FREE** please go download a copy!) and The Eligible Billionaires Series. Thursday, 11/20, my seventh title this year, A Christmas Billionaire, book 3 in The Eligible Billionaire's Series will publish.

Next month (fingers crossed) I will meet my 2014 goal and publish my eighth title for 2014. A Christmas Wish. (My wish is to make certain this book gets pubbed!)

What about next year? Well next year is my fourth year in my five year plan and the goals are pretty steep. I will launch another series in April and I am doing this one the Liliana Hart way–5 up and 1 in the hole. There will be five more Eligible Billionaire books, two more Hollywood Girls Club books, at least one, possibly two more Glamour Series books and of course at least one Christmas Book. Plus audible and foreign. Those are the goals. Which are good to have...but I always remember the saying...so I can stay light on my feet and ready to adjust. The saying that goes: You know what God does when you make plans?

She laughs.

First published on the GBC website on November 19, 2014

Break on Through to the Other Side

Tonight, as I write this, I am exhausted. Whipped. Tired. A half centimeter to the left of drained. I have 66 pages to edit on my latest book and it is 11:08 pm. I usually get up at 4 am to write and go to bed by 9, but tonight, well tonight was family night. Plus a few documents for clients hit my inbox. Documents that had to be turned around by tomorrow. Thus my late night and perhaps my fatigue.

But fatigue is not an excuse to not write. Neither is exhaustion, jobs, children, in-laws, graduations, vacations, husbands, parents or [insert ANY excuse here]. I will give illness a pass as long as you're sporting a fever. Really there is no valid excuse not to make your fingers do the tippity-tappity dance across the keyboard. None. Nada. You either want to finish the manuscript or you don't. You either sit your ass in the chair or you don't. You either work harder for the win than the next person or you don't.

These are simple facts. They are so basic they remind me of 2 + 2 = 4. And yet these are facts that I attempt to avoid ALL THE TIME. My attempt is due to FEAR. Fear of failure. Fear of success. Fear of exposure. Fear of ... who the hell knows what else, but fear. Fear is a four letter word, and I _love_ most four-letter words. I have the mouth of a well-educated sailor. But the word F-E-A-R well that one scares the heck out of me.

My fear is a conundrum and the way I tame that fear is counterintuitive. I must surrender to my fear. I accept that fear is part of my process and sometimes, fear is even my friend.

My process usually involves the following:

1. Think of FABULOUS title.

2. Hear voices of characters. Learn names.

3. Begin first draft.

4. Have no idea how to get from middle of Act 2 to beginning of Act 3.

4.5 Pull out hair.

4.6 Gnash teeth.

4.7 Pace, eat potato chips, watch trashy TV, sometimes forget to shower.

5. Finish first draft.

6. Realize fabulous title is NOT fabulous. Rename project.

7. Put book away and vow only 2 weeks!

8. 2 weeks becomes 3 weeks.

9. 3 weeks becomes...OH SHIT I HAVE A DEADLINE.

10. Pull out book. Read.

11. See 4.5-4.7

12. Begin NEVER ENDING REWRITE THAT I WILL DIE TRYING TO DO.

13. See 4.5-4.7

14. Edit horrible book.

15. Send to editor.

16. Reread and love.

17. 24 hours later reread and hate.

18. More passes. More edits. Again can NOT find solution to end of 2nd act beginning of 3rd act problem that at this point may or may not exist. Who knows??

19. Loathe this project.

20. New project, new characters whisper love-nothings in my ear (Worthless Whores! (please see above reference to Sailor Swearing)) as I grow weary of current project.

21. Finally send off book.

22. See 4.5-4.7

23. Feel brief, ever-fleeting sense of accomplishment.

24. Begin new project. See 1

25. Reminisce about project when book pubs.

And yet, I LOVE THIS JOB. Crazy? Well, yes. Of course. Who willingly does the above over and over and over again (now more than 10 times). No one is forcing me to write — well except those characters in my head whispering to me. I've tried to stop writing, but they continue to whisper.

All through the above there is FEAR and LOVE. I live that battle day in and day out. Every day. I give love the advantage by telling myself there is no excuse, by forcing my butt into the chair, by truly enjoying my characters and my stories and this brilliant beautiful gift that whatever Force runs this universe gave me. A gift, of which I am not yet worthy, nor is my craft good enough to do justice. I ask myself, who am I to turn my back on such a gift? What hubris to let my petty human FEAR destroy this gift and win out over LOVE.

No, not I. I will not fail in this fight, even when it involves bags and bags of potato chips. Yes, I will sacrifice my thighs for my art. I will get through 1-25 over and over and over again and I will always break through to the other side.

First published on the GBC website on February 28, 2014

An excerpt from ONE NIGHT FOR LOVE, book 2 in The Eligible Billionaires Series by Maggie Marr

(Contemporary Romance)

### Chapter 1

"I want it harder," Prim said. A grunt came from behind her. "God, yes." Warmth pulsed through her body and tingles shot from her spine and into her limbs. "Yes, deeper, deeper." The warmth in her core puddled. Her muscles loosened. Her eyes closed. She soaked in the pleasure of a strong, hard touch. Stroked. Kneaded. Rubbed.

This was paradise.

"Lady got too much tension in her shoulder." Layla's hand, supple with oil, trailed along the fine vertebrae of Prim's neck. "Muscles still knotted in here"—her deft fingers pulsed along Prim's left shoulder—"even after six days of massage."

Air whooshed from Prim's lungs. She opened her eyes and stared at the terra-cotta-tile floor beneath the massage table. What could she say? Even with the sun, surf, and sand, she couldn't forget her huge mess of an existence in California, which she would return to tomorrow.

"Lady's lower back is still tight." Layla's fingertips fanned out and Prim felt the tension in her back melt. Relaxation oozed through her. "Lady needs to be with a man."

Prim jerked her head from the circular cushion. "A what?"

"Head down." Layla pressed on the back of Prim's head. "A man. Lady needs to be with a man to release the tension in her body."

Prim resettled her forehead and cheeks against the cushion. Her sex life, or lack thereof, wasn't something she really wished to discuss with her masseuse. Of course, Layla's hands had been all over Prim's body for the last six days. The morning massage was a high point of Prim's existence at Mesquale. She'd spent the past six days trying to relax, trying to forget about her career disappointment, and trying to prepare for the unwanted reality she was about to return to.

"Thought lady would find a friend by now," Layla continued. "Every morning I walk up to house and think this is the morning pretty lady has no more tension here." Layla's thumb dug deep into the muscle of Prim's left shoulder.

"Oooow," Prim whined. Layla's thumb hurt so good.

"Lady is pretty. She is young. She has beautiful body. Not married. No kids. She has private house, private beach at resort." With each word, Layla rubbed her hands deeper into the muscles of Prim's back. "She on holiday without man, but plenty of men at resort on holiday without a woman."

Prim closed her eyes. Layla was beginning to sound more and more like Prim's mum in London.

"So why, I ask, why has lady, while she here, not found friend to take care of all the tension in these muscles?" Layla pulled the heavy, heated towel up over Prim's back and took her strong hands and stroked down Prim's left leg.

"God, yes," Prim whispered between her teeth.

"You not answer me." Layla laughed. "Maybe lady not know answer."

"Men are pigs," Prim said. There were two Prim wanted to gut right now.

"You're not having sex," Layla said. "I feel it in your muscles. I see it in your joints. Too tight. No sex."

Prim's sexual frustration bubbled through her body and replaced the relaxation that Layla's hands had provided.

"I just haven't found anyone," Prim said. "No one that I want to be with."

"Don't have to keep the man, just have to use the man. Don't keep the pig for a pet, just use it for what you need."

Prim smiled. She liked the way Layla thought.

Layla tickled Prim's right toes. "Done."

Prim sat up and pulled the sheet around her body.

"Lady leave tomorrow?" Layla asked. She wiped her hands on a towel.

Prim nodded. "Early. I return to work on Monday."

"Maybe you get lucky tonight. With all the massage, your muscles are ready for a man. The heat will explode for you. Maybe you find one at Devils and Angels?"

Prim screwed up her face and shook her head no. "Not going." She slid from the massage table. "Leaving early tomorrow morning, spending the night here."

Layla's smile slipped from her face. "Lady must go." Her gray hair was twisted in long coils around her face. The skin around her eyes was etched with tiny wrinkles, but Prim could neither tell her heritage nor, for certain, her age. She seemed timeless. "Someone you must meet. I feel it in your body."

Okay. A little too much voodoo with the massage. Prim reached for the envelope she'd prepared and handed it to Layla. "I can't thank you enough for this week. You've made my body feel..." Prim pulled the sheet tighter around her torso. "Well, you've made my body feel better than it has in years."

"Eighteen months," Layla said. "It's been almost eighteen months since you've been with a man."

"How do you—?"

"You still not believe what my fingers feel? I can feel it all in your muscles, in your bones. We carry the body through life, and life ... it infiltrates all of the body." Layla said the words as if they were obvious facts. "You go tonight. You meet someone, take away the tension these hands can't reach." Layla hefted her bag of massage oils over her shoulder. "You go."

"Not going," Prim said again and followed Layla toward the door. "But thank you."

"You are going," Layla said, a smile plastered to her face. "The man who will take the tension from you will be there. You will find him tonight."

Prim's smile remained fixed to her face. Perhaps it was the language barrier. She'd had similar conversations with Layla over the course of the last six days, and instead of arguing or trying to explain, Prim had simply nodded and smiled. The last one was when Prim had emphatically denied that she would go snorkeling but then she ... had?

Layla's smile remained on her lips as she descended the front stairs. She raised her hand and waved over her shoulder. "Lady have fun time tonight. More fun than the last eighteen months."

Prim closed the door behind Layla. She was not going to the party at the resort's disco tonight. She'd already scheduled an early dinner and she had to pack. Her flight was leaving early for Los Angeles, and the car was scheduled to pick her up before sunrise. Prim walked to the open French doors. The surf pounded the shoreline. A breeze gently lifted her hair from her shoulders. Beautiful. Luxurious. Glorious. Relaxing.

The muscle in her left shoulder tightened. How was that happening? Layla had worked on Prim's body ninety minutes a day for six days. How could there still be tension in any part of her? Her hand clasped her shoulder and she pressed her fingertips deep into the muscles. The tension was because of the two pigs in Los Angeles. One a seller and one a buyer. With one stroke of a pen, they'd both upended the carefully crafted life Prim had worked toward.

Ryan Murphy had ruined Prim's future. He'd sold Metro Media to that old codger of a man, William Rhodes. Why would a seventy-year-old man who'd made his money in steel suddenly have an interest in a media company? If only Ryan had told Prim he was considering the sale. If he'd given her even a little time, she could have found a way to buy Metro herself. Since she'd arrived at Metro, her ultimate goal had been to run the company—perhaps even own it. After years and years of hard work and sacrifice, that goal was now lost to her.

Prim looked out at the sand of her private beach. She'd resigned when she discovered that Ryan intended to sell Metro Media. Eventually she'd forgiven him. His grief over Paloma had tainted his judgment. He'd not been rational. He'd come to Prim's home and begged her to stay for three months as part of the transition team. She'd grudgingly agreed.

Prim closed her eyes. A breath of fresh air tinged with salt entered her lungs. She opened her eyes and exhaled. Twelve hours of paradise remained. Twelve hours without the sharp changes that would inhabit her life for the next three months. The sheet that wrapped around her body dropped to the ground and Prim stepped out onto the deck, now naked and free.

She'd needed this time to prepare herself. She'd needed to be alone to think and to process the inevitable changes she'd confront when she returned to work Monday. Prim stretched her arms up over her head and let the sun warm every inch of her skin. She hadn't been naked on her beach the entire time she'd been at Mesquale. Not once. But today was the last day. Why not be wild? Why not be free? Why not go to the Devils and Angels party at the disco tonight? After six days of sun, surf, and sand, she deserved to be completely relaxed and totally free.

### Chapter 2

At the door of the disco, Prim stopped. Music pounded from inside while purple and pink rays of light bounced across the floor and walls. What was she doing? What was she thinking? She didn't need a man. She didn't need sex. Why was she scrounging for a vacation hookup at an all-inclusive resort? Because her joints were tight, her shoulder ached, and it had been eighteen months since she'd been laid. Actually, eighteen months and twenty-one days.

"Mask?" A woman wearing a red lace bra and panties held out a lovely black cat's-eye mask toward Prim. "They're required for the disco tonight."

Prim cocked her hip and rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. A mask? She didn't want to wear a mask with purple feathers, but she placed it on her face and snapped the thin elastic band around the back of her head.

"People are much wilder when they wear masks," the girl said.

Wilder? Prim hardly thought ... but her hips felt looser and she swung her nearly bare backside as she walked into the disco. Yes, maybe. Maybe anonymity combined with the fact that she was leaving tomorrow before sunrise would help her to find someone, a hot, sexy sort of a man that might ... might ... might relieve her tension.

"Mai tai?" A beautiful shirtless man with dark black skin stood before her, holding a tray filled with drinks.

The muscles of his arms were thick, and his chest? Goodness, were all those muscles real? That beautiful skin under her fingertips ... She longed to reach out and run her hand and then her tongue across his muscles.

Heat flushed up her neck. Good God! What was she thinking?

"Thank you." She grabbed the cocktail in the tiki glass and whirled away from him before indulging her fantasy.

Prim sipped her drink. What kind of voodoo spell had Layla's magical hands cast upon her?

***

Tristan thrilled with the pursuit of the deal, but that thrill did not extend to attending a discotheque in a mask. The possible acquisition of Mesquale demanded that he have the full guest experience. His presence was unknown to the owners of the elite, high-end resort. He'd utilized a pseudonym for his suite. While here, he'd snorkeled, scuba dived, surfed, participated in yoga, attended the spa, and gotten the best damn massage of his life every morning from a woman who claimed to be a voodoo priestess.

He bypassed the staff carrying trays of fruity drinks and went to the bar. "Whiskey, neat, please."

He slid his key card toward the bartender so she could swipe it. Cash didn't change hands at Mesquale. His gaze wandered about the club. This acquisition would diversify his family's portfolio; however, Tristan was uncertain that Mesquale was the type of place they wanted to own. Young, lithe bodies decorated the dance floor. Single, well-educated executives—most pulling down, at a minimum, mid to high six figures a year—inhabited the club. Mesquale was a semiprivate resort—you couldn't even book a room without an extensive background check. This place was a way for the upper crust to be certain they played among the elite of the world. The idea of such exclusiveness did not appeal to him.

A long drink of whiskey slid down his throat. Heat from the liquor trailed through him. He couldn't seem to relax. Not the fault of Mesquale. His trip was short and intense, a way to assess a business. Monday would bring the adventure he'd sought for nearly a year.

Another long, slow sip. His gaze locked on a woman. The heat that coiled in his belly wasn't from the liquor. Wild hair, blue eyes that pierced even from behind her feathered mask, and large, tight breasts that sat high in a black leather bustier. His gaze traveled down her firm legs to the shiny black shoes with spiked heels that decorated her feet.

Air clutched in Tristan's chest. The muscle in his jaw flinched. He couldn't tear his eyes from the woman on the other side of the dance floor. Her gaze flicked from the mass of dancing bodies in front of her and locked with his. Her full red lips dropped open the tiniest bit. The room and every person within the club fell away. An immediate and pulsing energy arced between them, a blue-hot bolt of desire to touch her, to kiss her, to wrap his arms around this woman and weave his fingers through that wild mass of brilliant black hair.

A giant of a man wearing a biker vest and red horns walked off the dance floor and blocked Tristan's view of the woman. The man passed by. The woman who had captivated Tristan was gone.

He pressed forward through the mass of bodies, toward the spot where she'd stood. Glimpses of brown skin teased him as he wove through the nearly bare bodies that inhabited the club. Desire clutched him. He'd never been this mesmerized by a woman. On the far side of the club, she stood in front of a server who bore a tray of fruity drinks. She settled an empty drink onto the tray and took a fresh one. Her lips closed around the straw. His gaze slid over her body and she turned to him.

Again, an all-consuming compulsion to wrap his arm around her waist, tilt her head back, and feast on those full lips. Her gaze slid across his body and left trails of heat along his skin. Tristan stepped forward, and no bodies between them, he stood close to her. The scents of vanilla and a something dark and rich like cinnamon filled him. He'd never expected to meet a woman at Mesquale. He was here for work, business, the two things that defined his life. And yet ...

A gasp caught on her lips. Her gaze flashed up to his.

"Would you care to dance?" he asked.

The briefest pause. Her tongue flicked over her lips, her breath short, gaze intense. She held out her hand to him.

On the dance floor the rhythm grasped her. Heat flared through him with the shifting of her breasts and the shake of her hips. His hand clasped the leather on her waist and he turned her back to him. She pressed into him and skimmed her body down the front of him. She looked over her shoulder, a coy smile on her face.

"You're a good dancer," she whispered.

The intense beat stopped and smoothed into a slower tempo. He grasped her to him. Her curvy body melded to his, as though built to be held by him. He needed to peel away the tiny bit of black leather that she wore.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

Her fingertips wrapped around his and she followed him off the dance floor, through the mass of slow-dancing bodies.

***

Once they were inside Prim's vacation beach house, she reached her hand toward his face, toward his mask. He gripped her wrist, his hand a firm vise against her skin. A thrill pulsed through her with his touch.

"Let's not." He turned her back toward him and wrapped his arm around her body.

The thrill deepened into a thick want. In so much of her life, she was the boss, she was in control. The responsibility for Metro Media had become more and more hers as Ryan was consumed by his grief. When was the last time she'd surrendered herself to anyone? Surrendered control to anyone? To give this stranger control over her and her body and her pleasure caused a jolt of adrenaline to flood through Prim.

His arm tightened around her, and through their clothes, his cock pressed against her backside. She shifted and slid her body against him. A growl escaped his throat. He lifted her hair from her neck and pressed his lips to her skin.

Heat seared through her. Her mouth dropped open. Layla was oh so correct—eighteen months was too long. Her hand reached back and clasped the side of his leg. His hand skimmed the front of her. Slowly he pressed down, down, down, to where the edge of her black bustier met the lace of her panties. His fingertips grazed the top edge.

A tiny moan escaped her lips. He clasped her wrist with one hand while his lips roamed her neck and the fingertips of his other hand pressed down along the front of her panties.

"Please," Prim whispered, her breath short and ragged.

"Please what," his rough voice whispered into her ear. The stubble on his chin roughened her earlobe. His fingertip slipped under the silk of her panties.

Her breath caught in her chest. The pleasure of his touch cascaded through her body.

"Please touch me."

His finger slipped into her curls. Another fingertip slid past her folds. Again her hips jerked and rolled, this time forward into the pressure of his hand. God, she wanted his touch. Her teeth clamped onto her bottom lip. A high-pitched noise filled with want tore from her lips. His fingertip pressed against her swollen nub, rolling and pressing as her hips went up and back. She wanted more, she needed more.

He pulled her around, and she faced him now. His eyes burned through her and then his lips were on hers, a hard greedy kiss that she returned. She matched his want, his desire, with her own. His hand skimmed over her bustier and pulled her breast from the top, and then he pulled his lips from hers. His gaze remained tied to hers as his thumb stroked over her tight bud of a nipple and then squeezed and pulled.

His lips neared her ear. "You like that?"

"Yes."

He pulled his lips from her ear and bent forward and pulled her nipple into his mouth. His tongue rolled around her nipple and suckled her.

Heat shot through her. He pressed his other hand to her panties, which were held to her body by the tiniest of strings. With one swift jerk, he pulled them from her. His hand clasped her curls. He pulled his mouth from her nipple. A tiny moan of ache escaped Prim's mouth.

"This is mine for tonight."

"Yes," she whispered out. "Oh God, yes." Being his for tonight was exactly what she needed, what she wanted. She needed a man to take her, grab her, be in control, to fuck her.

In one swift movement, he pulled the bustier from her. She stood before him, naked except for her heels. He walked her back to the bed and pressed her onto her back.

"Stay," he said. The word held no anger, no meanness, just a direct command.

She stayed. He stood before her.

"Open your legs."

Prim's heart beat fast, so fast. She'd never been ordered to do anything in her life, and yet ... and yet, his words filled some sort of unknown need.

She opened her legs. He stood and his eyes roamed over her pussy. Her sex clutched under his gaze. He wasn't even touching her and yet it felt as if his fingers were pushing against her clit.

Again the wicked half smile danced across his face and he quirked his eyebrow high above his mask. "You like that. Being told what to do."

She did. God, she did. She could never admit it, not to anyone, barely to herself, but she did like giving in to him and surrendering control. She would surrender to this man for tonight.

"Put your finger on your pussy."

Prim's breath hitched, and yet her hand moved to her sex. She pressed her finger to her clit. Slippery and so full of want.

"Feel how wet you are. Do you feel it?"

"Oh, yes," Prim breathed out.

"Who made you that wet?"

"Oh my God," Prim said, "you did. You made me this wet." Her sex clutched and clutched again. Her fingers moved back and forth and slid across her swollen nub. Two more strokes from her fingertips and she would fly apart at the seams.

"Stop," he said.

Her hand stopped moving. She opened her eyes and he knelt before her, his face close to her sex, his hot breath against her thigh. He clasped her hand and sucked her fingers, her two fingers that had stroked across her wetness. He set them aside. And then his finger stroked up the side of her cleft and teased across her swollen clit.

Prim clutched the comforter with her hand and her hips jerked up toward his tongue, toward his mouth. He grasped her hips with his hands and steadied her. His mouth slowly circled her clit and then closed around her and sucked, and his lips rolled her most sensitive spot.

Heat throbbed through her. Two fingers slid into her. Two very large fingers. God, if his fingers were that big, how would his cock feel in her body? He pulled his mouth from her sex.

"No, no, no, no," she cried.

He leaned back and stood. She missed his touch. She needed his mouth on her.

"Undo my pants," he said.

Her gaze locked with his. She sat up and reached for his zipper. She would do anything, anything he asked, to feel that sweet pleasure provided by him. She was desperate to strip him of his clothes. She unbuttoned his jeans.

Her mouth dropped open. She looked up at him.

His cock was huge.

She pulled his jeans down and he stepped out of them. All the while, her eyes were on the giant cock that waited for her. Waited for her to suck it and to spear herself onto it. God, she wanted him to fuck her now, to jam that lovely length of hard male cock into her.

He removed his shirt and stood before her with no clothes. Nothing. Only a mask on his face.

The girl at the disco was right. Prim was wilder when she wore a mask.

"Do you like what you see?" That deep rough voice.

She did like was she saw. She wanted to make him come, to have this huge man make her come.

"Stroke me."

Prim reached out her hands and grasped his cock at the base and pulled upward in one fine stroke. His belly muscles twitched and she heard a hiss of breath over his teeth.

"Now kiss me."

He needn't tell her twice. She took the head of his cock and gave him a long, wet openmouthed kiss. Hot dribbles of come pulsed from the head of his cock, and she licked it with her tongue, greedy to take the drops into her mouth.

Again the wicked half smile. "You are very bad. I didn't tell you that you could have those drops, did I?"

Prim looked up at him. No, he hadn't. He hadn't given her permission.

"Turn over," he said. "Get on your hands and knees."

She did as he told her. A thrill of fear combined with desire trickled through her. She was completely exposed to this man. A man she didn't know. A man she'd picked up in a club. And yet Prim now waited on the mattress, on her hands and knees. He stood behind her with his cock out. He could do anything to her.

His hand caressed the soft, sensitive skin of her ass.

"A beautiful ass." He leaned forward and his lips pressed against the soft flesh. His finger slid down the center of her. "So wet." He paused just at her clit and pressed, and her body jerked backward, toward him, toward his cock, toward the fulfillment that she desperately craved. "But you are a naughty girl."

His hand slapped against her ass.

A gasp jerked her body. A tingle burst through her sex. The deep, thick heat of an orgasm formed in her body.

He leaned over her, his cock bouncing against the back of her leg. His lips tickled her ear. "You've not been spanked before." His hand soothed over the spot that, after the slap of his palm, had burned with a pleasure Prim had not ever before experienced.

She swallowed and shook her head no. She'd not ever been spanked, and yet she deeply desired for him to spank her again.

"But you do so deserve it." His hand smacked her ass once, twice, and a third time.

A moan came out of Prim's body with the third spank. He bent forward and kissed her tingling ass, and then his lips were upon her from behind. His hand reached forward to the front of her sex as he pulsed against her clit, and his tongue roamed into her sex.

Her body clenched. Desire throbbed through her. She wanted the release of orgasm. He reached his arm around her waist and flipped her onto her back, then spread her legs open.

His lips descended to her sex and he pulled her clit and sucked. He devoured her with a greedy want, as though he needed to consume her. He pulled his lips from her slowly.

His gaze locked with hers. "Come now," he said, still positioned between her legs. His mouth returned to her clit and sucked.

Prim flew apart. Her hips hitched upward as he continued to pull on her nub. His fingers pulsed deep in her sex. A loud shriek tore from her and she bucked upward once more. Her body convulsed as the orgasm shuddered through her body.

He pulled his lips from her sex and moved up onto her and kissed her. The earthy taste of her lingered on his lips. She was sated with her orgasm, but not nearly satisfied.

Hadn't Layla said she needed to have sex? Needed the sex to reduce her tension? Already the never-ending pain in her shoulder had faded away to nothing.

"Now I'm going to make you come again." His voice was softer with less command, though his eyes still held lust. He stood from the bed and went to his pants. The sounds of foil being ripped came from the other side of the bed and he returned to her sheathed.

He knelt between her legs. She was wet and aroused. His fingertips found her clit. The head of his cock gently pulsed forward and she felt him, the very end of him, at her entrance. Her hips tilted toward him.

"A girl like you could end a man like me."

A smile formed on Prim's lips. He'd had so much control since they'd returned, and she enjoyed knowing the strength it had taken him to withstand her. He pushed farther into her. Heat seared her entrance, and his fingertips circled her clit. He leaned forward, his gaze on hers. They both still wore masks. She reached up and placed her hand on the back of his head as he pressed forward into her.

"You are so tight," he said through gritted teeth.

"And I want you to fuck me," Prim said.

And with one blindingly hard thrust he was inside her.

***

Prim woke to the sound of her phone beeping. She jerked up from her bed. Her head throbbed and she pressed her fingertips to her temple.

What the hell?

Her mask was skewed but still on her head. She glanced at the clock on the side table. Shit! Twenty minutes late! Why had she flown commercial? Prim jumped from the bed and rushed toward her already-packed suitcase. She jerked on her yoga pants and long cotton tunic and boots. Casual comfort was best for the plane ride home. Shit. Shit. Shit. She couldn't miss this plane! If she did, she wouldn't get to L.A. in time for the torturous Monday-morning meeting with the new owner of Metro Media.

Once dressed, Prim turned toward the bed. That gorgeous man who'd caused her to come over and over and over last night was still sacked out. His hard-carved body was immeasurably beautiful. And those hands. Prim shivered with the memory of his touch. Goodness, she wished for one more hour to be under the tutelage of those hands. Please, yes. Instead, Prim pulled her hair back into a ponytail and finally jerked the mask from her head. She hoisted her bag up over her shoulder.

No pain! Oh my God, there was no pain in her shoulder! Layla. Goodness, Layla had been right. Right about everything. Well almost everything. Layla had said the man Prim was with last night would be in Prim's life for a very long time. That wasn't happening. She'd yet to see her lover's face, and she definitely didn't want to exchange names. Prim stopped at the edge of the bed. Well, perhaps, it would be lovely to have this very gorgeous man, with his very large cock, in her life, if only for fun-time between the sheets. That wouldn't happen. Last night was a one-time thing. A one-off.

Prim leaned forward and reached her hand toward his face. His breath came soft and even. Her fingertips brushed the hard plastic as she lifted the mask and settled it onto his head. He was breathtakingly beautiful. In sleep he was peaceful, and those dark, smoldering eyes weren't available to look at, but still ... His nose and strong jaw, high cheekbones, and the devil's dent in his chin made for an enticing picture. And those lips. Prim tingled with the memory of what those lips had done to her body.

A car horn sounded outside. She glanced at the clock.

"Good-bye, gorgeous." Prim leaned forward and her lips pressed to his. A bolt of desire flashed through her.

His eyes fluttered open and his arms came up and around her. "Good morning."

"Good-bye."

"Good-bye then." He pressed a kiss to her lips.

She pulled away from her one-night stand and walked out the door and back to all the changes in her life that awaited her in L.A.

Copyright 2014 by Maggie Marr. All rights reserved.

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# Ellen Meister

ELLEN MEISTER

Ellen Meister is the author of five novels, including DOROTHY PARKER DRANK HERE (Putnam 2015), FAREWELL, DOROTHY PARKER (Putnam 2013), THE OTHER LIFE (Putnam 2011) and THE SMART ONE (HarperCollins 2008). Honors include being selected for the prestigious Indie Next List and receiving a TV series option from HBO. Her nonfiction has appeared in Publishers Weekly, Wall Street Journal blog, Huffington Post, Long Island Woman, Writer's Digest and more. Ellen teaches creative writing at Hofstra University Continuing Education, mentors emerging authors, and does public speaking about her books and other topics. She runs the popular Dorothy Parker page on Facebook.

ellenmeister.com

Ellen's 12 Rules for Novelists

1. Start your story as close to the inciting incident as possible.

Avoid the temptation to provide your reader with backstory first. Best to hit the ground running, and weave in the backstory as you go.

2. Never try to hide exposition in your dialogue. That goes in the narrative.

The second you have one character tell another something they already know, your dialogue starts to rot. Don't do this. Let your characters speak naturally.

3. The best way to create sympathy for a character is to make them desire something they can't/don't have.

In fact, your main character's want/desire/goal should drive the narrative of your whole story.

**4. "Show don't tell" refers** _only_ **to your characters' emotions; don't over apply it.**

"Show don't tell" is the most misapplied piece of writing advice out there, because many take it to mean they can't have any exposition. (This often results in all the narrative getting crammed into the dialogue, a deadly writing sin. See #2.) Simply put, don't tell us Fred is furious with Luanne, show us through what he says or does.

5. Do not seek out synonyms for "said."

Please oh please, do not let your characters retort, reply, remark, aver, avow, etc. etc. If you find yourself with too many "saids," remember that you don't need to tag every line of dialogue. For clarity, you can always insert a bit of action to show who's speaking.

6. Be true to your characters. Don't force them to do or say something that feels inauthentic.

If you're a plotter like me, you may sometimes find yourself writing a scene in which your character does not want to do or say what you had originally intended. Never force this. Rethink your story instead.

7. Do not indulge in dialectic spelling. If your character has an accent, convey it with vocabulary.

This one makes me unpopular with my writing students, but it's my firm preference, because I believe dialectic spelling does exactly the opposite of what you intend. You think it's going to make your story read more naturally, but in fact it pulls the reader out of the narrative and reminds them of the writer's presence as they struggle to decode the unconventional spelling.

8. Never start a book with someone waking up and looking at the clock.

If you ever want to impress an editor or an agent or a sophisticated reader, find a more creative way into your story.

9. If you have a scene that consists of a character sitting and thinking, delete it.

I'm not saying every paragraph must be action packed, but if you have a character staring out the window and ruminating for pages, trust me, your reader is checking their phone for messages.

10. Never name the little boy Timmy, Tommy, Billy or Bobby.

You put too much work into your book to be lazy with something like this, right? Your little boy should be named Jordan or Grover or Anthony or Drew or Caleb or Ethan or Miguel or Fergus. You get the idea.

11. Don't show off, just tell the story.

If the paragraph isn't working because you're desperately trying to write around a sentence you've fallen in love with, it's time to kill that darling.

12. Read.

Once your mind is actively focused on craft, you'll find answers to your questions in the books you pick up. As a writer, reading is part of your job description.

First published on the GBC website on May 26, 2014

Catching Fireflies

If you were at a party recently and saw a woman standing in the corner, wearing a tight smile that did little to mask the anxiety in her eyes, that might have been me, listening to an animated stranger describe her idea for the surefire bestselling novel I simply _had to_ write.

Or it might have been another novelist. This happens to us a lot.

Not that it wasn't a good idea. It may well have been hilarious or touching or shocking or all of the above. (Although it certainly wasn't a surefire bestseller. Unless your last name starts with King and your first name starts with Stephen, there's no such thing.) But writing a novel is an act of such extreme intimacy that even the most enthusiastic suggestions can't be entertained. As Marilyn Brant pointed out in her excellent blog post on the topic, you have to be deeply in love with your idea.

That leads to a very good question: Where do we get our ideas from?

I like to tell my creative writing students that as novelists, our job is to pay attention. We pay attention to the outside world for those details that add richness and authenticity to our scenes. The early morning sounds outside your window. The slow and careful way your elderly neighbor bends to pick up his newspaper. The musty smell inside an old suitcase. The crazy cadence of a conversation between two excited teenage girls.

And we pay attention to the world inside ourselves for story ideas. Every strange thought that flits through our minds is a potential novel. We catch them like fireflies, and wonder: could this be the one?

Then we let them go. And sometimes, they come back, blinking. "Remember me? Remember me?" We do, and those are the ideas that have the potential to turn into novels.

Case in point. A few years ago, I was in the middle of wrestling with a particularly difficult rewrite when I happened to notice how many wonderful new novels there were that paid homage to the great Jane Austen. That cheered me, but at the same time I wondered why no other favorite women authors got the same attention.

I could have ignored the thought, but it lit up the neural pathway leading straight to one of my other favorite writers: Dorothy Parker.

The idea wouldn't leave me alone. And though the notion of trying to capture Dorothy Parker terrified me, I knew that the passion I felt for bringing her back to life was the spark of a new novel.

Fortunately, my editor agreed that it was a great idea, and in February of 2013, Farewell, Dorothy Parker was published by G.P. Putnam Sons. And I'm proud to announce that the follow-up book, Dorothy Parker Drank Here, will be released in February 2015.

Until then, you can find me ducking out the back door of parties ... searching for fireflies.

First published on the GBC website on September 23, 2014

An Excerpt from DOROTHY PARKER DRANK HERE by Ellen Meister

(Contemporary Fiction)

### 1967

Death was like a bowl of soup.

At least that's how it felt to Dorothy Parker. One minute she was aware of a terrible pain radiating from the middle of her chest, and the next she was floating in a warm, brothy bath, where everything around her hovered at the same temperature as her body. She couldn't tell where she began and the world left off.

Then she saw it—the white light. For a moment, she felt the pull, but caught herself in time. No thank you. Eternal happiness was simply not what she was cut out for. She would stay right here, wherever that was, and let darkness overtake her.

" _Mrs. Parker?"_

As if awaking from a dream, she opened her eyes to discover she was in the dimly lit tavern of the Algonquin Hotel, alone except for a familiar silhouette at the bar...and that damned white light hovering overhead.

" _Mr. Benchley?" she said, though she would have known that full-cheeked profile anywhere. As usual, his hair was well oiled and his mustache neatly trimmed._

" _I've been waiting for you."_

Dear, dear Mr. Benchley. She took a seat next to him, where a fresh gin and tonic—her drink—was on the bar before her.

" _How I missed you," she said. He was the most loyal friend she had ever known._

He looked at her, his eyes as tender and pained as ever. "I missed you, too," he said.

" _Am I dead?" she asked. Everything seemed so solid, so real._

" _Afraid so."_

" _Afraid? I daresay it's about time. Cheers." She drank her cocktail and it felt exactly as it always did. How could this possibly be death? She had expected nothingness, a black eternal sleep. But perhaps this was the true heaven—sitting at a bar with her closest friend. She avoided looking into the light._

" _Cheers," he said._

" _Where's Gertrude?" She glanced around to see if his wife was lurking nearby._

He pointed upward.

" _Yes, of course," Mrs. Parker said. "Where else would she be? Saint Gertrude Aquinas. Lecturing the angels, no doubt."_

" _She was a good woman, Dot. Better than I deserved."_

She took a quick glance upward. "I'll take good care of him, Gertrude!"

" _She's been waiting patiently for me," he said, placing a hand on her arm._

" _You're not serious."_

He stared at her, his expression fixed. "She's my wife."

" _But think of it, Fred," she pleaded, using her nickname for him. "Eternity is a long time."_

" _That's why I didn't mind staying here until you arrived. I knew the years would seem like a moment."_

She waited for him to say something else. But then, she had always felt like she was waiting for Mr. Benchley to say something else. Finally, she asked him for a cigarette.

" _Sorry," he said, patting his chest, "I'm out."_

" _So it_ is _hell."_

He shrugged, a wistfulness passing over his face. "We had a lot of good times here."

" _Strange," she said. "How did we wind up in the Algonquin?"_

" _Remember that book we signed for Percy?"_

She did. When Percy Coates, the hotel manager, had asked them to sign the special guest book that was supposed to offer eternity, he'd been so earnest they'd laughed but humored him. "So it worked. I'll be damned. Where are the others?"

" _Everyone from our group is gone," he said, nodding toward the white light._

" _The little shits. They couldn't wait for me?"_

" _It's a powerful draw, Mrs. Parker."_

" _Did you get to see them?"_

" _Woollcott and Broun were here when I arrived. Then Ross showed up and later Mr. Sherwood. We had fun for a time, but they all wanted to go."_

" _Did they ask about me?"_

He smiled as if he knew she would ask. "Of course, it wasn't a real party without you. We all thought you'd be here any day. Who knew you'd outlive us all?"

" _But surely I'm not the_ last _."_

" _There are other signatures in the book, and I suppose they'll pass through. But they weren't in our crowd."_

" _My damned luck. Always late to the party."_

" _Finish your drink," he said, "and we'll go together."_

" _Go?" She tsked. "Over my dead body."_

" _That's more or less the idea."_

" _Leave if you must," she said. "But I'm staying right here."_

" _Now, Mrs. Parker. Don't tell me you're rejecting eternal peace."_

" _What's in it for me?"_

He looked up, his tight brow softening as if in a trance. When he looked back at her, his eyes were wet. "Love. Can't you sense it?"

She waved away his comment. "Where did love ever get me?"

" _This is different. Your parents will be there."_

" _Never cared for them."_

He took her hand. "Alan is there."

" _Did you have a head injury? Why would I want to reunite with my husband?"_

" _You loved each other."_

" _He_ left _me."_

" _He killed himself."_

" _Same thing."_

Mr. Benchley massaged his forehead and thought. At last he nodded and looked back into her eyes. "He was in a lot of pain, Dot."

" _Guess what," she said. "Me, too."_

" _You're angry."_

" _I'm awake, aren't I?"_

He stood, finished the last sip of his drink, and put down his glass. "I've been here a long while. It's time for me to go."

She shrugged. "Go, then. What are you waiting for?"

" _You sure you won't change your mind?"_

" _Good-bye, Mr. Benchley. Send my best to Gertrude."_

He shook his head. "You'll be lonely."

She held up her drink. "That's what this is for."

Mr. Benchley kissed her on the forehead. "See you around, pal," he said.

Just then, she heard the high-pitched yip of a small dog and looked down to see a familiar poodle trotting toward her. "Cliché!" she cried, remembering he had been in her lap when she signed the book, and that when Percy wasn't looking she had pressed his paw on to the last page. If she was going to hang around for eternity, she had reasoned, she would want his company. How perfect that it worked. She bent over to scoop him up.

" _Look, Fred!" she cried, but it was too late. Mr. Benchley was gone._

Copyright 2015 by Ellen Meister. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission of G.P. Putnam's Sons.

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Ellen's website

# Ellyn Oaksmith

ELLYN OAKSMITH

_Ellyn Oaksmith is an award winning writer and that increasingly rare species: a second generation Seattle native. Nonetheless, she left home to attend The American Film Institute. After slaving away in the trenches of Hollywood as a screenwriter, her first book, Adventures with Max and Louise, was published by Avon/Harper Collins. (Her third book, Fifty Acts of Kindness is available April 27_ th _.) She lives in Seattle with her family, a very large dog and an obese cat named Forest._

EllynOaksmith.com

How Did Ellyn Find Her Groove?

After having children, screenwriting, with its endless networking and phone calls, wasn't an option. I lived in Seattle now, not LA. I kept writing, even landing in therapy to discuss the stress of being torn between my career and my children. My husband gave me the same speech every year: 1) Get your work out there. 2) You're a great writer. 3) I'm sick of giving this speech. Our kids grew, I kept writing. A novel languished in my computer. One day, on a whim, I saw an essay contest through O Magazine. "Interview Oprah for the 10th Anniversary Issue!" I wrote a paragraph about my perfect day. Four minutes later I'd forgotten about it.

Three months later I was driving a carpool of kids home from middle school when I received a call. Thinking it was a telemarketer I nearly hung up. When I realized it wasn't a joke, I pulled the car to the side of the road. I couldn't believe it. Could I please submit a photo, another essay in greater detail and further information for security reasons? A few months later I was informed that I could choose a friend or family member to accompany me to meet Oprah.

We left early in morning on February 11th, 2010, my sister's birthday. Her best friend was dying of cancer and she desperately needed distraction. Throughout the flight we were bursting with excitement, dying to tell anyone who so much as looked our way why we were flying to Chicago. As soon as we landed, we were taken to Harpo, Inc. where I met with the stylist (the only item of my own to make the cut was belt.) An O Magazine writer asked me if I was "living my best life." I answered with a resounding "yes."

The next day, dressed and styled to within an inch of my life, I met Gail, who sailed in with a firm handshake, greeting all ten of us by name. She worked the room like a charm-infused, beautifully polished pro. Oprah was more laid back, arriving at the photo spot outside her office with Sadie, her blonde cocker spaniel. In the posed photo I ended up sitting next to Oprah. Sadie, who ran around her office, was on her lap.

After the photo shoot, I was the first one into Oprah's office. She was sitting, curled up in a chair far away from her desk. Since I didn't know that we weren't supposed to offer her gifts, I asked if I could give her a book. She graciously accepted. Inside was a card from my sister, thanking her. What I recall now is that the total time frame of this meeting, from photo shoot to the moment Oprah disappeared into her room-sized closet was close to three hours. Much more was discussed that didn't make it into the article. My overall impression remains the same: Oprah is exactly who she presents herself to be in public with an added dash of humor, wit and intelligence that the small screen can't hold.

On the way home I kept asking myself if I was "living my best life." By the time I landed, I concluded that my professional life was suffering from lack of confidence. My neighbor worked for Amazon and had encouraged me to try indie publishing. One day I hit publish. Two years to the day of meeting Oprah my book was published by Avon/Harper Collins. The next year my second book Divine Moves was published. The third, Fifty Acts of Kindness will be published in 2015 and a fourth YA novel is in the works.

Do you need to meet Oprah Winfrey to believe in yourself? No.

Do you need to ask yourself if you're living your best life? Yes.

Do I still fear failure? Of course. I'm not dead yet.

Do I let it stop me? Sometimes. But then I read some Maya Angelou, or Bear Grills or my handy quote from Randy Pausch in his Last Lecture about brick walls and then I keep going.

Because that is what I do.

I keep going.

First published on The Girlfriend's Book Club on November 17, 2014.

Confessions of a Book Harlot

My ship was once caught in a sudden freeze, stranded in the solid Arctic Sea. I was forced to eat leather and even my beloved dog waiting desperately for the spring thaw. Then there was the time the village elders forced me to wear a crimson A for loving a man who was not my own. Another time I sailed with Captain Cook for two years, until he was torn to pieces before my eyes in the Sandwich Isles. And then I found Marilla on Prince Edward Island, who adopted me, although I was bony, homely slip of a red-headed girl.

Books have taken me to untold places. I expect they'll take me many more.

I read the way most people breathe. Reading is my education, my vacation, my comfort and mostly, my joy. Books have brought me to countries I've never seen, a deep understanding of people (mostly memorably Helen Keller and Charles Bukowski) that I'll never meet and yes, there was that time in my 20's when Henry Miller and his once-banned "dirty" Tropic of Capricorn taught me far more about sex than the callow boys I dated.

There are few things more thrilling than launching into a book and feeling the author speak to me, pulling me along into a grand adventure. Much to the annoyance of my family, when I read, I am dead to the real world. Fires, howling animals and shrieking children can abound. I wouldn't notice. My tombstone should read: "The End."

My favorite authors of all time are a bunch of drunks, homosexual and alcoholics. They are also proper Southern ladies, scholarly gentlemen and suicides. They are screenwriters who drunkenly cried in their friends' arms when their movies flopped and bitchy drunks who wrote salacious tell alls about their society friends who promptly dumped them. (Yes Truman, I mean you.)

They are Carson McCullers, William Faulkner, Truman Capote, L.M. Montgomery, Margaret Mitchell, Jo Nesbo, Salman Rushdie, Rohinton Mistry, Vikram Seth, Stephen King, the screenwriter Preston Sturges, Annie Proulx, Mark Twain and so many, many others it would take me months to figure it all out. I read randomly without direction and find some of the best books when I read about other author's readings lists, or in the Choice Reads section of my library. (Also by reading the other authors in this blog.)

I once started a journal to write down all the titles of the books I've read but quickly abandoned it in favor of laying that book down and starting another. I also brought home so many books from the library that looking at the towering pile was causing me anxiety. My solution? Keep the books in a bag where I didn't have to look at them. A trip to the library, with its calm, orderly peace, its friendly, helpful librarians (in their silver jewelry and crocheted sweaters) and a stack of books reserved just for me, for free, is akin to taking a warm loaf of bread from the oven. So much pleasure is there for the taking. For free. (I know it's a repeat. But free is a lovely word.)

I love reading with a passion. There are few things in life that bring me so much joy, adventure and reward. Although my children have grown up with a mother whose nose is always in a book, when they come in at night to talk to me, I always put the book down. Because unlike my daughters, books will always be in my home, waiting.

_First published on the Girlfriends Book Club on March 7_ th _, 2015_

An excerpt from FIFTY ACTS OF KINDNESS by Ellyn Oaksmith

(Romantic Comedy)

Author's Note: Writing this book led me to begin my own fifty acts of kindness and start the #50ActsofKindness Challenge online. I hope this book inspires your own acts of kindness. They don't have to be big or impressive but they do add up.

### Chapter One

"Revenge is sweet and not fattening."

\- Alfred Hitchcock

It happened on a fair June morning, as most horrible things do. Manhattan was misted with morning fog promising to burn off into silvery blue. Rectangles of Central Park grass were draped in picnic blankets anticipating office workers who would mysteriously break out in hives, sick kids, barfing pets, or broken water pipes. Of course, I didn't notice any of it. Glued to my desk since 5:00 a.m., I was slaving away on a presentation that my Account Assistant, Betsy, had failed to ready. Again. My under-slept brain was the consistency of sticky tarpaper mixed with grit. Since college, I'd rocketed upwards so fast I'd sharpened to a very fine point, perfectly suited to the world of high tech marketing. At thirty I had the world by a string. I was going places. Fast.

By mid-morning my admin Stella delivered on tiptoe, my usual piping hot half-caff Americano with soy. My biological clock knew that at 10:15, I moved my hand and coffee materialized. It was a crazy life but it had its perks.

Normally Stella drifted away like fog but today, as I was about to connect a call, she whispered, "Kylie, B-b-b-Bob wants to s-s-see you."

Startled, I jumped, spilling my Americano, tangling myself in the phone headset.

Stella flew to the Kleenex box on my desk, extracting a handful, frantically blotting at the stain, her hands far too close to my crotch. "Hey!" I batted her away, my hands tangled in black cord.

Stella quivered. "S-s-sorry."

Yes I felt badly. Yes, I should be more patient. When you're a former fat girl living your dream in Manhattan, you lived in constant fear of being exposed. Your whole life hinged on climbing so fast that no one ever suspected that you're just another poseur terrified of failure.

Welcome to Manhattan.

Stella remained at the open door, studying me, with what—pity? I've got to take her out to lunch. Soon.

"What? It doesn't show. I'll live." It was annoying that she hadn't buzzed me before entering, but then again maybe she had. Sometimes I was oblivious.

When I'd hired Stella three months ago, she was a fresh-faced college grad with a degree in communication, perfect diction, and a ramrod spine. Taking her on, I thought maybe I could be her mentor, toughen her up. Unfortunately she'd wilted like lettuce in the hot sun, acquiring the nervous stutter.

I slipped into my cream linen Zac Posen jacket. "Did he say what it was about?"

"N-n-n-n-no," said Stella. Why on earth didn't she just shake her head?

It wasn't like Bob to summon me to the 17th floor unless it was something unusual.

Like a promotion.

It all made perfect sense. After a mere five years, I'd reeled in Maxxilate Software. Although they weren't a whale, they were a nimble Tiger Shark. They could, with my help, become a thrashing Great White. The timing was ideal.

My mind whirled with possibilities. This was the moment I'd been planning since sophomore year of college, when I'd dropped all social activity in favor of graduating Magna Cum Laude. Sure, it was lonely but I rationalized that there'd be time for friends later, in Manhattan, once my career was launched. Had the time finally arrived for me to branch out?

I looked up from my reverie. Stella was slumped in the doorway, the same worried look plastered to her face. Despite the fact that she's five years younger than I, she reminded me of my hippie mother, always puzzling over our vastly different natures.

"Anything else?" Why was a girl whose paycheck barely keeps her in heavily rotated Ann Taylor Express separates worried about me? I had a fabulous job, a shiny new condo on the Upper West Side. I was about to get promoted.

Stella opened her mouth, as if she was going to spit out something but lost her courage. She sprinted back to her warren.

In the elevator, I practiced acting surprised, checking my expression in the brass panels. I couldn't look too shocked, like I was secretly terrified, wondering if some random monkey could do better. But I couldn't look like someone coasting to the top between power naps. Sucking in my gut, I threw back my shoulders and marched across the sea of open-concept desks. Something was definitely up. People were staring.

OMG.

Bob ushered me in with a wave, finishing up a call while I mentally painted his office Benjamin Moore Bright Linen, laying down wainscoting. Accent color—hyacinth blue. One year, two max. I'd have his job.

While I wait for Bob, I itch with excitement. Where should we go to celebrate? Daniel? Le Bernadin? Per Se? There are a couple people I'd invite. They'll put up a good front but inside they'll be seething with jealousy. Honestly, I'd be the same way. It was sad state of affairs, but that's just how things worked.

Bob hung up, turning his spaniel eyes on me with surprising anger. He didn't look very pleased for a man about to share happy news. "Kylie, to be honest, I don't understand this. You are one of our rising stars. You are driven, focused and relentless when it comes to our clients." He sighed heavily. "Given all that, I have to ask, do you have something to say?" He waved vaguely at his desk, clear but for his laptop and Iphone.

I was baffled. He was a grade school principal confronting a toilet-stuffing miscreant. Did he assume I already knew about the promotion? Was he distracted by another issue?

I smoothed my skirt primly. Far from any toilet stuffing, I got straight A's. "Thank you?" I wondered when the rest of the executive team was going to file in, balancing a look that said "super busy" with "great for you." Maybe they would bring in a cake. Or at least Starbucks.

"Thank you?" Bob was puzzled. He ran a thin hand across his balding pate.

Why didn't I wear a nicer dress? My new Lauren Black Label almost fits. My chestnut hair is freshly highlighted, rolled into a tight chignon. Maybe I do have a few extra pounds but I hide it well and I make up for my middling height with killer heels. Being the daughter of an orthodontist, I have flawless, if slightly small teeth, which I call attention to with matte red lipstick. "Um, maybe you'd better clue me in..." I smiled graciously, offering an opening.

"Seriously? Come on Kylie. You have no idea?" Was I completely misreading his signals? "You have no clue why you are here?"

I'd get the ball rolling. "Not really but while we're here, I'd like to discuss transitioning Betsy to another department. Her pregnancy is proving to be challenging." His eyes narrow, so I elucidate. "For me."

I was about to explain why someone else's pregnancy was having a deleterious effect on me personally when Bob groaned, rubbed his eyes. "Stop! Stop right there." He shook his head. "How could you not know that your little performance with Betsy Rollins has gone viral?"

He typed something into his computer, turning the screen. A frisson of fear crept up my spine. What performance? For the last two days Betsy called in sick. I was about to find out why.

Bob conveniently had YouTube on full screen. Onscreen I towered menacingly over Betsy, who did, as I now recalled, have her cell phone propped on her protuberant belly while I talked. Okay, yelled. At the time I thought she was monitoring her heart rate.

Stupid me.

It is hard not to wince as I watch myself. "And the bathroom breaks. My God, during the Celled meeting you left the conference room nine times. Nine times after one bottle of water!" I screeched. "The last time you came back with your skirt hiked into your underwear! The only thing they're going to remember is granny panties! Who does that?" My voice is not my best feature when I am exhausted and overwhelmed. Shrewish comes to mind. The tingle in my spine turns to ice. Was I really that mean.

"Pregnant women," Betsy said. There were tears in her voice I don't remember. Maybe because I wasn't listening. Maybe because all I was thinking was, "you're slowing me down," which was, to me, one of the ten deadly sins, along with being un-prepared and late. She'd hit every button. "The baby is pressing on my bladder."

"And your brain." The YouTube version of me sighs heavily. Inwardly, I died. "Does it say in _What to Expect When Your Expecting_ that your brain will be sucked out for the duration of the pregnancy? Because when I put the flash drive in at the Digitech meeting do you know what I found?" Here I was very theatrical. "Your ultrasound. Yep. Those dudes had a great time. They decided that you are giving birth to a ghost/alien/zombie baby and used the rest of the meeting to play foosball. I had nothing! I suck at foosball! You weren't even there because you had a doctor's note. What is this, high school?"

"My doctor did say that."

"We are a technology marketing company. People don't want to see our underwear or ultrasounds or try to run a meeting while you jump up to pee."

"I'm due in two weeks."

Her whine was still grating on my nerves, but my recorded words sliced like knives. Was I the equivalent of that rooster my mom had who pecked at the hens? One morning mom found him dead, pecked to death. I thought, "Please do not let this be my barnyard reckoning," even though things were clearly sliding in that direction.

On screen I plowed forward. "I cannot do your job and mine. It's killing me. I need you on the ground running. Oh no wait, you can't run. Which is why you missed the flight to Miami where you got dehydrated." I used quotation marks around dehydrated.

Holy cow. I was so angry it blinded me to very fact she was recording.

"I was dehydrated."

We were both so very tired. "Which is why you ended up lounging in Miami while I ran yet another meeting solo. I stayed up until three a.m. doing the Power Point you'd forgotten."

"I ended up in the hospital."

"And missed the flight back to New York and yet another day of work. If you are dehydrated, drink water. It's not rocket science!"

I remembered this day clearly. Sleep deprived from a red eye, I'd left Betsy in New York, begging her to prep for a meeting the following day. When I got back, the slides weren't ready. She'd gone home. I'd miss another night's sleep to finish them.

It was the perfect storm, and she'd caught it.

I leaned forward to downsize the screen. "2.7 million views?" She'd titled it _"_ World's Worst Boss?!" There were lots of comments, many expletives and a passionate nine exclamation points in a row.

Bob dug a crust from his eye. "It's not something to be proud of."

My mind raced. How to spin this before he threw something out? I managed a casual shrug. "I'm in marketing. I can't help it."

"This makes us look soooo bad."

It was crunch time. There was no room for complaints or excuses. "Does it though? Does it? What I see is that we expect a certain professionalism and energy from our employees, a requirement that, pregnant or not, they perform to the best of their abilities." My delivery was very rough, but it was a message she needed to hear." He wasn't buying. I grabbed for a straw. "Isn't posting this on YouTube a violation of my privacy?"

"I don't know," Bob said wearily. "That's 2.7 million negative hits with MLJK's name attached." My heart clutched. I needed a cigarette. Now. "Whatever happened to any publicity is good publicity?"

He ignored my lame joke. "She's threatening to file suit. I checked with legal. We can tie her up in court, but the claim is legit."

I inhaled sharply, forgetting, in my growing panic, to exhale.

"Breathe, Kylie."

"S-s-suing us?" Great, now I was stuttering.

"You called her fat. She says you created an unhealthy work environment."

My jaw dropped. This was not the time to point out that, as a former chubette, I never, ever use the F word. "The operative word here is work. I was running on vapors."

Bob got up, looked out the window at his fabulous view. "Stella, by the way, corroborates everything you've said." My eyebrows shot up in alarm. "Yes, I've talked to her. I've talked to a few people, but the point is that sooner or later we all have to deal with this. Pregnant women deserve..." He stared off into the silver buildings, the cloudless sky. When I entered, the view felt empowering. Now it was an invitation to jump. "Latitude. We are a family-friendly company."

I snickered bitterly. MLJK years were dog years. Most of the senior partners were divorced. "And what about women who aren't ever going to have children? We just put up and shut up?" I knew this sounded whiney but I couldn't help myself. I felt like a tightrope walker studying the tiny figures below, waiting for me to fall. Then it struck me. I felt like this most of the time.

He gazed at me, his eyes weary. "Come on. You're what, not even thirty? You don't know that." Bob was still in his marriage of origin.

"Look at me Bob. My relationships have the longevity of a fruit fly. I have nothing left at the end of the day." _I have nothing left right now._

"Maybe it's time to branch out."

Clearly he pitied Betsy. It was time to grab the controls. "I can fix this. I can smooth things out. Get my assistant her own assistant. At least until she's had it."

"Her baby is not an it," he snapped.

"Did I say 'it?'" I'd been talking so quickly. _It? Good move Kylie._

"Yes," Bob said quietly, losing his starch. Crossing his arms he glanced at a framed photo: a gap-toothed pig-tailed toddler on a swing, pushed by his beaming, very pregnant wife. "You're going to have to leave until this dies down."

For a second I felt nothing but a weight pressing on the top of my head, a dull ringing in my ears. "This isn't Survivor. You can't let random strangers on YouTube vote me off because I lost my temper."

"They're not. Lance is."

_The CEO?_ I was in a tippy canoe, and by golly, there went my paddle.

I made a tiny bubble of an objection as I sank. "She wasn't doing her job."

"Effective immediately," he said. I knew what preceded those two words. Terminated.

This wasn't a break.

This was permanent.

***

I wasn't quite sure how I made it to the 15th floor bathroom. My heels clattered on the _toilet lid as I reached for the pack of American Spirit cigarettes stashed in the ceiling tiles._ My hands shook like a detoxing drunk as I lit up. Years ago, my former best friend Melanie taught me how to blow smoke rings into the PE bathroom ventilator shaft in Cedar Falls high school. The shaft went into the office of the principal who accused her secretary of sneaking smokes until we were collared.

Thinking of Melanie tightened the knot in my stomach. I couldn't think of Melanie or my father or anything else. I'd been exterminated, and at this moment this blessedly empty bathroom is my sanctuary. I'd rather be here than at the Elizabeth Arden Red Door spa which was, I thought, a truly horrible marker of how low I'd sunk. There were, I dreaded, many more fathoms to go.

How many people on this floor were texting Betsy, _the wicked witch is dead_. In moments, she'd update her YouTube channel with an Academy Award-like speech. _Thank you so much for all your love and support. I could not have taken this courageous stance for my unborn child without the love and support of my other, nicer, colleagues, my family and most of all, this wonderfully diverse online community._

I had placed all my apples in the basket of my bright shiny career.

If anyone entered this bathroom, I'd scream.

The bathroom door opened. "Kylie? Are you in here?"

It was Stella.

Perfect. The one person I have abused above all others. And she's going to be really nice.

At that moment I was suffused with a feeling so intense and foreign that it took me a moment to recognize. It had been absent from my emotional responses since I first trod these city sidewalks, although in high school it was my constant companion.

Shame.

I remained pathetically still until she pointed out that she could see my shoes. She'd picked them up at the Barney's sale when a saleswoman had texted me.

"How'd you know where to find me?"

"I know you sneak a cig now and then. Figured you'd be hiding."

I tossed the butt in the toilet—wiped an errant tear. I would not cry. Mom was the salty gusher. I was Teflon. "I think I'm going to stay in here until everyone goes home."

Stella giggled. "Ok. But I've got your stuff. Human resources sent a box. I wasn't sure if you wanted the _Sex and the City_ Pez Collection, but I packed it anyway."

"Throw it away. I don't know who gave it to me."

"I did."

I stepped out of the stall. She was holding the dreaded white cardboard box, the "it bag" of the recently fired. It was heaped with the detritus of my career. A mug with a toothless old man that said _Smile_ , a Japanese Zen sand garden and a dead plant. I wiped my nose with the back of my hand. "In that case, I love it."

She handed me the box. "I'm really sorry."

Sympathy was not my gig. Had she told me that I belonged on the first helicopter to Hades, I could have handled it. Couldn't she, just this once, for my sake, muster some sarcasm? My voice quivered. "You're not stuttering."

She shook her head.

"Why?"

She squinted as if trying to remember. "You don't scare me anymore. I knew when you came back downstairs, you wouldn't be my boss. "

"But you defended me to Bob." I held up the box. "You packed up my dead plant, my stupid mug."

She tilted her head like a sparrow and did something very strange. She reached her arms around the box and very awkwardly hugged me. "Talking to Bob last week, I realized that even though you kinda terrorized me, you also taught me a bunch. Plus, Bob gave me Betsy's job. So yeah, thanks for that."

I pulled out of the embrace, which made me incredibly uncomfortable and took the stupid box. _Where is a dumpster when you need one?_ "You're welcome. I guess."

"Before you go I just want to—" She reached into my box and pulled out a book. For a moment I thought it was the copy of _The Art of War_ by Sun Tzu that I'd loaned her but it's my mother's book, _Fifty Acts of Kindness. "_ I read this," she said.

"Oh." _You and six other people._

"Did you read it?"

I thought about tossing off some comment about how great it was but what's the point? "I meant to. I skimmed it. I took her to lunch when she did those cable talk shows. I bought her a Stella McCartney handbag. She sold it on eBay and donated the money to Greenpeace." I'm babbling. Mom spent our entire lunch talking to the waiter about her goat's infected nipples. "It's autographed. Do you want it?"

She tucked it into the box. "You keep it," she said, opening the bathroom door. "Good luck, Kylie."

I had to get out of that bathroom and hide from that horrific beam of sunshine. "Thank you." It was probably the first time I'd ever thanked an assistant.

***

Stella's final "good luck" rang in my ears as I tried to stay busy, running errands in a stunned daze and trying to focus on moving on. Although she didn't mean it in a sarcastic way, of course, that's the way I heard it; with an underlying hopelessness and sad finality. On my way to the drycleaners I was feeling so morose; I looked up to make sure there wasn't a rain cloud hovering above me, like a Charlie Brown cartoon. But there was only buildings containing millions of people who didn't care about me or my career. I don't think I've ever felt so alone.

I went to an upscale market to load up on baking supplies, knowing this would be last time I could afford such an indulgence. I fired up my shiny new oven and called my best friend in the universe, Marcus. He patiently listened while I recounted the last three days. How a punk couple recognized me in the subway and told me I should be sterilized.

Then there was the dog walker who wanted my autograph. "Sign it, _World's Worst Boss_ ," he said, laughing when one of his dogs peed on my shoe, telling me it was karma.

Coming upstairs my doorman refused a tip for carrying my groceries because he pitied me. "Ah, keep it, please. You're gonna need every cent living single in a city like this," he predicted. "The men ain't exactly gonna be crawling all over you, if you catch my drift."

As I whined to Marcus, I could hear the hum of blow-dryers in the background. When he graduated from college, Cedar Falls offered little in the way of employment for an openly gay man. Strangely passionate about returning home, he temporarily went to work for his hairdresser aunt. "A gay hairdresser, now that's a bold move," he'd said at the time, rather sadly. Luckily, he enjoyed the work.

"If you're getting famous, you might as well work it hard. I wonder if you can get a reality series out of this."

"I hope she gives birth to an aardvark," I said, wishing I was in the bustling salon with him, surrounded by chattering women, their perfume clashing with the bleach and shampoo.

"She'd just use it to her advantage. Woman with world's worst boss gives birth to aardvark child, details at eleven. Maybe an extra toe."

"Or a tail," I added. My apartment felt like a very chic morgue.

"Yeah, that's better. Something long enough so it could sleep in a tree. That would be cool."

"Did you watch the YouTube video?"

"Oh honey, everyone did." He stopped short. "I mean, no. Of course not. That would be wrong." He waited a few calculated moments. "And I didn't watch her on _The View_ or _GMA_."

"Liar." I let the end of the word slur, returning to the familiar long vowels of my childhood.

Cedar Falls, North Carolina, population 35,000 had recently experienced a renewal thanks to an explosion of farm to table restaurants and wineries. What had been there all along was co-opted by city folk, made more rustic and therefore cool. As Marcus liked to say, "The city folk wanna be country, and the country folk are all about not giving a shit."

"Keep your head straight," Marcus snapped.

"How can I? Everyone hates me."

"Not you, my client. You're baking aren't you?" It wasn't an innocent question.

I pulled a dozen coconut cupcakes out of the oven. Mango custard was chilling in the Sub-Zero. I would fill them with a pastry bag, and top them with a fluffy cloud of coconut cream frosting. Then place them in pink bakery boxes and deliver them to the homeless people on my block. Not because I had some Mother Theresa complex, I just didn't want to get fat. It was cheaper than therapy. Plus, unlike the office, homeless people didn't say, "oh no, I shouldn't."

"What am I going to do? I am going to lose my condo." In the late afternoon sun the dark wood floors shone with the luster of a purebred horse, which I could have bought for what it cost to refinish them. What was I thinking?

"Welcome to the new economy." Someone told Marcus to get off the phone. He said, "I'm talking to a client!"

"This isn't the new economy. This is a water-retaining ball of hormones intent on ruining me because I asked her to do her job. I'll admit, I wasn't very nice..."

"Not nice?" I could hear Marcus' raised eyebrows.

"Okay, I was pretty awful but I was under so much stress. You have to see the whole picture." God there was nothing I hated more than making excuses.

"You were intent on sabotaging her because you fear competition," Marcus said.

"Is that what she's saying?"

"I think Iyanla said that. Or maybe it was Rachel Ray."

I groaned, disrobing another cupcake. I'd eaten past the half-dozen mark. "She woke up earlier for those talk shows than she ever did for work." Piping custard into the scooped-out centers of the cupcakes was utterly consuming. Squeeze, curl, repeat.

"You're not eating the cupcakes are you?" Marcus was hissing at his client that the dryer was the coldest it could go, and did she want to be here until August?

Ever since junior high I'd been a stress baker, one of those people who finds order in assembling ingredients into something fragrant, homey, and delicious. After my dad left I'd baked something every day, which accounted for my rather ample frame. "I'm running out of homeless people."

"In New York?"

"I'm not heading into the Tenderloin. I'd rather gain a few than get stabbed."

"Box everything up and take it to a women's shelter. Seriously."

"That takes care of tomorrow. Now what about the rest of my life?"

"You're not going to like what I have to say, but you do have to listen. Home is where they have to take you when nobody else will."

"Is this something off one of your plaques?" Marcus had the most nauseating collection of plaques; homey sayings on pastel-painted wood. The kind of things cluttering up pharmacy walls, bought by women named Marge or Eunice whose idea of a hot night was a thimble of sherry and drooling over Dan Rather.

"You should work to live, not live to work," he said.

"You've summed up my life with something printed on a on a coffee mug."

"A pillow."

"Here's one for you. Don't lose your shit over a pregnant woman." I was buzzed from the chardonnay that I'd just discovered paired nicely with cupcakes and misery.

"No, wait, it's coming to me. When you're being recorded, be decent."

_Wow. I'd fallen below decent._ Now that was a sad realization. "Where were you when I needed you?"

"Busy explaining the facts of life to a fifty-eight year old housewife who thinks she's one haircut away from being Jennifer Lawrence. Come home. That's not a plaque. Well, it probably is, but I don't own it. Yet."

I could not share a roof with my mother. She wouldn't even say, "I told you so." She'd be open and non-judgmental, offering lentil stews with organic sweet potato slurry. She'd joyfully introduce me to the offspring of my long lost avian siblings: Dottie, Spottie, and Lottie; sharing her hilarious chicken anecdotes.

"Can I stay with you?" Marcus was silent, so I added, "Please?"

"Donny has moved back in." Bam. There it was.

Donny was to love what syphilis is to commitment. His whole life was one pyramid scheme away from being a gay Donald Trump. Obsessed with fame, he talked incessantly about the time he'd bumped into Brad Pitt at the airport, or stood in line next to Simon Cowell at an ATM.

"Oh." The one drawn-out syllable conveyed disapproval. I didn't care about slim pickings in a small town. What about standards? I put the butter in the microwave. Peanut butter chunk brownies were next. My thighs swelled at the thought.

If I kept eating like this I'd be fat and unemployed.

"Don't start," Marcus said quietly. He must have gone into the break room. The background noises were distant.

My lips tightened. Donny was a forty-five-year-old in Sean Jean jeans. He had one of those little triangles of hair under his lip. If those things have a name, I don't want to know it. "I can't take my mother right now."

"No one can take their mother right now. You don't have any other options."

I licked frosting from a spatula. "Thank you for that. How many cats should I get?"

"Lease your condo, store your furniture and come back for the summer. You need some time off."

Wow, so easy for someone else to say! Time off? What was that? "No, I don't. I need an income. I need to get back into the game. I don't know what to do with time off."

"Exactly. You need to find out what you do when you don't work."

"I sleep."

"Come home."

"Those are the two most terrifying words in the English language." On second thought, they weren't. "You're fired," was worse.

_Copyright 2015 by Ellyn Oaksmith_. _All rights reserved_.

Buy this book:

Ellyn's website

# Jess Riley

JESS RILEY

Jess Riley has been a waitress, a blue cheese packager, and a grant writer. She worked at a toy store during the Tickle Me Elmo craze and lived to tell about it. She also worked at a medium-security men's prison, which was much less stressful. She shares a drafty old house in Oshkosh, Wisconsin with her husband and neurotic Cairn Terrier. Her debut novel, DRIVING SIDEWAYS, was released by Random House in 2008. Selected as a Target Breakout Book, it's now in its fourth printing. Other novels include ALL THE LONELY PEOPLE and MANDATORY RELEASE. Follow Jess on Facebook: facebook.com/jessrileywrites.

www.jessriley.com

Get the Most From Critique Partners

From time to time, I'm contacted by local writers who have questions for me about publishing. Typically, the other writer is a woman in my demographic who has written one or two novels and simply wants to hear how a fellow Cheesehead has pursued publication. We meet for coffee or lunch, and in two delightful cases, we've become good friends. In one of these cases, the writer and I have actually become critique partners.

People often ask me how I find critique groups or partners, and my own process has evolved over the years. In college and shortly after, I participated in a few larger critique groups, which I was not a fan of. Stephen King eloquently summed up my own feelings in his fabulous book on craft, _On Writing_. The section begins on page 231 (I know you have your own copy, right?), and boils down to the difficulty of "writing with the door open." I feel that ongoing, immediate feedback impedes my creative process; now, I don't want to share anything with early readers and CPs until I have a finished draft that I feel is ready for criticism.

When I started writing with an eye toward being published, I joined an online group of other writers in my genre and found a few long-distance CPs. This worked fine for a while, but eventually I also began securing feedback from friends who were avid readers—lucky for me, they also understood how to give constructive criticism.

Currently, I have roughly six early (beta) readers comprised of grammar fiends, avid readers, and fellow writers. My husband isn't an avid reader, but he weighs in on a nearly-finished draft as well, because he has a great ear for dialogue and humor. Altogether, these people comprise my "Ideal Reader." Once I receive their feedback, the book goes through another edit, and then it's off to at least two professional editors, regardless of whether I'm indie-publishing it or not: the conceptual editor for the "forest level" view: structural guidance, character development and motivation, overall story arc, etc.; and then on to the copy editor for a close-up of the individual trees: grammar, overused phrasing, inconsistencies, wordiness, excess adverbs, and the kinds of embarrassing goofs eagle-eyed readers always seem to find.

After I made the changes suggested by my copy editor, I also sent my last novel, _Mandatory Release_ , to a freelance proof reader. And finally, my mother—who actually found two sneaky mistakes all of us had missed.

So how do you find your trusted inner circle of critique partners? They're incredibly valuable and rare, so be prepared to commit some time to finding just the right group of people. And if they are also writers, be prepared to read and weigh in on their work as well. It's only fair, right? Sometimes finding the right people involves luck (sitting next to the right person at a conference, for example). And sometimes it won't be a good fit, so don't worry if you have to move on and keep looking. If you're looking for a CP or two among a network of fellow writers, here are some general considerations:

1. **What genres do we all write?** You all don't have to write romance, but if you critique a story in another genre, it helps to at least read books in that genre from time to time, to have an understanding of readers' expectations.

2. **What stage is everyone at in their career?** Your fellow CPs all don't have to be published if you are, but you should all have a solid grasp of the craft. And it's much easier to find people in your same literary boat.

3. **Set some ground rules.** What exactly are you looking for in terms of feedback? Be specific. Communicate to avoid hurt feelings or disappointment. If you don't ask for what you want and need, you may not get it. (This also applies in most other areas of life. File under, "Duh.")

4. **How do you feel your new CP has handled his or her first review of your work?** Is their feedback critical yet tactful? If your partner says nothing but, "I love it, it's just fabulous!" you may want to hire a professional for the raw, honest criticism a close friend or family member may be afraid to give you. This person WILL be reading with the knives out, and you are paying him or her for the privilege. (How to find a good conceptual or copy editor? Word of mouth ... acknowledgements in novels you like ...)

5. **Flip it: how does your new CP take YOUR constructive feedback?**

6. **Finally, schedules and turn-around time frames: how quickly do you work?** How soon do you need feedback? If you send a novel to a CP and don't hear anything for two months and you've been a knot of anxiety while you wait, either check in politely and next time communicate a target date, or move on to someone who can be as prompt as you are. All of us have experienced the epic waits involved with agent or editor submissions; it's nice to reduce at least some of the waiting when part of the process is still in our own control. That said, respect that your partner has a life, just as you do. It boils down to give and take and communication.

First published on the GBC website on October 15, 2013.

Rehab Addict 2.0

I think my husband and I have lost our minds. Hot on the heels of the total re-do of the second story of our house, we are embarking on three NEW remodeling projects: a gut and overhaul of our living room and office, installation of central air conditioning, and installation of a brick patio in the backyard.

I think I've mentioned that our house was built in 1885, so really, these things happen. Carpet gets funky. Trim gets beat to shit. Floors buckle. Ceilings start to cave in.

Oh, those last two never happened to you?

So the month of May just got a lot crazier. On top of this, I am gutting and overhauling a novel I originally wrote in 1998. YEAH! I know!

Original title? _The Cool Side of the Pillow._ Now it's _Mandatory Release_. It has always been a love story, but it's undergone several massive edits over the last decade and a half ... mostly because the first draft was a giant, steaming turd. Anyway, first it took place in Ireland. Later the setting moved to a prison. Because when I think romance, I think PENAL SYSTEM! I originally killed the main love interest, then I brought him back to life. Later I changed main characters entirely, writing from a male point of view for the first time. Then I made it a love triangle. Then I added some twisted subplots and truly warped humor. I also wrote my first sex scene. *blushing*

It was fun.

Most recently, I applied for a Creative Capital grant to help me make this novel the best damn thing it can be. I want to interview correctional officers to see how the recent elimination of collective bargaining has affected workplace safety and morale. I want to add a riot. I want to tighten up the writing, trim the fat, shade the characters, change one character's point of view and tense entirely. (First person present? Nah—second person past, is more like it!)

When I'm done, hopefully later this summer, this damn novel will have gone through more incarnations than Shirley MacLaine or the recipe for Coke. My point it this: like an old house, any novel you write is destined for some remodeling...even if you think you're done with it. Live in it long enough, and you stop seeing the imperfections. So take a brief vacation. When you come home, you will wonder how long that funky odor has been around, and whether anyone else has noticed it. (The answer is: 2 years or more, and yes.) You'll decide the linoleum / secondary character with the club foot has got to go.

And remodeling a book or house is never as easy as you think it will be. Sure, you could just slap a coat of paint on it to hide the problems, but if there are major structural issues, it'll collapse eventually. Don't be afraid of a major tear-down. Do it right and avoid the leaking roof / hack reputation. You'll thank me later.

First published on the GBC website on May 15, 2012.

An Excerpt from MANDATORY RELEASE by Jess Riley

(Lad Lit meets Chick Lit)

### CHAPTER FIVE: GRAHAM

I'm okay-looking, I think. Girls tell me I have nice eyes. I wasn't a big jock in school, but I wasn't a couch potato, either. I've got decent arms and shoulders (thanks, chair model Invacare Compass XE!) and my teeth are straight and only three shades away from the maximum whiteness possible, according to my Crest White Strips chart. My hair looks like it's been taking diet pills, but my head is smooth, well-shaped, and unblemished. I don't have nostrils you could store bowling balls in. Most importantly, my features are symmetrical. Isn't that supposed to rate highly among the opposite sex?

But here I am, divorced, no real romantic options in sight. Not even any curiosity or pity sex prospects, which aren't that hard to find in some dark corner after last call. I know, it wouldn't matter if I were Bradley Cooper. I've got deeper emotional and honesty issues to deal with. But when you consider my inability to be forthcoming all of the time in the grand scheme of personality defects a person could have, it barely registers. I mean, I could be a member of the Westboro Baptist Church. I could litter, hand out raw onions on Halloween, lean on the horn when I drive past golf courses or outdoor Jenga tournaments. I could wear pinky rings and bow ties and think I actually looked good doing so.

My biggest problem is that sometimes I get a little bitter. Even incidents of _timing_ in the historical record can do the trick. For example, I feel pretty gypped by the kind of music that was popular in my formative years. Marcy Playground has nearly ruined sex and candy for a lot of people, and the summer of 1998 was exceptionally cruel, thanks to Ace of Base. And I know hair bands are enjoying a resurgence, but let's leave Poison and Slaughter where they belong: in the novels of Chuck Palahniuk. Don't get me started on what people wore back then. Zubaz tiger-print pants, denim overalls, neon Hypercolor shirts, and multicolored silk shirts? For men!? Had everyone developed brain damage from hearing Urkel's catchphrase one too many times? Did the mirror industry bottom out between 1990 and 1995? It's amazing the birth rate didn't drop completely off the charts back then, because I can't imagine anyone fucking a guy with Billy Ray Cyrus hair and a tendency to call his friends "fartknockers." Yet it happened. And often, if Generation Y is to be explained.

Of course my parents, who came of age in the early seventies, had no appreciation whatsoever for the kind of music that formed the soundtrack to their youth. Zeppelin? The Who? The Stones, Rush, Pink Floyd, David Bowie? Forget it. You could safely bet your firstborn child that the hi-fi in their first apartment was playing songs by groups that could have been named for dishes served at a Tupperware party: Peaches and Herb, A Taste of Honey, Ambrosia, Bread. Auditory laxatives designed to propel the status quo into a sunset of mundane.

Where was I? Right. Bitterness. I try, I really try not to get bitter and pissy about people, but I make an exception for Joe Simon. You ever hear those ads on the radio for local jewelers selling long-stemmed roses that have been dipped in gold leaf and retail for fifty-nine dollars? You ever wonder who actually buys that shit? Joe Simon. That's who. I don't like stereotypes, but you're going to get a certain image in your mind when I tell you he hunts, is on a first-name basis with all the girls at The Tilted Kilt, gets shitfaced at Packer games, and owns a four-wheeled all-terrain vehicle he uses to "tear it up."

Excuse me while I puke into next Thursday.

He's also screwed half of the single female employees at Lakeside, and a few married ones too. He's clearly someone trying to get the most out of his youth before it evaporates, leaving him gassy and paunchy in an easy chair before a football game on Thanksgiving, or drunk and sentimental at the local tavern, reminiscing about a 2007 football game with an arm slung around the shoulders of old high school friends while they sing along to Springsteen's "Glory Days," playing over and over and over on the juke.

Okay, maybe this is a little too bitter.

But does his youthful vitality have to be so in my face all the goddam time?

I go to the admin building after my final group session of the day to get a Coke from the break room. Joe Simon is there, of course, because I have the luck of an Indian cotton farmer in debt to Monsanto. I catch the tail end of a conversation in which another officer named Tony Kaplan is chiding him about how long it'll be before he gets Drew Daniels in the sack.

"I give you seven days, tops," Tony says. He clasps his hands behind his hairy neck and kicks back against the white cinderblock wall.

Joe makes a smug face like, _We'll have to wait and see!_ and I want to punch him right in his disgusting Skoal hole. Drew, if she's anything like she was in high school, has better sense than to bottom-feed with a guy like this. Back then she was an A student, making better dating decisions than most of the girls in our class. We flirted shamelessly in our chem lab, trading enough sexual innuendoes to stock a complete season of _Family Guy_ , but it never really progressed beyond that—a fact that still disappoints me. Back then, she dated a guy two years older than us. He was away at college in La Crosse, which made flirting remarkably pressure-free, because hey, she already had her man! She was emotionally available but physically unavailable, and I found her irresistible. Unfortunately, we never became more than lab mates, our breezy friendship limited to playful hallway smacks, bad jokes about Bunsen burners, the occasional beer bong at a party.

Well, aside from one night at the beginning of our junior year, when Drew came over after a fight with her boyfriend. We watched _Good Will Hunting_ in my basement, sharing a bottle of peach schnapps that we hid behind a throw pillow every time my mom came down the creaky stairs. Ostensibly, to do about seventy loads of laundry. Drew was curled up on the other side of the old orange sofa, but an hour into the movie, she leaned back against one of the armrests and casually lifted her feet onto my lap. Her calves, really, and she had a skirt on. Bare legs. I immediately began to panic. Didn't know what to do with my hands. It was the kind of friendly, affectionate thing girls might do with any of their friends, but I felt a big question mark on the end. She may as well have punched me in the balls, because I sat there for the next hour with the most painful hard-on I'd ever had in my life, compounded by the fact that my jeans were too tight and there was no way I was giving away my state with even a subtle adjustment. I have no idea how the movie ended, because a 3-D porno had begun to play in my head, of me pushing her skirt up and doing hot, filthy things to her that would have been scrambled on cable. But I just sat there frozen like an idiot, my dick an iron rod in my pants, wondering if I should try to kiss her, paranoid that my breath smelled like Cool Ranch Doritos, wanting her to stay forever but also wanting her to leave so I could breathe again. The next weekend she took a road trip with Brooke to visit her boyfriend in college. When she returned, she was wearing a new pair of diamond earrings. She never came back to my house, which was just as well, because I had no idea how to handle a girl like Drew when I was sixteen.

I move smoothly to the vending machine and plug in a few quarters. While I make my selection I toss over my shoulder, "She's a bit out of your league." My soda tumbles to the bottom and I reach in to retrieve it.

Though I can't see them, I can tell Joe and Tony have exchanged looks. "How would you know, Wheels?"

Yeah, did I forget to mention they sometimes call me "Wheels?" Oh, the wit. See how it soars! I crack open my soda, take a sip to prolong the suspense, and say, "I went to high school with her."

There's a beat of silence, and then Tony jumps in. "D'ja bang her?" I can almost hear his future children eating dirt in the front yard, wiping the boogers they don't eat on lampshades, and throwing bits of eraser at children who are much smarter and more sensitive than they.

I turn to face him and roll my eyes. "Grow up."

"What for?"

She'd better not sleep with him. I will lose the last remaining molecule of faith I have in humanity if she does.

God, I can't wait to see her again. And I'm not even that bitter about the timing.

***

As I pack my bag to leave for the day I think about Joe, and guys like him. This town breeds two kinds of men: guys like Joe who end up working the trades or becoming keepers of the human zoo here at Lakeside, and guys who grew up near the beach and left long ago for Big Ten schools, after which who knows what. Careers on Wall Street maybe. Apartments in Manhattan, Chicago, or Boston. Vacations heli-skiing in British Columbia or ascending Mount Kilimanjaro, returning home only reluctantly for the occasional holiday or funeral.

Situated on the western shore of Lake Michigan and named for the glacier that covered Wisconsin during the last ice age, Laurentide Bay is _the_ summer destination for many of Chicago's and Milwaukee's wealthy. Their homes—some vacation, some permanent residences—loom from the dunes and woodlands beyond. Tourism, as you might have guessed, is big here, and many of the year-round residents depend on area motels, restaurants, shops, and sport fishing charters for income. The rest of us work at Lakeside Correctional, on the west side of town. To us, it really is a company town. To most everyone else, it's a nice place to go for seafood and beachfront sunrises. Hardly anyone cares that at least one inmate manages to escape every ten years or so. It's never an inmate from an urban area, though. They don't hit the fence because _"There's bears and shit in them woods."_

Because commuting an hour between Laurentide Bay and Green Bay or Milwaukee isn't completely unfeasible, a surprising number of the town's wealthier residents live here permanently, enrolling their children in the local public elementary school. And for a while, a kid who lives in a duplex on the west side of town has things in common with a kid who spends Christmas break at a lodge in Aspen. Sure, the kids from the east side have more toys, but at that age there are things everyone can agree on: Girls are gross, farts are hilarious, and games involving rocks, spray paint, and fire are much preferable to checkers. The class tension lies dormant until puberty, when most of the beachfront kids have been packed off to prep schools, only returning only for Christmas and easy summer jobs.

At that point, when it becomes cloyingly obvious who the haves and the have-nots are, you can guess with a high degree of accuracy who will buy their living room furniture from _Dwell_ -featured designers in fifteen years, and who will rent theirs from _Get it Now!_ Futures have been charted. Anyone who diverges from their pre-packaged path becomes a local celebrity, as Rick Holmen did when he joined the crew of _Bath Crashers_ , lending his carpentry skills to various surprise home improvement projects on national television once a week. The trick is that you have to leave Laurentide Bay for this to happen.

I zip my duffel bag shut and lock my office behind me—always a task that brings me a measure of relief until I remember that I'll be returning to unlock the door and repeat my day all over again in fourteen short hours, seven of which are reserved for sleep, thirty minutes of which are lost to my commute, another thirty minutes of which I spend eating a single-serving frozen entree, and roughly two hours of which I devote to personal hygiene (which takes a lot longer when you're in a wheelchair, believe me) and the opening and reading of mail. Which leaves a few brief hours to lead some kind of life. Usually, I spend those few hours watching TV or sucking fantastically at the latest game I've picked up for my Xbox. Sometimes I do a little mate-shopping on the various online dating sites I subscribe to, although that activity has lost its luster of late.

In short, my life is a cautionary tale, if you could stay awake long enough to listen.

Which is why I'm looking forward to seeing Drew. She is someone who knew me as a completely mobile, truth-telling young man with a full head of hair. She is someone who knew me when I had a life and she is someone who could possibly resurrect that life. She represents sheer _possibility_ : of happiness, of adventure, of the new and improved, even the possibility of heartbreak. And when your life has become as predictable as mine, even the possibility of heartbreak is welcome. Anything to shake up the soul-sucking routine.

I push down the shadow-laced hall, say goodnight to the second-shift guards in the control room, say goodnight to our perky slip of a warden, Leslie Atkins. Yes, our warden is a woman. The State of Wisconsin is big on diversity, and Lakeside is a case in point. While ninety-nine percent of clerical staff is female and eighty-five percent of security staff is male, gender equity is making great strides in the institutional white collar careers left for the rest of us. The gender split for social workers and teachers, for example, is pretty much fifty-fifty. And though only ten percent of Wisconsin residents are minorities, about a quarter of Lakeside staff is. Unfortunately, seventy percent of inmates at Lakeside are black, Hispanic, American Indian, Asian, or other—not exactly consistent with larger state population trends.

And as for diversity in hiring, I'm practically their poster boy. I've been in two publicity photo shoots in the past five years alone, along with second-shifter Nick Nguyen and Keisha Martin from the Program Review Committee.

I wheel toward an inmate in standard-issue prison greens. He's carrying a manila folder, headed my way. When he sees me, his face breaks into a broad grin. "Mr. Finch! Howzit rollin'? You still teaching that anger management class?"

I scan my mind as I try to place him— _one gold front tooth, neat corn rows, chubby cheeks, loping gait_ —I think I had him in that very class last fall. My mind clicks, and now I even have his name: Dante King. I smile back. "Hey, Mr. King! How's it going?"

As I watch his grin slide into disappointment, I realize I've gotten his name wrong. "It's Dante Hargrove," he says flatly.

Fuck. Watch me demonstrate an attitude that most black inmates suspect all white people share: _Y'all look alike anyway; why don't we just call you Toby?_ Fuckety-fuck. I close my eyes, shake my head, and tap my temple. If I could have managed another gesture that conveys my embarrassment and desire to right my mistake, I would have done so. "Damn. I'm sorry, Dante. My brain is fried right now. Long day."

"S'aight. Hey, you have a good one," Dante Hargrove says, tipping his folder at me as he passes. I know most people wouldn't give a shit about hurting an inmate's feelings, but Christ, sometimes it's all they've got left.

Right at that moment, when my face is warm with shame and I'm feeling mentally askew, I spot Drew, her low heels clacking across the cool tile floor, her shiny dark hair parted on the right and pulled into a straight ponytail against the nape of her neck. I used to fantasize about pressing my lips into the slow curve of that neck, inhaling the cherry almond scent that sometimes drifted my way during chem labs. She's wearing appropriate prison attire—khaki dress slacks and a white short-sleeved blouse—that on anyone else might look unimaginative and even frumpy, but on her, underscores the clean, long lines of her frame. Then I zoom in on her individual features: her slightly crooked but proportional nose, her narrow wrists, the freckles that dapple her tanned forearms. It's hard to tell from this distance, but it appears her nails are still short, though from pragmatism or the nervous chewing habit she maintained in high school, I can't tell.

I wonder if she's in the building to find her mother. I wonder if I'll always want her. I think the answer to both is "Yes."

"Drew!" I wheel toward her, my mouth curving into a reflexive smile. "Drew Daniels!" My pulse begins to jog.

She freezes, confusion flashing through her wide brown eyes.

"It's me—Graham. Graham Finch." I wait for a beat, not wanting to embarrass myself by having to add, _"From high school?"_ My gut twists as another second passes in which she fails to recognize me.

Finally a warm look of recognition seeps into her features while our eyes connect. The look morphs to surprise when she takes in the rest of me, and my chair. "Oh! Graham! Hi! Is it really you?"

"I was going to say, 'Just kidding, it's Pedro Martinez,' but I didn't want to confuse you more." Oh my God. Weird much? But she laughs, and it's like a tinkling of tiny bells, a skipping of happy children, a sprinkling of fairy dust.

"What are you doing here?"

"Earning a meager paycheck. The real question is, what are _you_ doing here?" She even _smells_ pretty—clean and subtle and soft, like the perfect kiss goodnight.

She sighs. "Long story. I'll tell you about it sometime over lunch."

"Sure." _Lunch is too short. How about dinner? How about a long weekend in Vermont? How about the rest of our lives together, over breakfast?_

"Wow, it's been a long time," she adds, studying me. Her forehead scrunches slightly, and I know she's wondering whether or not to ask The Question. I decide to save her the trouble.

"Car accident. It's _my_ long story."

"I'm so sorry. God, Graham, I'd heard something about the accident, but I ..." She lets her sentence drift away.

I shake my head. "Thanks, but I'm fine. No worries."

Three pregnant seconds tick by. An inmate singing a vibrato-rich R&B song at full volume breaks the spell as he passes us on his way to the health services unit. Drew's eyes widen. "Hey, I've got to run. My mom and I drove together, so I've got to catch her before she leaves without me. But it was great to see you again." She pauses and then makes my evening by adding, "Want to meet for lunch next Monday?"

Are Japanese game shows goofy?

_Copyright 2013 by Jess Riley_. _All rights reserved_.

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# Saralee Rosenberg

SARALEE ROSENBERG

Saralee Rosenberg is the author of four supernatural novels with a heart, including A LITTLE HELP FROM ABOVE, CLAIRE VOYANT, FATE AND MS. FORTUNE and DEAR NEIGHBOR, DROP DEAD (Avon/HarperCollins). She is a nationally acclaimed speaker on women's intuition and a contributing writer for "Long Island Woman" Magazine. She recently completed a novel for younger readers, THE MIDDLE SCHOOL MEDIUM. The Detroit Free Press said, "Saralee Rosenberg has invented a new genre that combines magical realism, romance and angst." Next up is an adult novel, WHEN WE COME BACK. She and her husband have three children and a big mortgage.

www.saraleerosenberg.com

I Don't Know a Damn Thing About Rejection

... I know a dozen things about rejection. So does every writer, unless their last name is Simon or Schuster. Or King. But for the rest of us, the road to publication often involves roadblocks, wrong turns and even crashes that total our projects.

They say the trick is not to take rejection personally, which is a nice concept if you can get it. Frankly, I still take it very personally, as if I'm being told that my novel is no good, _and_ my children are ugly.

Still, I'm working on having a better attitude because here is one of the things about rejection I know for sure. We don't learn a damn thing when everything is going right. We only learn through adversity and challenges. I'm not saying every rejection is fair, or that upon some soul searching, it won't offer the missing clues that help you write a revision that sells. I'm saying that every time you get a no, it's as gut wrenching as failing a test that lowers your final grade, which lowers your GPA, which means you can forget the college of your dream.

But here is something else I know. Something I learned back when I sold radio time for ABC. My sales manager trained me to listen for a prospective client's objections. If I heard a bunch of different reasons that they wouldn't sign a contract, chances were that I had not yet uncovered the real issue. If I heard the same objection three or more times, I was hearing the truth and it was up to me to find a solution.

To that end, I believe that there is often a connection between rejection and ineffectual writing, so I work hard to read between the lines when an agent turns me down. If I hear the same concern repeatedly, I take it to the bank that therein lies the problem.

Case in point. I have had four novels published, but have struggled to find a home for my latest. It's my first for younger readers and the learning curve has been enormous. Mind you I've only submitted to a dozen agents so far, and many of the rejections have come with praise. But the elusive yes pointed to the very real possibility that there were fatal flaws in the story.

I sought feedback from some respected writers and discovered two critical mistakes that never would have been on my radar, but that were a potential red flag for middle grade buyers. I have spent the past two months revising and am ready to go back out there.

Do I expect more rejections? Absolutely. No manuscript is perfect for every agent regardless of how good it is. Because here are the other things I know about rejection that are NOT personal:

  1. Agents are less likely to take on a project if they don't have existing relationships with editors that buy your style or genre. Gambling is not their thing.

  2. Agents will not intentionally step on the toes of a client. If a submission is eerily close to what they already represent, they're not going to cannibalize future sales by having competition in their own ranks.

  3. Agents are specialists like doctors and lawyers. They won't waste their time on a project that isn't in their wheelhouse. And that is because they fear rejection, too. They want a yes as much as us and work hard to take on only that which they are passionate about and have confidence in. Their reputations are on the line and there is very little upside to going out with a manuscript that has holes, or isn't riveting, or is a light version of a best- selling author's work. And mostly it's got to be great as is. No editor has the time to teach the basics of storytelling to a promising writer.

But be forewarned. If anyone tells me my kids are ugly, the gloves come off! Meanwhile, if you understand an agent's world, and understand that rejection is an equal opportunity destroyer for even the most successful writers, then you just keep revising and resubmitting.

If you're as good as you think it will eventually be your turn. Just ask any author you love!

First published on the GBC website on February 16, 2015

Twenty-Five Things I Know for Sure About the Writing Life

This year marks my twenty-fifth anniversary as an author and how wonderful that the silver has not yet tarnished. Eight of my books have been published, (four novels and four non-fiction titles), and yesterday I finished HOTLINE TO HEAVEN, my first novel for younger readers.

Reinvent yourself or die!

In honor of my two and a half decades in the trenches, here are twenty- five things I know for sure about the writing life. The list is meant to remind both the emerging and the experienced writer that there may be a million other ways to make a living, but few that are as exasperating lol. I meant rewarding. And exasperating!

So for what it's worth, here is my best advice:

1. Readers, reviewers, agents and editors are idiots unless, of course, they love what you wrote. Just kidding. They may not "get" you but they know what they like so listen and learn. You just might discover your book's fatal flaw.

2. Read the how-to books and blogs, take classes and spend the summer in Iowa. But at some point just write the damn story and let your characters be your guide.

3. If you breathe life into your characters, by page 50 you'll hear the natal heart beat. And that is the point they are big and strong enough to take the story in the direction you had no idea you were going.

4. If your characters are not leading the way by page 50, you made a wrong turn.

5. When nothing is going right, go left.

6. Input and feedback matter, but not too soon. The rush for accolades and encouragement can destroy potentially great ideas before they've had time to percolate. Resist the temptation to ask for comments until you're on solid ground.

7. Input and feedback matter, but only from the right people. Those with an agenda or who like/love you too much to be brutally honest are doing you no favors. You only need a few trustworthy, gentle readers to keep you in check.

8. Admire other writers but don't aspire to be them. We don't need Richard Russo light. Aspire instead to bring yourself to the party. We'd love to hear YOUR voice.

9. Just when your story feels like it's falling apart it may actually be falling into place.

10. Have faith.

11. You can't edit what you didn't write.

12. The Internet is a time suck. You show me an author who is jumping between Facebook and a manuscript and I'll show you an author who is writing crap.

13. Yes, yes. Crap sells. That doesn't mean you have to contribute to the shlock pile. Give us your absolute best work.

14. Enjoy elation when it occurs. Whether it's finishing a book, getting an agent, an advance, a deal, a great review, an award, an interview, making the best-seller list or just hearing from a reader who sings your praises, take time to be excited. You get nothing in writing that guarantees it will ever happen again.

15. Take criticism but not disrespect. Anyone who is rude, dismissive or mean spirited is not worthy of your time and talent.

16. If someone turns you down, move on. Every door that closes brings you one step closer to the door that was meant to open.

17. Follow your instincts and trust that your ideas are coming from a higher place. A place that honors you.

18. Write daring. Your job is to disturb the Universe.

19. Care a great deal about your well being and that of your characters.

20. Don't waste time worrying about something that has not yet happened. There is a no-refund policy on time spent dwelling on the future. Worry only when a problem has presented itself and only if fixing the problem is within your power.

21. There are no such things as problems. Only opportunities to do things differently.

22. If you are writing to dazzle and impress then you should become a speech writer. Novelists will better serve their readers by telling stories that matter.

23. Pushing to write a certain number of pages per day is like committing to driving a certain number of miles on a long road trip. You may arrive but you'll have missed the great scenery and possibly the turns that you should have taken.

24. Thank everyone you meet for whatever service, friendship or act of kindness they show you. This has nothing to do with writing, but an attitude of gratitude will lighten your load.

25. No matter what, if your blessings outweigh your burdens consider yourself among the very luckiest.

So that is it from the trenches. Happy writing. And one last thing. Dream big! I did and it brought me to you.

First published on the GBC website on February 18, 2013

An Excerpt from DEAR NEIGHBOR, DROP DEAD by Saralee Rosenberg

(Contemporary Fiction)

### CHAPTER ONE

"Have you seen my Costco card?" Artie brushed and spit. "I could have sworn it was in my wallet."

"It was." Mindy dried her face. "Then I confiscated it."

"I knew it!" His baby browns were on high beam. "What the hell did you do that for?"

"Because normal people who go in for batteries and a roast chicken don't walk out with six cases of Gatorade and a kayak."

"Not just Gatorade. Fierce Grape! You know the kids go crazy for that flavor."

"Fine. But a kayak?"

"It called out to me."

"Hello? I'm your wife. I can prove you once got seasick in a hot tub."

"I was on medication."

"It's not funny, Artie. We are so broke right now."

"You still shouldn't have returned it without asking."

"Hey, you bought it without asking. Besides, I had to get it out of here before you gave it a name. Remember Fluffy Cat?"

"You were just as sad as me when she ran away."

"Whatever," she shrugged. "Just tell me what's so important that you have to get."

"Can't. It's a surprise."

"You want to surprise me?" She swatted him with a towel. Say to me, 'Mindy honey. I made a big deposit. We get to keep the house for another month."

"Why do you always have to be so negative?"

"Damn! Was I supposed to pop the champagne when our checks bounced?"

"I told you that wasn't my fault. It was a bank error. Now can I have my card back?"

"After you tell me what you're up to."

"Okay, but you're ruining my secret... They got in these really nice sheds for the backyard and I thought, wow, perfect birthday gift for Mindy."

"A shed from Costco," Mindy repeated. "For my birthday."

"Yes!" Artie cheered. "Aren't you always hocking me about getting all the crap out of the garage so we can get a car in there? If we had a shed, we'd have a place for the crap."

"Or... we could throw out all the crap, skip the shed, and buy me a new dryer."

"No. Then you'd accuse me of being one of those jerks who buys his wife house gifts."

"A shed isn't a house gift?"

"Technically it's for the outside, and I was going to let you pick the color. C'mon. Think about it. In the winter, you wouldn't have to stand out in the freezing cold cleaning off your car."

"I thought that's why we had kids."

"I'm serious. You'll thank me for this... Plus, where else would I put the kayak?"

"Doesn't matter. I returned it."

"That's true. Fortunately Ira found the same one at his Costco, and you know my brother. Had to brag that he saved me money 'cause the tax is less in Jersey."

"Oh my God. What don't you get, Artie? I don't want a kayak, I don't want a shed..."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want what every woman wants. A masseuse named Ivan and a closet full of boots."

"Not me." He hugged her. "I just want a shed."

Mindy shoved her cell phone under her pillow, fearing that the constant vibrations would wake the kids. She had hinted to her best friend to please stop text messaging so early in the morning, but when Nadine was bored, everyone had to feel her pain.

_did u open the letter?_ Nadine wrote.

Mindylaughed. She knew her so well. _no 2 scared... u do it_

y do I hafta do everything

' _cause lifesabitch n ur my friend_

She lay back down, careful not to land on an arm or a leg. With her luck, she'd end up in "Newsday": _Merrick Mom Squishes Child to Death. Failed Mediterranean Diet to Blame._

Now that the kids were getting older, she and Artie were trying to crack down on this co-sleeping habit. "C'mon guys. Give us a break. Stay in your own beds!" Only to have their pleas ignored when the eldest translated for the younger two. "They're chill. They full out love us."

So no surprise when Mindy awoke to find body parts dangling in every direction, as if this was the set of a horror flick. But who was she kidding? She felt well rested, and as every parent knew, sleep was the new sex. Besides, nothing pleased her more than pajama scent and taking attendance. All three children were here and blessedly safe.

Ten-year old Jamie and her orphan Annie curls were burrowed under a pillow. A gentle nudge found six-year-old Little Ricky lying at the edge of the bed. And when she groped the floor, there was thirteen-year old Stacie, a former delight now turned pre-menstrual shrew.

Still, Mindy was not naive. She fretted about the proper age to break up this party, much as she'd agonized over how old the kids should be when they stopped showering with her. Thankfully her mother-in-law, Rhoda, VP General Motives, was happy to second guess her.

"In the old days families slept together 'cause they had no choice. But you've got a four-bedroom house and the kids are big now... What are you waitin' for? To get knocked unconscious from a kick in the head?"

Artie had his doubts, too. Would their kids grow up thinking orgies were normal?

Mindy drifted off. Maybe the true story of the Sherman family bed could be the inspiration for a book, plus or minus some dramatic license. The saga would begin when a nosy neighbor reported their scandalous sleeping arrangements to the child welfare authorities. Then faster than you could say bed-in-a-bag, the community would be in an uproar. There would be the requisite death threats, the innocent kids being pummeled at recess, and naturally, the fledgling civil liberty lawyer who took the case to the Supreme Court and won!

Enter TV's title weight champs, Larry King AND Barbara Walters, duking it out over who would get the exclusive interview with the brave mom from Long Island who had come out of the linen closet to defy the child experts.

But the best would be the "People" magazine spread featuring Mindy and her new, svelte body, which would drive her next door neighbor, Beth, crazy. "That can not be Mindy Sherman. She's never looked that good. Bet they Photoshopped her."

Sadly the alarm rang, the fantasy faded and Mindy had to rejoin the show in progress, a duet of gushing water. Outside the heavy March rains were testing their aging gutters while in the master bath, Artie sang in the shower.

During the week he was so fastidious about his morning routines, Mindy could tell the time without having to peek at a clock. God forbid he should miss the 6:40, as if he was traveling on the Long Island Railroad and the rates were lower if he showered off-peak.

At least his daily ritual offered her a little solitude before she had to make lunches, look for lost sneakers and write notes to the teachers, most of which were filled with lies about homework. It was the main reason they'd gotten their dog, Costco (Dollar Tree was too long).

But maybe Nadine had a good idea. She should open the letter from Downtown Greetings to find out if she'd made it through the first round of their contest, not that she actually expected the popular card company to like her entry. This way when they informed her that she'd been eliminated, she wouldn't have to fake her disappointment, like actors who lied that it was an honor just to be nominated.

Still, the idea of participating in a talent search did seem as exciting now as when she'd read the article in the paper. The writer and artist who teamed up to develop the most original new greeting card line would split a hundred grand and receive a one-year contract.

She may have been too pitchy to perform on "American Idol," she thought when she downloaded the entry form, but compete with other writers to create a hilarious line of cards? Hello destiny! And if she God forbid won? She would use the prize money to pay off the loan from Stacie's bat mitzvah. Maybe even shop at Bloomingdales instead of use it as a cut-through to Sbarro pizza.

Plus, this could be her chance for career advancement, not that she was suggesting that anything could top working reception three days a week at her father-in-law's ophthalmology practice. "Mrs. Katz, you shouldn't drive yet. You just had your eyes dilated. No, a cab home is not included in the fee."

Mindy was especially encouraged after Nadine read her entry. "I'm dying this is so funny. They'd never know you just were flying through the house on your PMS broom."

But while waiting to hear back from the judges, Mindy vacillated between euphoria and dread. In one fantasy, they were so enthralled they said, "To hell with the contest. We have a permanent position for you." Other times she could hear a Simon Cowell type skewering her. "You call this funny? I got more laughs reading the instructions for my Chia Pet."

Now as she dug through her end table drawer for the envelope, she felt the tension mounting. She so wanted to participate in this competition, if for no other reason than it gave her a good out to abandon the much ballyhooed project she'd begun on her fortieth birthday, a memoir entitled, WHERE HAVE I BEEN ALL MY LIFE?

Sadly, in the year that passed, she, a former flower child, still had no clue what her purpose in life was, or how several decades had come and gone with her biggest achievement being that she had two recipes everyone wanted.

Trouble was, whenever she fretted about her lack of inspiration, Artie would tell her to stick to what she knew- stain removal and getting through on Ticketmaster. Also, that she needed to have a better attitude. But this was so unfair. Most days of the month she was a very positive person. In fact, not only was she cautiously optimistic about this contest, she even had faith. Maybe if she held the envelope to the light, she could make out the word congratulations.

"Great. You're up." Artie peeked from behind the bathroom door. "Gotta talk to you."

She jumped, stashing the letter under the comforter.

"You okay?" he asked.

"I guess... did you recently buy a kayak?"

"Me? The guy who's going to need a Dramamine drip on the cruise? Yeah, absolutely. I went over to Yacht World with Thurston Howell III and we picked out a nice one."

"Never mind. I must have dreamt it."

"I thought you spent every night with Dr. McDreamy."

"Used to... now I think he's co-sleeping with your Dr. House."

"No! Not Dr. House!"

"Why are you guys talking so loud?" Stacie grumbled.

"You want it quiet?" Artie snapped. "Sleep in your own god damn room for a change."

"Shhh," Mindy scolded. "They don't have to be up yet." She scrambled to the bathroom.

He stared at the envelope in her hand. "Is that an eviction notice?"

"And you call me negative?" She closed the door. "No, it's the letter from Downtown Greetings... It came yesterday but I was too chicken to open it."

"You're kidding. You've been waiting weeks to hear from them... although I still think it's stupid that they didn't just e-mail everyone."

"True. Why would a greeting card company have any use for the post office?"

"Good point." The five-nine teddy bear in brown curls laughed. "So let's open it."

"I'm afraid. It's like when I had to open all those letters from the college admissions offices. Big envelope, you're in. Little envelope, you're calling Antoine's School of Beauty... I just don't want to be disappointed by one more thing."

"Why do you always have to assume the worst? Why can't you ever think, hey, today could be the day everything goes my way?"

"That's exactly how I think. It just never happens."

"Fine. Then don't open it 'til Christmas."

"But what if they loved me? You think I'm hilarious! And besides, whenever I work on my memoir, I never get past the second page, and what are greeting cards? Two pages!"

The sound of a loud, hacking cough coming from their bedroom stopped them cold. "Little Ricky!" They eyed each other and ran.

"Mommmm!" Jamie screamed. "The little dweeb just coughed all over me."

"Did not." He coughed again.

"He's gonna puke," pre-med Stacie presented her case.

"No he's not!" Artie stared her down. "Come here buddy." He carried his son to the bathroom in case Stacie got lucky with her diagnosis. "You okay?"

He said yes, but Mindy felt his forehead. He was warm and the coughs were coming closer and closer together like contractions.

Please God. Not when they were T-minus four days until lift off... the start of their first vacation in years. A Caribbean cruise, courtesy of her in-laws, who wanted the family together to celebrate their fortieth anniversary. Even Mindy's widowed mom, Helene, had been invited.

Granted, the week would be a mixed bag. Mindy would have to celebrate her birthday with her in-laws, eye doc Stan and Rhoda, a woman with more opinions than a retired judge, Artie's brother, Ira, Mr. Hedge Fund, his wife, Dana, Queen of Tofu, their two children, Brandon and Abigale, aka Satanic Cretans. And adding to the merriment? A relative newcomer, literally.

Artie's seventeen-year old son from his first marriage, Aaron, with whom he'd only recently been reunited, had unexpectedly said yes to the invitation to join them, forcing a fast, unrehearsed explanation to the kids as to how they had a half-brother in Oregon who had tattoos and a garage band called Pee-Nis.

"Sounds like an amazing time," Nadine said over lunch. "I can see the headline now: _Long Island Mom Jumps Ship... Mother-in-law denies involvement_."

"I'll be okay," she laughed. "If I have to, I'll barricade myself and conduct a scientific study on exhibiting patience in confined quarters... maybe I'll be an Intel finalist."

"Sorry hon, that ship sailed in high school. Besides, the only study you should do is calculating how long it takes you to punch out Rhoda for all her _kvetching_... 'My soup is cold... I asked for well done...what do you mean there are no more feather pillows'?"

Normally Mindy loved Nadine's Rhoda impressions but now it only added to her angst, for no matter how much she dreaded being pent up with the whole, annoying Sherman family, she had waited an entire year for this vacation and would cry for the entire next one if she didn't get the chance to sunbathe, island hop and drink like Cinderella on her night off.

At least now she finally had a convincing reason why her kids should be sleeping in their own beds: contagions that screwed up important plans. But what to do? This was her only day off before they left and she had a thousand errands to run.

"Ricky honey. Throw up if you have to," she suggested. "You'll feel much better."

"No." he shook. "Don't like to. Do I have to go to school?"

"Yes," she replied to her husband's of course not.

Sure. Would Artie have to cancel his color appointment at the swanky Maximus Salon and have to spend the whole cruise wearing a Mets cap? My that would look lovely on formal night! Maybe she could leave Ricky home for an hour and run over there. Too crazy! This was a touch-up, not an emergency appendectomy... What if she picked up Stacie early from school and she babysat? No. She had play practice and Mrs. Morgan was threatening to kick out anyone who missed another rehearsal. And with all Jamie's _mishegas_ about scary noises coming from the attic, how could she be left in charge? Not even her mother could bail her out as she was already in Florida visiting her twin sister, Toby, who she'd invited on the cruise as it would have been her anniversary, too, if only Toby's husband hadn't dropped dead two years earlier.

But Artie was right. Why think the worst? Ricky was just congested. "Don't worry sweety." Mindy kissed him. "You'll feel better after you take some medicine."

"Okay," he said, then vomited on the rug.

Mindy tried reading the clock on the microwave but didn't have her contacts in yet and her glasses were upstairs. What good was it having family in the optical business if perfect vision wasn't part of the deal?

She tore through a junk drawer and found a red frame with rhinestone elephants that screamed, hello, I have no taste. Who would ever wear anything this ghastly? Apparently her. And who cared what time it was anyway? Her son was sick, her day was shot, and if Rhoda got on the plane and felt a sniffle, she would diagnose it as pneumonia and never let Mindy forget that HER child had ruined THEIR special anniversary trip, for which they paid an ungodly sum AND generously invited her mother, Helene, who then had the NERVE to invite her sister.

As Mindy contemplated this disastrous turn of events, she searched for medicine, then caught a whiff of after shave. No matter how she pleaded, Artie was so heavy-handed, his scent trumpeted his arrival.

"Hey, nice glasses." He opened the fridge. "Maybe I should carry those in the store."

"That's where I got 'em. Which probably explains last month's sale figures."

"Impressive! Shermy gets a three-pointer." He pretended to shoot hoops. "Anyway, I never got to tell you what I needed to tell you before."

"Oh yeah." Mindy gathered enough cold medication to knock out Ricky's entire first grade class. "What's up?"

"I got Mr. Waspy Banker to take another meeting with me."

"How is good ol' Waspy?" She grabbed the thermometer too. "Maybe this time you'll believe me. The guy's a blue-blood. You _have_ to wear a navy suit."

"I will if you will." Artie took a large gulp of juice.

"No-no. Between the dandruff and his little breath mints, he creeps me out."

"Please?" He fell to his knees. "My only experience begging is in bed with you."

Mindy laughed, but saw the worry in her husband's forlorn face. "When is the meeting?"

Artie bounced up. "Today at nine."

"You sound like a commercial for Regis and Kelly," Mindy sighed. If only her optometrist husband hadn't been so quick to buy into a new optical chain called Eye-Deals, he might have heard that the franchise fees were exorbitant and customers hated the selection and prices. The only clear vision she had now was of bankruptcy court.

"We'll take Ricky with us," Artie persisted. "By this afternoon he'll be bouncing off the walls like always."

"No he won't. He's got a fever, a cough and he threw up. What if it's strep?"

"See what I mean? You always have to think the worst! It's not strep. Let's just send him to school and if he doesn't feel good he can go hang out with the nurse."

"I hate parents who do that and you know it. What is wrong with you?"

"I'm a desperate man, that's what. I've been reworking the numbers and I think I can prove we'll have a decent cash flow for the next fiscal year, but you're the better talker."

"You'll do fine. Besides, it's my day to drive."

"Let the kids take the bus for God's sake. Why do you have to take them every day?"

"Stop! I've explained this a hundred times. It's just easier, okay?"

"How is it easier? You have to get up, get dressed, drive to the middle school, then come back and drive to Lakeside."

"It's easier becomes the buses come so early, and the kids always have so much stuff to _shlep_ with their instruments and sports gear, and then they call me from school anyway to tell me they forgot their lunch or the envelope with the field trip money... trust me, it's a lot less stressful when we drive and make sure everyone has everything they need the first time."

"Fine. Whatever. I'm tired of arguing over this. Just call Beth and see if she'll switch."

"I can't. As soon as she sees it's me on the caller ID, she won't answer."

"Then go on line and IM her."

"Can't do that either. She blocked me."

"Why?"

"Because it's Tuesday and I have type O blood! How the hell should I know?"

"What if you create a new screen name, then you can at least see if she's on line?"

"Oh screw it. This is getting stupider by the second. I'll just be brave and call her. "

"Thatta girl."

"I mean what's the worst she can do? Report me to the National Association of Minivan Moms? 'Mrs. Sherman, one more violation and we're taking away your five year jacket'."

When Artie laughed, his whole body erupted like a shaken can of Coke. It was one of the things she loved most. That and his capacity to eat anything she made without complaint, as long as it didn't up and bite him first.

"Oh. And out of curiosity," she asked, "what happens if the bank turns us down again?"

"No big deal," he hugged her. "We'll lose the store and probably the house."

"Fantastic!" she shrugged. "At least then you could stop feeling bad that we never got to buy a shed."

"Oh man," Artie sighed. "I always wanted a shed... I wonder if they come in three-bedroom, two-bath."

Copyright 2008 by Saralee Rosenberg. All rights reserved.

Buy this book:

Saralee's website

# Sara Rosett

SARA ROSETT

_Sara Rosett loves all things bookish, considers dark chocolate a daily requirement, and is on a quest for the best bruschetta. Her stories and essays have appeared in_ Chicken Soup for the Military Wife's Soul, Georgia Magazine, The Writer _, and_ Romantic Times Book Review _. She writes cozy mysteries (the_ Ellie Avery _series and the_ Murder on Location _series) and a suspense series with a dash of romance (the_ On the Run _series). Sara also hosts the Mystery Books Podcast. Find out more at her website._

www.SaraRosett.com

Five Favorite Quotes: The Writing Process From Beginning to End

"How do you write a book?"

It's a question I've been asked a lot, and I still don't have a good answer.

Instead of going with my usual vague response about ideas germinating into plot twists, character inspiration, and daily word counts, I thought I would borrow words from other writers to explain my process.

How I write in five easy steps:

1. "The best time to plan a book is while you're doing the dishes." ― Agatha Christie

I'm always thinking about writing, stories, plots, characters, descriptions, etc. I cull ideas from news reports, snatches of overheard conversations, and other weird places like Pinterest, Facebook, and even my hair stylist (one of the best places to get story ideas, actually). Those ideas are always churning and activities like housework and long walks are great for sorting them out.

2. "Just get it down on paper, and then we'll see what to do with it." ― Maxwell Perkins

I literally would not be a published writer without this quote. I read it years ago when everything I had written was only a few chapters. Nothing was ever good enough: the first line, the first paragraph, the first chapter. I got bogged down in revisions and never moved on to write the rest of the story.

When I read this quote I thought, well, if that's the kind of advice he gave to his authors, which included Fitzgerald and Hemingway, then it was good enough for me. I decided I'd get my ideas down on paper first—the whole book—then revise.

3. "Writing is like driving at night. You can see only as far as the headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way." ― E.L. Doctorow

I generally have a firm grasp of how the story begins and how it ends. I write mystery and suspense, so I know whodunit, how they did it, who the suspects are, and how everything wraps up, but that middle part is always a tad fuzzy. I've found once I start writing, the details and plot twists come into focus as I write.

For me, I have to get into the story to know what must happen next. Some writers know their whole book in great detail from beginning to end before they put even a word on paper. My little brain can't hold all that info at once. I have to ease into it.

4. "Books aren't written – they're rewritten." ― Michael Crichton

Ah, revision. I actually enjoy revising. It's always a relief to me to get the first draft down then I can go back and clean it up. See #2 above.

5. "The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug." ― Mark Twain

That quote pretty much sums up the final stage of writing, doesn't it? When I do the final edit, the line edit, I agonize over the absolute best word, wrestling with nuance and sentence flow. And, don't even get me started on commas....

And one more quote for fun:

Bonus Quote: "Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read." ― Groucho Marx

What are some of your favorite writing quotes?

_First published on the GBC website on_ _June 20, 2013_

Research Trip: Paris Metro, the Eiffel Tower, and Monet (underlined, left justified)

I _love_ research. I could do it forever. It's a great procrastination technique. While trolling Facebook or Pinterest is hard to justify during my writing hours, researching art nouveau Paris Metro signs is _much_ easier to rationalize.

I usually do my research through the library and the Internet, but I now have a new favorite sub-set of the research phase: the research trip.

I've just returned from a short research trip to Paris. I'm working on DECEPTIVE, the third book in the _On The Run_ series, which features suspense, mystery, international destinations, and a dash of romance.

I'd already roughed out the Paris section of the book, and it was interesting to see what changed after a first-hand look at the city. I'd been lucky enough to visit Paris once before several years ago, so I had relied on memory, guidebooks, and my photos.

I had described my main character, Zoe, holding onto a ceiling strap during a ride on the crowded Metro. The Metro was indeed packed, and the basics of the transportation lines were right, but I had one thing off. Turns out, the Metro trains I used (which my main character will also be on) don't have straps.

I'd also described Zoe's first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower as she emerged from the _École Militaire_ station, which should have been possible according to the map. But when I surfaced from that station, all I could see where five- and six-story buildings, a tangle of roads converging, and several sidewalk cafes. The sound of a jackhammer echoed over the whole scene from a nearby building under renovation. Not very romantic, but realistic. However, I did find a Metro with a perfect view of the Eiffel Tower, the _Alma Marceau_.

Some things I had spot-on, like the twin beams of light that shine from the Eiffel Tower at night as well as the delicious food. Much sampling was necessary on the _Rue Cler_ to ensure I had the food part just right.

DECEPTIVE is about a search for a missing Monet painting, so I spent time at the _Musée d'Orsay_ , taking in everything I could: the thickness of the brushstrokes, the size of the canvases, and the size, shape, placement (and sometimes absence) of Monet's signature.

I love Impressionist paintings, and I have to say that seeing them first-hand is a completely different experience than looking at them in a book or on-line. I was amazed at the difference a few feet made in the viewing experience. Up close, the brushstrokes dominated in splats or dots of color; a few steps back and— _viola_!—the cathedral had depth and detail. It was amazing, almost like a hologram.

The Louvre makes a brief appearance in my book, but only the exterior courtyard with the glass pyramid, so I really didn't have to spend a whole day inside.

But I did.

What can I say? I love museums almost as much as I love research.

I'm sure I can use it in a book someday...

First published on the GBC website on May 1, 2013

An Excerpt from ELUSIVE by Sara Rosett

(Mystery/Suspense)

### Chapter One

Dallas, Tuesday, Noon

IT was supposed to be an easy job.

"Cake," Rick had said.

Sammy Dovitz tossed his binoculars onto the passenger seat then shifted restlessly within the confines of the black KIA. It _should_ have been an easy job—no dog and no sign of an alarm installed. The large cottonwood in the front yard hid some of the two-story house and made it difficult to see what was going on upstairs, but that situation also worked to his advantage—he'd take mature landscaping over barren new lots any day. High hedges, shrubs, and towering trees made it possible to move around unnoticed.

But for it to be an easy job, the woman had to leave.

Sammy pulled a small hand towel from below the binoculars and wiped his sweaty forehead. He'd been sitting in the car for five and a half hours. He threw the soaked towel onto the passenger seat. Rick hadn't told him the woman worked from home. Sammy hated work-from-home people. His line of work depended on empty houses, not that this was business as usual. This job was some sort of special case. Sammy usually worked alone, but when Rick offered to let him in on this job, the payoff had been too big to pass up.

Sammy's phone vibrated. Rick didn't bother to say hello. "He's left the office. You got it yet?"

"No. The woman's still there. Is he coming here?"

There was a muttered curse, then Rick's scratchy voice, pitched higher than usual and with a layer of nervousness vibrating through his words, came back on the line. "Doesn't look like it. He was still in his suit. He's driving to the Tollway. Sammy, man, you've got to make this happen. Get on it, right now. Did you hear me? Right now."

"Yeah, I got you." Thunder rumbled, and Sammy looked at the approaching mass of clouds. Another half hour and they would be directly overhead. The bottom of the cloudbank was dark, nearly black, and flat as if sliced with a knife, but the top was bumpy with bloated white columns. Not good. A downpour would only complicate things.

"Do it now," Rick said. "My part is done. I'm out of here."

"Half an hour," Sammy said and turned off his phone.

Looking at the house again, he sighed. It was going to be the hard way. Instead of a quick and dirty, in and out, he'd have to do the job with the woman in the house—not impossible, but time consuming and riskier. He wasn't worried about a confrontation with her. He knew he could take care of her, but it would be better if she never knew he was there, which meant slow and careful and quiet.

Sammy pulled a gray shirt over his white T-shirt. He fastened the buttons, making sure the collar covered the chain link tattoo on his neck. He removed his diamond earring, dropped it in the console, and then picked up a small clipboard and black baseball cap. The name of the game was blending in—that was key. You couldn't stand out. Tattoos and diamonds were memorable. Sammy wanted to be practically invisible. Both the shirt and the cap had the logo of a local cable company, a multi-colored starburst. He pulled the baseball cap low over his eyes and strolled across the street to the gate that opened into the backyard of the two-story house. Despite the large tree in the front, he couldn't risk being seen picking the lock on the front door. It would be too chancy in this neighborhood of occasional walkers and joggers. He could leave through the front door, but he wasn't going inside that way.

The gate was unlocked, so he slipped inside the fence after a quick glance up and down the empty street. He moved to the back of the house and tucked the clipboard into his waistband at the small of his back then slipped his knife out of his pants pocket. After examining the screen and window for an alarm, he used the knife to pry the screen out of its track.

He set it on the ground then slid the knife into the thin space where the upper and lower window casement met. With a flick, the thumb lock released, and he pushed the window up. A cool, air-conditioned breeze from inside the house engulfed him.

***

ZOE stopped typing and stared at the exposed rafter of her kitchen ceiling, listening.

It was too quiet.

The air conditioner whirred and there was the faint plink from the leaky faucet in the hall bath, but there should have been noise from upstairs. A quick glance at the digital clock on the oven confirmed that it was almost twelve-thirty. Jack should have finished his daily run and be in the shower by now. She had heard him come inside, hadn't she? She must have. He moved through his schedule with a precise, unwavering regularity. Despite their best efforts to steer clear of each other, their daily lives crossed at certain points. They couldn't completely avoid each other. Even divorced, non-communicative ex-spouses tended to run into each other when they shared a house.

It wasn't an ideal situation, but because the bottom fell out of the housing market right about the time they divorced, they didn't have a choice. The house was underwater, meaning they owed more on it than they could sell it for, so they were stuck—with the house and with each other.

To keep their sanity and prevent a shouting match that would have the neighbors calling 911, Jack and Zoe kept to their carefully defined regions. Jack used the front door and the stairs to reach his half of the house, the upstairs. Zoe used the back door, which opened into the kitchen. The first floor was hers. The stairs were a sort of No Man's Land, a 38th Parallel. The first floor had more living space, but Zoe really only cared about the kitchen. She'd gladly ceded the master bedroom because she couldn't live without a kitchen. The guest bedroom downstairs was fine with her. She didn't understand how Jack made due with a hotplate and a mini-fridge, but apparently he lived on cereal and sandwiches.

Zoe swiveled on her barstool, legs dangling, as she considered checking the driveway for his car. Then she heard the distinctive creak of the floorboard in the hall, followed seconds later by the far-off squeak of the upstairs bedroom door. Zoe gritted her teeth and turned back to the keyboard. She couldn't remember how many times she'd asked him to spray some WD-40 on those hinges, but did he ever get around to it? No. He could make time in his schedule for anything related to his small business, but minor household repairs never showed up on his to-do list.

When the knock sounded on the back door five minutes later, Zoe looked up from the spreadsheet to check the time and cringed. Helen wouldn't be happy.

"It's open," she shouted, as she leaned over to flick on the overhead lights, since the light in the kitchen had taken on a golden cast as if the sun were setting.

"I knew it," Helen said as she opened the door and plunked down two brown bags dotted with grease stains.

"You stood me up again. And for your laptop, no less. Why did I even bother to go to Chez Madeline? I should skip that step and go straight to a drive-thru instead. It would save me at least fifteen minutes." She tossed her long golden brown bangs out of her eyes and put her hands on her hips. "Did you even remember we had a lunch date?"

The aromas of grilled hamburger and French fries filled the kitchen. "Sorry. I forgot to call you to cancel," Zoe said squirming, but she knew that Helen wasn't seriously mad at her. Helen was never seriously mad about anything. "I'm a terrible friend. I got two short notice assignments this morning. They were urgent. Since I finished the copy-edit on the Italy book, things have been a little slow." Zoe reached around the laptop for a French fry so hot she could barely touch it. "I don't know why you put up with me."

Helen dropped her combative stance and rolled her eyes as she climbed on the barstool beside Zoe. She began to unload food from the bags, careful not to get grease on the cuffs of her silk Michael Kors blouse. "It's probably because you taught me how to fold a dollar bill into a ring in seventh grade and passed all my notes to Ned Billings in history."

"I did dissect your frog for you in biology, too, so you wouldn't fail. Don't forget that."

"Please—we're about to eat!" Helen shuddered, causing the topaz pendent on the thick gold chain at her neck to wink.

"I'm just saying...I do know all your secrets."

"That's definitely part of it," Helen said as she unwrapped her burger and inhaled deeply. "And I know you need the money."

Zoe licked her fingers, gave them a brisk wipe on her shorts, typed a final entry, then attached the document to an e-mail, and sent it off. She pushed the laptop back and picked up her burger. "That I do."

"When will you get the next travel book?" Helen asked.

Copy editing books for a small but popular independent travel company, Smart Travel, was the main reason Zoe's checking account stayed just barely in the black—most of the time. "Should be in a week or so," Zoe said. "England and Ireland this time."

"That will be a nice change from gladiators and gondolas."

"Are you saying you don't like to hear interesting trivia that I pick up when I'm copy-editing?"

"Oh, no. I think it's fascinating to learn about the construction of the Colosseum and how archeologists excavated Pompeii. I'm invincible at Trivial Pursuit now."

"Right. I forgot history was your least favorite subject, next to biology, of course."

Helen shrugged. "I can't help it if all those dates mash together. Anyway, you like it and that's all that matters." Helen changed the subject. "Want to go to the club with me tonight? It's Yoga night."

Zoe shook her head. "Can't. I have a spreadsheet to finish and then I'm walking my neighbor's dog." Normally, she had several dog walking appointments around North Dallas, but the last few weeks had been slow and she only had her neighbor's dog on her schedule today.

Helen put her burger down and took a long sip of her soda as she glanced at Zoe out of the corner of her eye. Casually, she said, "Gary's quitting."

Zoe frowned. "Who?"

"Gary. Gary Wilson. In the clerk's office. You know, he's got the third cube on the left."

Zoe closed her eyes briefly, but it wasn't because she was enjoying her food. She knew what was coming. "I don't want to work at the County Clerk's Office," she said quickly.

"Why not?" Helen pounced. "It's a good job. Benefits. Steady pay. You wouldn't have to take all these different jobs to scrape along, and you might be able to save enough money to actually visit some of the places you'd like to see instead of reading and dreaming about them," Helen said as she pointed a French fry at a mason jar half filled with coins that sat on the window sill. A curling and faded sticky note with the words, "Passport Fund," was stuck to the outside. "You could finish this," she added, looking up at the exposed wood and pipes that ran overhead.

Water damage from a leaky pipe had forced Zoe to rip out the drywall a few months ago and she didn't have the money to hire a contractor to put up new drywall after she paid the plumber.

Zoe plunged her fry into ketchup. "I'll travel someday and I've decided I like it this way."

"You do not. You just say that to make it seem better."

"No, I do like it," Zoe replied firmly. "Those exposed pipes and wires might drive you crazy, but you don't live here. I do. They give the place character, a uniqueness. I know exposed beams would never go over in your corner of suburbia, but here in Vinewood, it's okay.

"They're not exposed beams," Helen said, exasperation lacing her tone. "They're two by fours."

Zoe shrugged. "So? Who says you have to have drywall on your ceiling?" Helen took a deep breath and Zoe wrinkled her nose. "I'm frustrating you, aren't I?"

"Yes!" Helen swiveled on the barstool and touched Zoe's arm. "I worry about you—living here in this old house. You know it will need more repairs. How will you pay for them? And your car, it's already got what—a hundred thousand miles on it?"

"Two, actually," Zoe said, placidly.

Helen threw up her hands at Zoe's tone. "What will you do if your car breaks down? How will you get to your dog walking clients to make twenty bucks?"

"Fifty bucks—for an hour's work. Even you have to admit, that isn't bad," Zoe said as she finished off her burger. "That's more than you make an hour, isn't it?"

"But you don't make fifty dollars every hour. You make fifty here, ten there, and it's not steady work. You don't know if you'll have anything tomorrow."

"Yes, I do know that I'll have something tomorrow. Tomorrow is April first, and Jack's rent is due."

"Oh, there's great security in that...renting office space to your ex is not the smartest business move. Don't you think he'll look around for someplace to move his office as soon as the lease is up?"

"No, I don't. I know you're not Jack's biggest fan, but he's...steady, solid. He's not going anywhere. I can count on him."

Helen narrowed her eyes. "I've never understood what happened between you two....but it begins to make sense now."

"Why we divorced?"

"No, why you got married in the first place! I mean, I understand why he fell for you—you're vivacious and beautiful and fun, but Jack is so...well, dull. Sure, he's good looking—that dark hair and those blue eyes." She raised her eyebrows and nodded. "I totally got _that_ , and he can be witty in a sort of dry way. But after you get over his looks, he's kind of stuffy. But you've hardly ever had anyone you could count on. Who knew," she mused, "stodgy as sexy. Well, there are plenty of guys who are down right dull at the county offices. You can have your pick of them."

Zoe cleared her throat. Helen had hit a little too close to home. Zoe didn't want to dwell on why she'd jumped into a hasty wedding. Once the fireworks had fizzled, she and Jack had found themselves at opposite ends of the spectrum in almost every area of life. She was a live-in- the-moment kind of girl. Jack lived by his calendar. She loved surprises. Jack loved routine. They were just too different.

"Look, Helen. I know you're trying to help, but I'm not like you. You've gone all domestic and settled down with Tucker. You've got a great job. That's terrific for you, but I don't want to live like that. I don't want to dress up and go to the office every day. I like wearing this to work." She gestured to her droopy, oversized waffle weave sweater. It had been navy blue, but now she'd washed it so many times it had a faint gray cast to it. Rumpled North Face khaki shorts, boat shoes, and jingly miniature coin earrings completed her look. Helen stared at her for a moment, a hurt look spreading across her face. Zoe said hurriedly, "I'm not saying there's anything wrong with your life, just that I don't want it."

"But how can you not want it? How can you live from paycheck to paycheck, or, actually, job to job, not knowing if you're going to have enough money?" Helen leaned forward. "Think of all the fun we could have, if we worked in the same building. My cubicle would be down the hall from you. We could eat lunch together everyday and see each other a lot more than we do now."

Zoe's stomach clenched. "And be trapped in an office all day, filing papers and typing on a computer, a cog in the massive machine of government." She shook her head so adamantly that a few strands of her dark red hair came loose from her low ponytail and brushed her cheeks. "No way."

"You make it sound like a death sentence. You type and file papers here all day."

"But I only do the work I want. I turn down jobs, if I don't want to do them. I'm in control."

Helen narrowed her eyes. "When was the last time you turned down a job?"

Zoe busied herself gathering up the trash. "A few weeks ago. I told Kendra I couldn't housesit."

"Because she has a cat! Come on, Zoe, tell the truth. You didn't take the job because you're allergic."

Zoe turned away, dumped the trash, and then hid behind the refrigerator door. "It wasn't the cat. It was the fact that Kendra is the devil incarnate. Looks like we're going to get some rain." The overhead lights in the kitchen seemed to glow brighter as the light outside shifted. The thick layer of dark clouds slid across the sky, bathing the landscape in sepia tones. "Want something else to drink? I've got water and ice tea."

"Water's fine." Helen had her arms crossed, and a stubborn frown crinkled her forehead. "Don't try to change the subject."

Zoe filled two glasses with water from the sink. "The point is," she said as she crossed back to the island, "that I can set my own hours. I value my freedom, and whatever happens, happens. I can't control things. If the Jetta dies, I'll find something else or get it fixed."

The floorboards at the top of the stairs groaned. Helen looked at Zoe. "Is that Jack?" Zoe nodded and Helen asked, "What's he doing here?"

"He lives here, Helen. He always stops here after his run to shower and change before he goes back to the office," Zoe said, listening for his tread on the stairs.

"I don't think it's good for you, living this way," Helen said with a glance at the ceiling. "Still together."

"What is this? Pick on Zoe day? Well, I can play the same game. When will you have a baby?"

Helen held up her hands. "Okay, I get it." Her tone softened. "I worry about you, that's all."

"I know you're concerned, but it's not like Jack and I are living together. We live in the same house. It's really no different than living in an apartment building or duplex. We hardly see each other."

"But you're still...connected to him," she said, her tone gentle. "You've got his drawings on the refrigerator, for God's sake," Helen said, swinging a hand to the fridge. Jack had a tendency to draw when he was bored. Not crosshatches and squares that Zoe made while she waited on the phone, which turned into splotches of ink that only resembled a blob of Play-Doh. Jack's impromptu sketches were more art than doodles. Zoe looked at the fridge where she'd used poetry magnets to attach Jack's sketches. There was the Dallas skyline drawn in the margin of the phone bill, a sketch of a book splayed open in the corner of a sticky note, and her favorite, ivy leaves climbing into the text of a magazine article like the words were bricks in a wall. "They're just little sketches," Zoe said. "It doesn't mean anything."

Helen didn't reply, only dropped her chin and looked at Zoe with a sorrowful look.

"You've still got that _Pirates of the Caribbean_ poster with Johnny Depp—the one you got when you were fifteen. I know it's on the inside closet door in your guestroom. You haven't thrown it away."

Helen shifted on her barstool. "That's for my nieces. They stay in there when they come to visit. Besides, a movie poster is different from personal mementos. And if I had any personal mementos from Johnny Depp, they wouldn't be tucked away in a closet, let me tell you," Helen said with a grin and they both laughed, breaking the slight tension between them. They might argue, but they were good enough friends that they _could_ argue.

Another noise from upstairs caught their attention. "Will he come in here?" Helen asked.

"No. He never does." She paused, listening for his rapid descent and the solid thump of the front door as it closed—Jack always came down the stairs fast, but it was absolutely quiet.

Helen raised her eyebrows at Zoe. "Is he gone?"

Zoe walked over to the kitchen doorway. Unlike the popular open floor plan of Helen's newly constructed house, Zoe's house was designed in an earlier era when each room was self-contained. Nothing flowed, and there were few open spaces, which suited Zoe and Jack just fine. The choppy design was exactly what they wanted, but it meant that Zoe couldn't see the stairs or the hallway that ran along the stairs to the front door. She leaned around the doorframe then peered up the stairs, listening, but the only sound was a crack of thunder.

"Jack?" she called. She returned to the kitchen, flexed a large envelope, and pulled out a stack of pictures. "He missed these," she said with a little frown. She and Jack communicated mostly by message. They left notes or bills on the hall table, which was where she'd placed the envelope, figuring he'd pick it up on his way back to the office. She debated invading the upstairs for a moment to leave it in his room, but dismissed the idea. She wouldn't want him poking around in her room.

"Oh, pictures," Helen said, wiping her hands on a napkin. "Let me see. You hardly ever see actual pictures anymore. Everything's digital now."

"These aren't mine, and they aren't high quality. They're on printer paper. Connor mailed them," Zoe said, referring to Jack's business partner. "I have no idea why he'd mail anything snail mail in the first place or why he'd send it here."

"Maybe he forgot the office address?"

"But remembered Jack's home address? No, I don't think so. I don't know Connor's address off the top of my head."

"Where were these taken?" Helen asked, squinting. "They're cute. I love the cobblestones and the sidewalk café, but they're so grainy they're almost Impressionistic."

"I couldn't figure it out either. Connor's afraid of anything made after 1995, so he probably took them with his phone, which has a terrible camera. I heard him complaining the other day about how he couldn't use his regular camera because he couldn't find a place to develop film, if you can believe it."

Zoe flipped through the pictures again, which were all street scenes, except one. She paused at a close-up of a Madonna, the paint faded and crackled. The figures were flat, almost one-dimensional, barely standing out from the blue background with its sprinkling of stars. She fingered the corner of the photo, thinking it was an odd sort of thing for Connor to photograph. He wasn't especially religious or interested in art, either.

"Weird," Helen said, handing the pictures back. She stood and slipped her Coach bag on her shoulder. "Well, I have to get back, too. Maybe I can beat the rain. Looks like it's going to be a huge storm. Think about the job," she instructed as she left.

"Fine. I'll think about it," she said to placate Helen. As she shut the door behind Helen, she felt a twinge of misgiving. A job at the county would be a smart move—secure and safe, but she couldn't do it. It might be wise, but she'd be miserable. She knew she would, and it's not smart to make yourself miserable, she reasoned. A prick of doubt wiggled inside. She squashed it down and went back to work.

Half an hour later, the storm unleashed torrents of rain, and she spent fifteen minutes in the hall bathroom after the tornado siren sounded. She emerged from the hall bath and noticed that besides missing the envelope, Jack had also forgotten to lock the front door. "That's odd," she said to herself. He was such a stickler for locking doors and windows. Strange that he would forget.

Dallas, Tuesday, 1:15 p.m.

JACK Andrews pushed the windshield wipers to HIGH. Rain pounded his windshield in thick torrents of water that drowned out the local news on the radio. He'd hoped to catch the latest market report, but he could do that when he got to the office. GRS, an abbreviation for Green Recyclable Services, was located in a business park made up of single story stand-alone businesses designed to look more like homes than offices. The developer hadn't skimped on trees, sprinkling islands of oaks and cottonwood trees along with plenty of hedges for privacy. Most of the tenants were dentists, accountants, or small medical offices.

He wheeled the car into the slot directly in front of the door to GRS, still slightly amazed at the heavy rain. These Texas thunderstorms that swept across the plains were unlike anything he'd seen growing up in middle Georgia where rain usually meant steady storms that skimmed overhead, gently soaking the land. Here, thunderstorms were vicious, bearing down quickly with winds that drove rain slicing through the air. Tiny pellets of hail tapped against the roof and hood of the car. His blue Accord was seven years old and already had plenty of dents and dings. He'd bought it used when he moved to Texas and wasn't going to worry if it got some hail damage.

He glanced at Connor's new silver BMW at the far back corner of the small lot. Connor was going to be pissed if he got some hail damage. Despite clinging to his antique cell phone and having a serious aversion to any sort of digital technology (he refused to use the office coffeemaker because it didn't have an actual on/off toggle switch), Connor was finicky when it came to his other personal possessions, always wanting the best. Zoe put it more succinctly, saying, "He's a snob." Connor's idiosyncrasies didn't bother Jack. What Connor did with his salary—what he bought or didn't buy—didn't matter to Jack. Jack handled most of the computer-related aspects of the business anyway, except for the accounting software, which Connor had somehow managed to grasp to relieve Jack in at least one area.

With the heavy downpour, Jack was surprised his business partner hadn't cleared out of the office early to get his precious car into the garage of his newly purchased McMansion before the storm arrived, but then he remembered Connor had told their secretary, Sharon, he'd cover the office that afternoon during her dentist appointment, an unusually nice gesture, for him. GRS was still a tiny start-up, just the three of them, and they had to cover for each other. However, it looked like they wouldn't stay small much longer.

Jack sprinted from the car to the door but was still drenched by the time he made it inside.

He crossed the small reception area. "Connor, you in there?" There was no answer from behind the closed door to the office on the left of Sharon's desk. Probably on the phone, Jack thought as he loosened his tie. Connor spent more time talking on the phone than he did sleeping. He tended to shout and drop a lot of curse words, which Sharon didn't like. Lately, she'd taken to shutting his door to make a point. Jack crossed behind Sharon's desk where her monitor screen was spinning through a kaleidoscope of abstract shapes.

He stepped into his office, which was opposite Connor's and picked up his gym bag with his clean workout clothes. His suit jacket and dress shirt were soaked, and his pants were wet from the ankles to the knees. He quickly changed into a black Aeropostale T-shirt, gray workout shorts, and Asics running shoes. He dragged his fingers through his damp brown hair, finger combing it off his forehead. He sat down at his desk then went completely still. Something was wrong.

His screen saver, a photo of him and Zoe in front of the fountains at the Bellagio, smiled at him—their honeymoon photo. He'd been out of the office for over an hour. His computer shouldn't be on. It was set to shut down after ten minutes. His gaze raked the room. Nothing was out of place. He nudged the mouse and the screen saver dissolved into a webpage with lines of text and numbers, his bank account. He frowned and leaned forward, staring at the last line of numbers. "That can't be—" But it was. The balance was over seven figures. _Seven figures?_ He wiped a hand down over his mouth.

_Banking error_ , he thought. It had to be. The balance had soared late yesterday with a wire transfer from his investment account.

He grabbed the mouse and quickly logged into his investment account. When the numbers came up, he stared at the screen. His balance was zero. The last transactions, dated yesterday, showed that he'd sold all his GRS shares and made a wire transfer. Only, he hadn't sold any shares yesterday. And the number of shares was wrong—it was too high. _Way_ too high. He didn't own that much GRS stock. He shook his head in disbelief as he opened his middle desk drawer for a pen and notepad. Straightening this mess out was going to require extended time on hold, he was sure.

He froze. Nestled among the sticky notes, pens, and scattered paperclips, was his gun—the gun that no one knew about, not even Zoe. He'd left it locked in a trunk in the attic. At home.

_Copyright 2012 by Sara Rosett_. _All rights reserved_.

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# Wendy Tokunaga

WENDY TOKUNAGA

Wendy Tokunaga is the author of the novels, MIDORI BY MOONLIGHT, LOVE IN TRANSLATION, FALLING UPHILL, HIS WIFE AND DAUGHTERS, and the award-winning NO KIDDING. She's also written the non-fiction book, MARRIAGE IN TRANSLATION: FOREIGN WIFE, JAPANESE HUSBAND. Her MFA is from University of San Francisco and she teaches for Stanford University's Online Writer's Studio Novel Certificate Program. She also offers manuscript consulting for novels and memoirs. In her spare time, you'll find her seeking out the next to-die-for restaurant, singing and songwriting with her keyboardist husband, or acting as servant to her Siamese cat Mocha.

www.WendyTokunaga.com

Writing While Under the Influence of Happiness

In a recent article in _The Atlantic_ called, _What Writing Has in Common With Happiness,_ novelist and playwright Yasmina Reza says, "writing fiction is not an intellectual process. It's as mysterious as painting, as drawing a brush across the canvas to see what happens." She goes on to say that "happiness has nothing to do with external forces. Happiness is a disposition you have inside of you. It's not the outside world—it's you." She also quotes Voltaire's _Philosophical Dictionary_ : "It's not the circumstances but what our soul is made of that makes us happy."

Although the writing life can be full of angst and despair, and authors have a reputation for suffering for their art through all the rejection and solitude, I think it's really important to take a step back and reflect on how we can be happy. But there are things that can interfere with our writing while happy.

~ If only I could finish a novel, I'd be happy.

~ If only I could get an agent, I'd be happy.

~ If only I could get a book deal, I'd be happy.

~ If only I could have a huge turnout for my book event, I'd be happy.

~ If only I could get reviewed in the New York Times, I'd be happy.

~ If only my book could be a New York Times bestseller, I'd be happy.

~ If only my book could get the Oprah seal of approval, I'd be happy.

~ If only my book could be made into a major motion picture, I'd be happy.

~ If only that major motion picture could be a blockbuster, I'd be happy.

Do you see where this is going? It's that little voice in your head (most likely a distant cousin of your inner critic) that's never satisfied, always hoping for MORE. I don't think happiness should be a goal you chase with an ever-increasing amount of incremental steps; it should be how you feel in the present. In other words, you need to be here now. And enjoy the moment.

If you're working on a novel, work on the novel. Enjoy the process. Enjoy the challenge. Perhaps you even turned to writing as a way to make yourself happy. Enjoy the fact that you have time to write, that you can create your own world and characters, that you can tweak and massage your prose to make it the best it can be. Stop dreaming about some extreme future that, chances are, may never come to fruition, at least in the way you're dreaming it. Indulge in optimism and see the world as a place with possibilities. Express gratitude. Savor the joys of your writing life and commit to your goals. But be flexible about expectations and know that while things can turn out unexpectedly, they most often turn out for the best.

And don't be too hard on yourself.

And try not to compare yourself and your journey to the experience of other writers, or begrudge anyone's success. Know that they deserve it as you'll deserve yours, too.

A happy writer is a successful writer is a writer who loves to write. Appreciate it. Cultivate it.

And you'll be writing under the influence of happiness.

First published on the GBC website on March 17, 2015

Everything I Know About Rejection I've Learned From _American Idol_

It's Season 14 of American Idol and it's just me and Ryan Seacrest. We're both still here but everyone else is long gone. No more Simon Cowell. No more Paula Abdul. No more Randy Jackson. Even no more Brian Dunkleman, the short-lived co-host of Season 1.

Why have I been watching American Idol without fail, every season for the past 13 years? Hell, if I know. Well, actually, I do know. It's all about rejection, the fascination with why a singer is ultimately turned down. A fascination with who succeeds and who doesn't, who's got talent that in the end doesn't get recognized, the _je ne sais quoi_ that tips the scales in favor of a successful contestant—the sheer subjectivity and baffling mess of it all.

I'm not talking about the joke applicants who obviously can't sing (and they've been showcasing less of those train wrecks in recent seasons); I never watched for them. I love experiencing great raw talent or at least great potential. A Kelly Clarkson. A Carrie Underwood. An undiscovered gem.

But in the end the whole thing usually doesn't make much logical sense. Why does a runner-up sometimes surpass the winner (e.g., Clay Aiken, Adam Lambert)? Why does a future Oscar-winner and mega-million record seller stall and get told good-bye, coming in only seventh? (Jennifer Hudson). Why has Season 5 fifth-place contestant Chris Daughtry garnered more success than Season 5 winner Taylor Hicks? Who is even aware of the most recent season winners—Caleb Johnson, Candice Glover? Why has mainstream success eluded standouts like Melinda Doolittle, Latoya London, Allison Iraheta, Colton Dixon, Haley Reinhart, Pia Toscano, Blake Lewis and more?

It's luck. It's subjectivity. It's the fact that, like the publishing industry, the people in the music industry, the _American Idol_ judges and the fans who vote are only human, with all the failings that go along with being human. Not everyone can agree on what constitutes fine singing talent or good writing. And just because you sing or write well doesn't guarantee any kind of success. It's that simple and once you realize this, the better off you'll be.

The Internet is full of lists of writers and musicians who were roundly rejected during their early attempts, but eventually went on to great things. Or fine actors who've never been recognized with an Oscar nomination. But there are also many who never make it and the reasons why aren't always clear. Were they ahead of their time? Or just unlucky? And then there are those who get derided as "one hit wonders," even though having just one great success is something to be proud of, at least in my book.

But the people keep auditioning for _American Idol._ They come because they want their dream to come true, or because they're driven to provide for their families (good luck with that), or because they're convinced that music is the only thing they can do, or _yadda-yadda-yadda._ Some are talented, many aren't.

And as in the publishing world (traditional or indie) the odds are stacked against you, even if Jennifer Lopez says you're just swell. But these wannabes persist, some deluded, all determined, despite the music industry being in big trouble, just like the publishing industry. If you snag the _American Idol_ grand-prize recording contract there's no guarantee of any kind of success. And in some cases it's better _not_ to win that contract and to instead come in second or even third.

So I guess that's one reason why I keep watching _American Idol._ It's like we're all in this game together. We'll keep trying despite being rejected, despite getting _this close_ , despite being told we're just not good enough.

We don't give up and there's something comforting about that.

First published on the GBC website on February 8, 2015

An Excerpt from HIS WIFE AND DAUGHTERS by Wendy Tokunaga

(Contemporary Fiction)

### JILL

### Chapter One

It had all started with Lesley Chisholm and I wanted it to end with Lesley Chisholm. In hindsight it's easy to view my thinking as at the least misguided and, at the most, delusional. But meeting her was what I had to do. Confronting her, making sure that she knew of the pain she had caused me—the pain she'd caused my family—would set me free. I would force her to apologize, and take ownership and responsibility for what she'd done. Then this "issue" that had followed me around for the past twenty years, this burden, would lift from my shoulders: _I would be able to get on with my life._

All I needed to do was walk over to where she sat, at one of the more desirable tables located in the far corner beside the window, casting her in a not unflattering light. All I needed to do was sit down, introduce myself, and state my case.

Of course she was older than when I'd last seen her, but she looked good for her age, which I expected. At nineteen, when this debacle had started, she'd been stunning, and now at nearly forty she qualified as—what do you call them? A MILF? A cougar? Lesley Chisholm was only two years my senior, but I was the one who looked my age—even older. The extra weight I carried only added to my bordering-on-stodgy appearance. But I figured that having a straightforward talk with her would not only get my life back on track, it would also give me the nudge to get back in shape.

I stared at that face. How inescapable it had been, plastered over every newspaper, in _People_ magazine, the _National Enquirer,_ on _60 Minutes_. Pictures of a fifth grader hugging her beagle named Scout, a much too leggy high school cheerleader waving from the top spot of the pyramid, the beaming winner of the Youth Are Our Future speech contest in her senior year.

The media loved to play up the image of innocence and goodness against the seamy situation for which she became famous—or, I should say, infamous. Everyone seemed to salivate over each new detail, everyone but me, who only wished for Lesley Chisholm to have never existed.

Now her blond hair shone a shade darker from the color during her teen years, cascading to her shoulders in soft waves, fresh off the curling iron. In a sharp white blazer over a mauve top, a dramatic pewter choker clasping her neck, she appeared in control, exuding a crisp confidence. Next to her I must have seemed faded, a faint daguerreotype, in lackluster black pants, a gray cardigan I now realized shouted frumpy, and an unruly brown bob that refused to make a commitment to curly or straight.

Lesley fit the exact description of the woman she'd become: Marie Ferris, an interior decorator waiting to meet with a potential client. To defuse any curiosity or embarrassment among those who might remember the events of twenty years ago (and, really, who didn't?), she had long been using her middle name in place of Lesley, paired with the last name of her current (read third) husband.

Tracking her down didn't take long and it surprised me to learn that she lived and worked right in my own backyard. Thinking about it now I can't fathom why I hadn't been more hesitant to call her. How could I have made such a bold move? I wasn't the type to be so sure of myself—to want to _confront_ someone. I'd always said that the past is the past, that you had to get on with life and not mire yourself in issues and incidents that occurred long ago, especially since it was impossible to change them.

But in light of several realizations, including some messy turns my life had taken and not to mention the fact that Lesley Chisholm was now planning to rehash all of this dirty laundry, and promising further revelations for the world to see, I began to wonder if I'd been wrong to practice this philosophy. Burying the pain of the past could be the precise reason why so much of my life seemed to be in disarray. Perhaps I needed to come to terms with what had happened and its fallout. And what better way than to express my outrage to the perpetrator? To demand an apology. Not that an apology would ever be enough. But I still wanted one.

So I'd finally bucked up my courage and punched in her number, identifying myself as an executive assistant, saying I wanted to meet on behalf of my boss, the head counsel at one of the large, prestigious law firms in the Transamerica Pyramid building. Could we discuss giving his office a new look, I asked, one that fit better in light of his recent promotion? Marie Ferris ran her own successful consulting practice, specializing in the decoration of swanky corporate office suites. I suggested lunch first, my treat, so we could go over the details since my boss had specific requests and a large budget at his disposal. Then we would walk over to the office, which wasn't too far away.

This ruse worked as I'd expected and she agreed to see me without hesitation. I gave my real name—Jill Madison—(I'd kept my married name after my divorce) because I knew she would have hung up if she realized she were talking to Jill Brath, Dan Brath's daughter.

I'd suggested meeting at Pescado, one of my favorite restaurants, and where I'd dined countless times. Overlooking Washington Square in the heart of busy North Beach, it would have been better to take public transit. But another mistake I made that day was to drive. Although I'd been here many times, I became disoriented and turned into the wrong direction of a one-way street, coming _this close_ to colliding with the 30-Stockton trolley. By some miracle I was able to make a quick, illegal u-turn with no police car in sight, and pull in for the valet parking. Looking at my watch I saw that it wasn't too bad; I was only ten minutes late.

Now I observed Lesley Chisholm gazing out the window, composed, and not at all antsy or impatient that I had yet to arrive. Unlike other customers who seemed to be conducting business between bites of food, even her cell phone gave off a calm demeanor, resting on the table next to a glass of ice water.

I recalled arriving at Pescado under pleasanter circumstances and a time not too long ago when I shared a perfect meal with a lovely man who was becoming special to me; a man I might have already lost for good. And I could only blame myself for that particular mess.

The restaurant boasted one of the best Spanish wine lists in San Francisco, and the sight of the tall, wooden credenza framed with carved grapevines, and lined with bottles of _tempranillo_ and _rioja_ filled me with a comforting, familiar warmth. Normally the mouth-watering fragrance of garlic and olive oil wafting from the kitchen would bring to mind what to order. Seafood and andouille paella? Blue corn crab empanadas? But now, not surprisingly, I'd lost any semblance of an appetite.

I took in the flower arrangement: a sturdy palm leaf backing up delicate clusters of pink and white orchids in a raku-glaze vase atop the antique pedestal to my left, which also held the reservation book. I didn't recognize the hostess standing behind it; I'd only been to Pescado for dinner.

"Only one?" she asked with a sigh.

Ever since my divorce I'd become hypersensitive to such remarks. "Just yourself?" was another. Did people still cling to that old-fashioned way of thinking? That female solo diners are poor tippers, prone to order only the least expensive appetizer and tap water, making for a substandard bill?

I'd always adored the cozy intimacy of Pescado, enjoying the feeling of the staff being as pleased at welcoming me, whether alone or not, as I was to return again and again. But today something seemed out of whack, as if the charming family-owned eatery had been kidnapped and held hostage by an Applebee's.

But I needed to get to the matter at hand and tell the hostess that I had a reservation for two under the name Jill Madison. Yet as I tried to speak, my mouth seemed to freeze.

"Ma'am?"

I licked my lips and then cleared my throat. "Ah, a reservation for Jill," I practically whispered. "Madison."

She gave me a look that said, _"Huh?"_ before checking the book. "Oh, yes. Your party is already seated."

"Thank you. I see her."

A meeting I'd imagined as ending on an up-note of relief, even marking a sense of accomplishment and a new start, now conjured nothing but dread.

My eyes zeroed in again on Lesley Chisholm, who appeared to be looking in my direction, though I was convinced that she wouldn't know me on sight. But would it be a different scenario once we were face to face? Would she recognize my father's eyes in mine?

I felt myself weakening, realizing that she might sense my vulnerability. What had I been thinking? Did I really believe I could keep my cool and handle such a meeting, treating it with the nonchalance of an ordinary lunch date to catch up with an old college classmate or gossip with a girlfriend?

Enough of this, I thought, and walked toward her table, trying to ignore the trembling in my knees. As I approached her, our eyes met, and she offered a friendly smile. No, she didn't seem to recognize me. She rose and reached out her hand.

"Jill?" she said.

"Who the hell do you think you are?" I said. "I've hired a lawyer, you know. I'm putting a stop to this. You have no idea what kind of damage this will do."

I hadn't intended these as my opening lines, but my tirade emerged without warning and with all the candor and tact of a child's tantrum. The room seemed to fall silent, each diner pausing in mid-bite to stare at the crazy woman. It was like one of those dreams when you're in first period algebra, clad only in your flimsy nightgown babbling incoherently, your classmates pointing and laughing.

The arching of Lesley Chisholm's eyebrows, her mouth taking on the shape of an "o" showed her surprise and shock, and my response was to panic.

I had just one choice now. I turned away and walked toward the door. Bumping into a young female server in a white tablecloth apron, then making my way past the hostess and her alarmed expression, I stumbled out the exit.

I made a left and kept walking down Powell Street, my face blistering in the sun. Then I crossed over Columbus to Broadway in the direction toward Battery Street. I remember feeling as though a force were propelling me to a destination I knew without having to think about it.

I instinctively turned my head to make sure Lesley Chisholm wasn't chasing me, a notion I'd have considered ridiculous in a saner moment. I picked up my pace and continued on Battery over to Vallejo Street, then Green, until I reached Levi Plaza Park where workers picnicked on benches surrounding a waterfall, the Transamerica Pyramid, towering in the distance, like a giant Lego toy.

From here I had a few choices; I could walk to Fisherman's Wharf or Ghirardelli Square. Or I could make the trek to the Ferry Building food hall where I envisioned an Acme Bread baguette and a wedge of Cowgirl Creamery Humboldt Fog cheese with my name on them.

But instead I approached Filbert Street, which at its terminus point here was no longer a street, but a stairway. The Filbert steps. I'd photographed them many times, but there was always something new to observe, an angle I'd never noticed, the changing light depending on the time of day, the weather, or the density of the surrounding trees.

But today I didn't have my camera with me, and I wasn't thinking about photography. Instead I held on to the railing and climbed, as if determined to reach the sky. I read somewhere that Filbert is one of the steepest streets in the Western Hemisphere and, judging from my body's reaction, this seemed to be true. The muscles in the back of my thighs began to pull and tighten as I panted like an aging dog on a hot day, my stamina markedly weaker from when I'd practically sprinted up these steps during a brisk romantic walk with my ex-husband way before our split.

Sweat bathed my neck and formed droplets that trickled down my back as I continued to mount the stairway, then stopped to take in the sudden, majestic view of Coit Tower. I heard the squawking of the South American parrots that had long ago claimed Telegraph Hill their turf, and could see a couple roosting in the trees, their silky feathers the color of emeralds, and brilliant splashes of red dotting their heads.

Finally I couldn't go any further, wishing in vain for a bottle of water to soothe my burning throat, or better, a glass of Rochioli Chardonnay. I perched on the steps and took in the view of the Bay Bridge, bathed in the sun glistening over San Francisco Bay, a landmark as worthy as its far more famous Golden Gate sister.

And for a brief moment I could wipe clean from my mind the day's fiasco. Now my breathing had just about returned to normal. I closed my eyes, taking in the heady scent of a bush of star jasmine that reminded me of my mother's favorite perfume from years ago. I could have been Alice decked out in her blue dress and white pinafore dozing on a lazy afternoon.

But this tranquility was short lived. As I watched the fog creep in and shivered at the drop in temperature, an anxiety crept over me that I couldn't pinpoint. Reciting the events of the day in my head, one by one in chronological order, it still gnawed at me. I thought hard and then it became clear. It was that I'd forgotten something. I'd forgotten that I'd driven to Pescado to tell off Lesley Chisholm in order to shake my demons and make a fresh new start.

My car was still parked there with the valet, some one and a half miles away.

***

It was little wonder why I'd focused my anger in the direction of Lesley Chisholm. All I'd ever heard from my mother was how everything in our lives would have been perfect if she'd never come into the picture. According to her, each of our family's misfortunes led back to this one woman. It got to the point where I could view my life as split in half: before Lesley and the first time I heard her name.

This was during another lunchtime, long before my aborted attempt to confront her at Pescado. This was at the Mayfair-Cooper Academy for Girls, the private Hillsborough high school I was attending in 1988. A television mounted on the wall showed the noon news, and as usual I sat with my friends Belinda and Hannah. Attempting to eat melted vinyl on a piece of sheet rock disguised as a grilled cheese sandwich, I wondered how the food at a school that charged a yearly tuition equal to the average annual income of a Daly City family of four could be worse than the grub served up at San Quentin.

Belinda was droning on in too much detail about the latest episode of _Family Ties._ My boredom with the topic led me to glance up at the TV _,_ where I watched a dignified Asian woman newscaster, her eyelids saturated in deep blue, and donning a pink-and-white pinstriped blouse with an oversized bow tied tight at the neck in a fashion that always brought to mind Bozo the Clown. And to her right my eyes caught a picture of my father.

"Eyewitness News has learned that police are investigating whether a young Washington DC woman missing for the past two weeks, nineteen-year-old Lesley Chisholm, had been having an affair with fifty-two year-old California Democratic Congressman Dan Brath. Congressman Brath, who is in his fifth term in the House of Representatives, has denied any romantic involvement with Chisholm, and has so far refused to cooperate with police, who are calling him a possible 'person of interest' in the young woman's disappearance."

_Dad?_ I remember the room shaking after this pronouncement and my instinct was to dive under the table. Belinda has said that's wrong, that I'm mixing it up with the time when a 5.0 earthquake hit at lunch six months earlier. She also remembered saying, "Oh, my God!" and that Hannah had shouted, "Not your _father!"_ but I don't recall those details. At any rate, temblor or not, to say the news shook me off my foundation was putting it mildly.

I do remember my classmates acting restrained. "Vicious rumors. That's politics for you," I recollected Belinda as saying. Then she and Hannah returned to their conversation about Mallory Keaton's unflattering new hairstyle, the downplaying of the situation their way of telling me not to worry.

Although I received a few long stares during the rest of the day, no one else uttered a word to me. And I could barely speak either, although I managed to correctly answer a question in English class on the motif of darkness and sunlight in _The Scarlet Letter_.

By the end of the school day, I was still trying to make sense of a situation that sounded like a cheesy movie-of-the-week, _My Daughter and the Congressman: The True Story of a Washington Scandal._ I couldn't give it any credence.

An adulterer? Those were people like Hester Prynne wearing her letter A or Reverend Dimmesdale with his hair shirt, not anything to do with Dan Brath. And the news had labeled my father not only a cheater, but also a possible murderer. Of course this girl must be dead by now; the news anchor's solemn voice all but verified it. These days any young white female the media deemed missing eventually ended up reported found—as a corpse.

Despite the implausibility of it all, and knowing there had to be a reasonable explanation, I still worried about my mother. I pictured her draped over the sofa, clinging to Hugo, our black Lab, weeping into his neck while he whimpered in sympathy.

But when I got home the dog bounded into the living room to greet me as usual, his tail gyrating, and I heard my mother in the kitchen on the phone, a smile in her voice, going on about something to do with the San Mateo Bonsai Club fundraiser.

The atmosphere of normalcy and calmness filled me with relief. Things were going to be all right. This was overblown as Belinda had said, and I probably hadn't even heard it right. There had to have been some kind of mistake.

But in the next moment I panicked. Would I be the one to deliver the news to my mother? Though it seemed unlikely, perhaps she hadn't heard. Maybe she'd been out all day, taking my sister to school and to her gymnastics class, or making a trip to the La Belle Vie day spa for a facial and a footbath. She could have been at Redwood Hospital where she managed the candy stripers and the senior volunteer staff, or off to the nursery to find a replacement for the droopy begonia bush in the front yard that the gardeners seemed to have neglected; she'd been worried about it for days.

When I entered the kitchen my mother smiled and raised her hand in a just-a-minute gesture, and begged off to her caller. "I have to go. Jilly-Bean's home."

How on earth would I tell her? Where would I start?

"How was school?" she asked.

"Okay," I said. "I, ah, heard something." I clutched at my stomach while a wave of nausea rolled over me. I tried to gather my thoughts.

She seemed not to hear me. "Something's come up. About Daddy." Her voice lacked any concern, exhibiting only a familiar, pleasing tone as if she were about to say that she'd scrapped plans to have applesauce pork chops for dinner in favor of meatloaf.

"I heard."

Now she looked worried. "You did? How?"

I explained about the story on the Noon News.

"You're watching television at school?"

It soothed me that she appeared more alarmed about this than anything regarding my father. "What's going on?"

"Your father told me this would be coming out, but I was going to tell you tonight. I didn't expect you to hear about it at school." She sighed. "Daddy has a lot of enemies in Washington, you know. This is a big bunch of lies. They're trying to discredit him as usual because he's up for re-election."

"Does he even know this girl?"

"She works as an intern in the Justice Department. He knows her by name, but that's all. Now she's missing or something. It's probably just a misunderstanding. She'll turn up and this'll blow over. We just have to wait it out." She sighed again. "I didn't know it would already be on the Noon News."

"Does Phoebe know?"

"Not unless there's a TV in gymnastics class."

I looked at my watch. "I guess I better go get her."

It was my job to pick up my little sister on Tuesdays and Thursdays at the dance and gymnastics studio in downtown San Mateo. Seeing the contemplative, worried look on Phoebe's face as she leaned against the big picture window, painted with white curlicue letters proclaiming Miss Edna's Tap, Ballet and Gymnastics, I surmised that she'd already heard the news. I made up my mind to imitate my mother's composure. Be calm, I told myself. Stay in control. Don't look panicked.

"Courtney Winchell said that Dad killed someone," she wailed once she got in the car."She's nuts," I said.

Phoebe sat motionless.

I frowned. "Aren't you going to put on your seat belt?"

Once she buckled up I started the car. As I turned from Second Avenue to El Camino Real, I relayed the story I'd heard on the news, but glossed over the part about the affair. I told her what Mom had said about Dad's enemies.

"Courtney said he had sex with her. And that's why she had to be killed."

So much for shielding my baby sister. "So how does Courtney know all this? Is she in Washington?"

"She said it's on the news. So it has to be true."

"Calm down. Mom says it's a big lie so there's nothing to worry about. Someone's started a nasty rumor because of the election. That's all it is."

"How does Mom know?" Phoebe's eyes went large like Tweety Bird's.

"Because Dad told her."

She crossed her legs, her right ankle touching her knee, her foot shaking with fury. She leaned forward toward the dashboard, her arms covering her chest, as if in crash position.

"Dad's _married,"_ I said. "And why would any nineteen-year-old girl be interested in a fifty-two-year-old man? Yuck."

I stuck out my tongue, hoping to bring some levity to the situation, maybe even make her laugh. I considered Phoebe a young thirteen, and even though I knew of the existence of plenty of such relationships, I was hoping that she would see it as so gross that it couldn't possibly be true.

But I sensed her stubbornness; she would have none of it. She bit her lip and stayed silent.

"Mom said this is just a misunderstanding. The girl will turn up," I said.

Phoebe glared at me. "How does she know that? Is _she_ in Washington?"

"Shut up. If you don't believe me, you can talk to Mom about it when we get home. Or better, yet, ask Dad."

"Is he coming home?"

"I don't think so."

"Why not?"

"Because he's busy. And this isn't a big deal. He can't come rushing home over some stupid false accusation. Ask him about it when he calls."

Dad usually called us around seven o'clock most nights when he was in Washington to say hi and ask about school. During times when Congress was in session this would often be our only contact with him since, other than an occasional weekend, he mostly lived at his condo in Georgetown. My mother would sometimes visit if there were a special event for congressional wives, but most of the time she stayed home in Burlingame.

It wasn't a normal lifestyle, but it was normal for us. It was the nature of my father's job and my parents seemed happy. And they'd been happy for as long as I could remember, even back in the days when Dad served in the California State Assembly and lived up in Sacramento during the week.

I never dreamt that my father would be the type who'd have an affair; his political reputation had always been one of upstanding values and high moral standards; everyone knew him as a solid family man and he used this as his political identity. He'd been vocal about his shock and disapproval over the sex scandal involving members of Congress and the Congressional pages. And he berated Gary Hart for his indiscretions with Donna Rice on a yacht called Monkey Business.

I viewed him as a nice, decent man, whom I would have regarded that way even if he weren't my dad, though I also considered him a terrific father. Because we saw him so little, it was always a treat when he was home. By virtue of her constant presence my mother played the role of disciplinarian, and because of that Dad could always remain the good guy, the "fun" parent. We felt privileged to be his daughters and my mother never let us forget it.

But this night of the day when the Lesley Chisholm half of my life began, no call came from my father. See, I told Phoebe, this means it's no big deal. By tomorrow this whole thing will have been cleared up. But Phoebe argued no, that this meant something was terribly wrong—Dad was afraid to call. She stomped off to her room, slamming the door and refusing to come out.

Mom and I ended up spending the evening playing gin rummy and watching Alfred Hitchcock's _Torn Curtain_ with Julie Andrews and Paul Newman fighting political intrigue in East Germany. Both of us avoided any talk of my father or Lesley Chisholm, and my mother made sure to turn off the television before the Eleven O'Clock News.

Copyright 2012 by Wendy Tokunaga. All rights reserved.

Buy this book:

Wendy's website

# L.J. Wilson

L.J. WILSON/LAURA SPINELLA

_Laura Spinella is the author of two award-winning novels,_ _B_ _eautiful Disaster_ _and_ _Perfect Timing_ _; she's also_ _been named a RITA® finalist._ _Ghost Gifts,_ _her next women's fiction novel, is set for May 2016, with a follow-on novel in May 2017. Laura also writes erotic romance under the pen name L. J. Wilson._ _Ruby Ink_ _, a Clairmont Series Novels—Sensual Reads for Discerning Book Lovers—released in March of 2015. Laura describes herself as an "East Coast kind of girl," growing up on Long Island, graduating from the University of Georgia, and having lived on Maryland's Eastern Shore. She now resides outside Boston with her family._

http://www.ljwilson.com

http://www.lauraspinella.net

The Ghost Gift of Storytelling

I have no storytelling formula. In fact, every book I've written—sold or banished to a desk drawer—arrived via a different source. It's true for my latest project, _Ghost Gifts._ It's also the first time real-life events coaxed me into telling this kind of story _._ The novel has an ethereal edge. A premise I would not have attempted if weren't for a job nobody else wanted.

Before I sold my first novel, (and for several years after) I wrote home portrait features for the local newspaper. It's advertorial writing at its finest and fairly idiot proof: 1) Tour home. 2) Write 500-1,000 words, depending on square footage. 3) Learn where to stand to take an appealing photo of an 11x12 bedroom. 4) Accentuate the positive, i.e. cramped = cozy, dated = charming, bad floor plan = eclectic, dirty =... Well, it was always tough to polish dirty. Superlatives were my best friends, and the realtors' bound for the Sunday pullout section thought I was pretty keen too. I made my own hours and saw enough upscale Boston homes to rival HGTV. It wasn't a bad deal—just not respectable journalism.

I worked the home portrait gig for nine years, encountering an array of properties. On occasion, I found myself in homes that were, clearly, inhabited by someone other than its current owners. I don't claim to be psychic and I'm no ghost hunter. I'm not really sure what I think about the _Long Island Medium_. But I do know that, in some instances, there was another entity present.

One visit, one vacant house in particular delivered me to _Ghost Gifts._ It showed as a Southern colonial reproduction, set on bucolic acreage and curiously underpriced. The realtor hurried me inside, but seemed more anxious about getting out. Oddities began in the marble clad foyer, a rhythmic ping echoing from the staircase turret. The sound was obvious, and I asked the realtor, "Is someone here besides us?" Her eyes bugged so wide I was amazed they stayed in her head.

"No one here but us chickens!"

We moved on, the pinging gaining momentum as I perused the upstairs. I wasn't thinking ghost—not yet, not even when a bathroom light burst upon flipping the switch. In the library, evidence became more pronounced. A French door had been sealed with plywood, its glass shattered. "Vandalism, someone's attempt to break in...." the realtor offered, turning away. My brow crinkled at unmarred hardwoods and yards of glittery glass scattered across the sunny patio. _If someone tried to break in, why is the glass on the outside...?_

We moved on. Poised at the lower level entry, (fyi, **never** "basement" if your asking price exceeds 500K) the realtor said she'd wait in the kitchen—she had a phone call to make. Fine by me.

It was stunning living space: maid's quarters, home theater and a laundry room better outfitted than my own kitchen. I took notes and pictures, winding through the vast footprint. Set to the rear was a family room. It was dark, harder to discern. What did grab me was a gust of wind—one that had no business in a closed, airtight _basement_. The breeze blew back my hair, enough to dead-stop forward motion. I knew why the property was listed at such a steal, and the reason the square footage was so empty... _abandoned_. I suspected the realtor's reason for begging off this part of the tour. A few minutes later we were in the driveway, where the agent made a bat-out-of-hell escape.

I wrote the story, but I also did some checking. I suppose even advertorial writers can harbor a streak of reporter curiosity. It turned out there'd been a suicide on the property—the son of the original owners had killed himself on the lower level, in the family room. In five years' time, three more owners had come and gone.

It was a sad story that stayed with me. I went on to cover other properties, places where the staged scents of vanilla and apple pie weren't the only palpable presence. Over time, I began to craft a character, wondering what those experiences would be like through the eyes of someone who could communicate with the dead. I had the home portrait job because it was convenient. I didn't mind writing about high-end appliances and travertine-clad bathrooms. But what if the point of my character's job was to visit those houses, destined to connect with the apparitions inside?

And there you have it, the beginnings of a book. Of course, that's all it turned out to be. While my real-life experience prompted the invention of Aubrey Ellis, her gift and her story took time to develop. _Ghost Gifts_ isn't about a woman who communicates with the dead via for sale properties. But it did give me a solid idea that I felt certain could support an entire novel. So as a writer, I pay attention, to little ideas that start to link together and odd gusts of wind. You never know how or where your next book will turn up.

First published on the GBC website on August 28, 2014

Amen, Anne Lamott

Beautiful Disaster, my first novel, is set to debut right along with the New Year. Even with finished copies set to arrive, it's as surreal as a winning lottery ticket. I keep checking the numbers; I think I'm good. We're past the point of a befuddled call from Berkley saying, "Sorry, wrong writer. Spillane, Spinelli... Spinella, they all sound alike." I doubt my angst is different from thousands of other writers who look forward to 2011 debuts. It's one reason I wanted to be part of the Girlfriends Book Club. Along with the anticipation and anxiety of publication, I feel oddly isolated. It didn't seem to matter so much when it was Mia, Flynn and myself muddling our way through rewrites. While their story is a twelve-year journey—from a college campus in Athens, Georgia, through a grueling separation, to a hard fought ending—the writing time was exactly half that and no less challenging. I was fine with the process. I used rejection as a catalyst. I was slaphappy silly when Writers House took me on, and relieved when the book sold—I'd gotten the monkey off my back.

Say goodbye to the monkey and welcome to the zoo. And, _ohmigosh_ , while there's so much to see, it's the learning curve of salesmanship that has me staring stark-eyed through the bars. A writer with the sales finesse of Willy Loman has been catapulted into Billy Mays territory—and the competition is fierce. I don't know a lot of novelists, not personally. But I watch them. I'm awed by the ones who can make literary connections with the ease of chatting up moms on the playground. They're adept at capitalizing on social networks, dropping pithy comments on Twitter, and using Linkedin to create a cyber-empire of devoted readers and writers. For me, book writing has been a hindrance to those outlets, resulting in what, by the definition of any good analyst, amounts to a social disorder. No doubt I'll get the hang of things, because like revisions, promotion is a necessary tool of the trade.

This final phase of publication was easy to spot, like the passing of a torch. About a month ago, notes from my editor began to dwindle while emails from my shiny new publicist picked up pace. I like to think of her as shiny, sparkly with a wand that will make this all turn out okay. However, no matter what happens, it's Anne Lamott's words I'll take to the finish line: "Publication is not going to change your life or solve your problems. Publication will not make you more confident or more beautiful, and it will probably not make you any richer." Amen, Anne Lamott.

I've already had a glimpse of the extremes, one not so pretty review and a request to take a look at the book for movie rights, all within the same hour. Go figure. The everyday people around me are supportive and excited—confused as to why it takes so damn long. Prudently, I've corralled expectations, finding satisfaction in the last link. It connects, Flynn, a character that channeled through me like an electric current to a story that's worthy of him. The process has transferred imagination into typeset ink and beautiful cover art. Less idyllic, these last steps have me scrambling for old newspaper colleagues and alumni contacts, wondering if I'm doing everything I can or just doing it all wrong. Either way, I'm ready for _Beautiful Disaster_ to do its part and speak for itself.

First published on the GBC website on November 23, 2010

An Excerpt from RUBY INK by L. J. Wilson

(Erotic Romance, this excerpt contains sexually explicit material)

### Chapter One

Seven Years Earlier

"What are you thinking"

"I'm thinking it's beautiful out here." Ruby leaned left, her fingers paddling through the lake's supple current. _I'm thinking I'd rather be touching you..._

"This can just be a sunset rowboat ride on Butterfield Lake. You know that, right?"

"I know." _That's why it's not going to be, Aaron Clairmont... Not even close..._

Ruby Vasquez was twenty, the oldest virgin she knew. Way older than her best friend, Tandy, who'd done it back in the tenth grade. "What are you waiting for?" Tandy would ask. "You're not even that much of a good Catholic girl." Tandy liked to tease about this and the town's ongoing wager: "Name one guy who hasn't lost twenty bucks betting he'd be the first to bed Ruby Vasquez."

The thought echoed and Ruby admired the man pulling the oars.

Tandy, we have a winner...

There were patchy sweat marks on Aaron's snug T-shirt, the kind of fit that made you look. It was a three-mile sail to the east end of Butterfield Lake. He wouldn't let her touch an oar. Between acts of gallantry like this, it was never _what_ Ruby had been waiting for, but _who_. It began with a fluttery feeling—Ruby wanted to know more about the second eldest Clairmont brother. But the sensation also served as a warning, reminding her about the longshot odds of fairytale endings. Thanks to Tandy's train wreck of a love life, Ruby had witnessed romantic disaster. She'd seen it happen to her own father. Ruby's mother, Marcela, ran off when Ruby was eight, devastating Dante Vasquez, who was the good Catholic.

So Ruby had waited, wanting to see where those fluttery feelings went. Over time, the relationship had grown. It had even gotten pissed off now and again. Aaron could be aloof. Not every question about him came with a straight answer. Still, for Ruby, the feeling intensified.

Today Aaron wore a backwards ball cap and reflective sunglasses—Ruby caught a glimpse of herself in the lenses. She thought she'd hit the mark on sexy, wearing a black halter top and denim shorts. A pair of thick-soled Keds grounded the look. Her gaze drifted, concentrating on the rest of Aaron. The ball cap and sunglasses framed a well-defined nose, square jaw. But it matched Aaron, all of him a hard mix of finely proportioned olive-toned man and muscle. _Clairmont_ wasn't quite the given family name, and his Mediterranean heritage made Aaron the _always-in-need-of-a-shave_ guy, though not this day. Today he was stubble-free.

His clean-shaven face was the second thing Ruby noticed when he picked her up. The first was a nervous edge—it was so _not_ Aaron. But their destination probably had something to do with that. Mayor Vasquez had been oblivious to any plan, preoccupied with Nickel Springs' matters. Ruby offered the expected peck on his cheek. Aaron said something about not getting her home too late. Dante Vasquez stopped his phone conversation long enough to say, "I trust you, Aaron."

As they got in the car, he said, "I've never lied to the Mayor when it comes to his daughter. Fine line, but I think I'm still on the side of truth."

Unlike Ruby's father, Tandy was privy to the details. Days before, the two girls sat on Tandy's bed where Ruby blurted out her secret— "I'm going to sleep with Aaron... on Friday. This Friday."

Painting her nails, Tandy froze in mid-stroke. "Aaron..." she'd said, her gaze rising. "Clairmont?" Then she smiled. "Careful, Rube, he's not what you want. The _Tribe of Five_ , they're not the marrying kind. Something off in the DNA. Five kids and the parents never even tied the knot! But hey..." she paused to sip her rum and Coke, "I'll be around next week when he's not."

Ruby had folded her arms, challenging Tandy. "And just where do you think Aaron will be?"

"In Vegas," Tandy had said, swiping red lacquer over a pinky nail. "Fucking a showgirl and spending his virgin lottery win."

The snarky remark wasn't totally out of left field. Tandy was right about the Clairmont rep. But that didn't mean she was right about Aaron. She couldn't be. The boat moved along and so did Ruby's thoughts.

"What are you thinking now?" Aaron asked, pulling back the oars.

"What makes you say I'm thinking anything different?"

"Because you looked happy when you said it was beautiful out here. Now, not so much."

Ruby sat up tall and breathed the kind of breath that cleared cobwebs. He knew her so well. She relaxed. "I was thinking about this," she said, nudging a blue polka dot Ked at a tarp-covered bundle. It put a chaperone-size gap between them. "I thought today, of all days, we'd be closer. Maybe even on land."

"We're about to fix that." Aaron's chin, divot included, motioned over his shoulder. Ruby leaned to get a better look. There was a cove and the boat glided in past tall reeds. Aaron jumped out into shin-deep water and pulled the vessel ashore. Then he offered Ruby his hand.

"Aaron, what is this place?" she said, taking in the view.

"Welcome to the Rose Arch Inn." A muscular arm stretched toward the vista. "It was the honeymoon hot spot back in the 1970's. The inn is beat, not even safe to go inside. But it's a beautiful piece of property. I thought it was kind of... us."

In front of them was a sandy shore that led to a grassy knoll. "Beautiful ruins," Ruby said, surveying a gentle slope that bordered the defunct inn. Dilapidated and boarded up, she could imagine the appeal—a romantic haven in rural Chisholm County, upstate New York. "How did you know about it?"

"Years ago, my father... Pop was the overseer, even after the Rose Arch went out of business."

Ruby took a turn around the beach and spotted a neatly mowed swatch of grass. She walked toward it. "Well, I don't know how that happened..." She turned back. "You did this."

Aaron's broad shoulders shifted. "When you said... Well, when you told me _this_ ," he said, arms wrapping around her from behind, "is what you want, did you really think I was going to let it happen at my house—with my brothers and sister wandering out... or worse, in?"

Damn, when Tandy hears about this...

Ruby leaned into his hard body. She felt denim jeans strain against her shorts, his pent up desire pressing into her. A nudge of guilt pushed in too, Ruby aware of how patiently Aaron had waited. "I didn't think about _where_. I was more focused on us."

Aaron turned her in his arms. "I never worry about _us_. So I wanted to make sure the where would be worth remembering, even years from now."

Guilt melted into sweet expectation.

"Although I do think I'm the first person to cross Butterfield Lake with a lawn mower in their boat."

"Sorry I missed that." Ruby smiled, watching Aaron turn the covert setting into a romantic oasis. There were blankets and a lantern and music. Nearby, she spied a neatly stashed pile of firewood and watched as Aaron turned it into a crackling fire. He returned to the boat, and her eyes widened as comfort items continued to come ashore, including a cooler. Normally, it would be packed with beer or the fizzy wine coolers she liked. The pink ones with shiny gold labels. Tonight the cooler held a bottle of champagne. Ruby couldn't remember if she'd ever had champagne.

Aaron caught her nervous glance. "If champagne is too over the top, your usual's at the bottom."

Ruby's jaw dropped another notch.

"And no, I'm not that smooth. Honor sent the champagne."

"Did she?" she said, seeing a brimming picnic basket.

Aaron set the basket next to the romantic vignette. He returned to Ruby, taking her hands in his. "I wanted perfect. Perfect meant my food contribution was to ask my sister. Honor came up with the whole basket. Everything. Right down to some fancy French dish she said would travel well."

"So does she know..."

Aaron shook his head. "Just a picnic, that's all."

Ruby nodded, a little relieved. Aaron was tight with his brothers and sister—the _Tribe of Five._ Of course, right now, there didn't seem to be anybody on planet earth but the two of them. Ruby stared at his prep work, which was stunning and appreciated. Aaron held on tighter and Ruby tried to settle the flutter. Could this be as perfect as it seemed? Who gets it right on the first try—or with the first guy?

Aaron disrupted the thought, moving them toward the blankets. They kicked off their shoes and he flipped the ball cap Frisbee style. The sunglasses followed. His eyes, they always nudged that flutter toward out of control. They were like coming across shiny sea glass on a heated day, a misty sexy shade of green. The genetic fallout, she guessed, from parents at near opposite ends of the color wheel. Ruby couldn't resist kissing him hard. "I hope Honor didn't make anything that spoils."

"Tell me you're thinking about food."

No, she definitely wasn't. She was thinking about the rest of her life. Ruby read that once, how girls... women projected the future onto men, and men just projected into the moment. But that wasn't Aaron. With that in mind, Ruby tugged at Aaron's shirt, which did move fast over his head. A year ago, their relationship was no more than polite hellos, glances Ruby stole of a shirtless Aaron painting the Vasquez house. It was one of several jobs he held. He never spoke about his other jobs in detail—like his future was a secret.

Right now, Ruby was fine with future secrets. She ran her fingers over muscular shoulders and Aaron's taut stomach. As she did, Ruby remembered when touching Aaron was a fantasy. He was six-years older, making a college girl's emotions feel more like a crush. With the paint job complete, Aaron had asked Ruby to meet him by the garage. She thought he'd seen through her, and Ruby was certain he wanted to say, "I get it, kid. I'm flattered. But I'm a few light years beyond what you're offering..."

It had sounded more like "Whatever guy gets that smile every day, I hope he knows he's damn lucky. I hope he treats you damn good." Having trudged miserably out to the garage, Ruby almost asked Aaron to repeat what he'd really said. There was no everyday guy, and Ruby recovered by telling Aaron as much. When she'd told the story to Tandy, her reaction was disbelief: "What do you plan on doing with him, Rube?" She'd stared at Tandy, who rolled her eyes. "I mean, I doubt Aaron Clairmont bowls or is willing to show up at Daddy's house for Sunday dinner."

Actually, he'd done both. Of course, now Aaron was doing something that came more naturally, kissing Ruby, which was familiar and intense. But even that was different. Instead of an evening's end, it felt like a beginning. As much as Aaron's rep said otherwise, things hadn't progressed much past that. This had been at Aaron's insistence. What was she comfortable with? How did she want this to work? At first Ruby didn't know how to respond—the words, the terms, the limits—and Aaron said that was enough answer for him.

Tonight there was the same gentleness to Aaron's touch, but the limits were gone. He unknotted the back of the halter top, his mouth moving deftly over Ruby's neck, her shoulders. If there was hesitation, it belonged to the sun, which was taking its sweet time setting. Firelight flickered, illuminating the moment as the simple fabric fell away. Aaron's gaze caught on the white lacy bra. Ruby felt her cheeks redden. "I figured white something was appropriate." Her own gaze slid to his fingers, which rode the waistband of her shorts. "The panties match. Kind of silly, huh?"

"Kind of perfect." Aaron's mouth moved downward and so did his hands, permission granted and encouraged as the shorts came off.

While Ruby suspected " _he had this_ ," the eager roar she'd come ashore with began to fade. Fears about clumsy fumbling and inexperience seeped into her head. What if he was disappointed? What if everything else worked and this... this thing that was such a fixation for the world was a total dud? The kissing went on, the touching a prelude, and Ruby's worries began to evaporate, like raindrops on a sizzling surface. He was confident enough for both of them, assuring Ruby that clumsy and fumbling would not happen. Aaron's hands moved fluidly over Ruby's skin, and the flutter ignited sensations she could barely describe. It was a good thing she didn't have to detail them, her mouth too busy with Aaron's. Ruby boldly reached for his belt buckle... then a button... then a zipper.

If desire could be captured in a body part, Aaron could be the poster-boy for perfected hard-ons. Moments later, he was ready for skinny dipping. But swimming wasn't on his mind. Wondering what did come next, Ruby plucked at her bra strap. "Don't you... um, want this off? I laughed when I tried it on. I figured I wore it longer in the fitting room than I would when we got to... here." Ruby's dark eyes danced around a secluded setting she couldn't have imagined—or maybe she could, which was why she'd waited for exactly this man.

Aaron kissed her again, hard. The kind of kiss that could take a girl right off her feet, and it did, the two of them sinking onto the layers of blankets. "I'm pacing myself. I, um... I hope you didn't make other plans."

"Not a one," she said, her fingers stroking the ropey muscle of his arm. His bare chest against her body—it made Ruby wonder who the hell invented clothes. She didn't want this moment, or any other with him, to end.

Aaron's actions mirrored Ruby's thoughts as his hand moved to a tattoo, an Asian symbol that marked her left thigh. It stood for love and it matched the one branded on Aaron's right thigh. They'd gotten them together—months before this night. "Maybe I didn't understand at the time," he said. "But I get the tats now."

"Do you?"

"Yeah," he said, reaching for the clasp on the bra. It fell away from her body, and his mouth seemed to move automatically to her breasts. Ruby gasped. Something more primal than planned. His warm hand drifted back to her tattoo, and Ruby hoped that one day they'd each have the full set of three. Their actions didn't fit the norm. Ruby got it. Who gets matching tattoos before having sex? They did. The exotic symbols stood for love, happiness and peace. Somewhat skeptical, Aaron had agreed to earn the ink with her, one tattoo at a time.

At the moment, Aaron's ideas about pacing seemed to have eased up, and he murmured softly, "Damn... well, we can do it more than once..." He skimmed the silky white panties away, two bodies making one indentation in the sand. After getting the first tattoos, maybe in topsy-turvy celebration, this had halfway happened. Ruby had been wearing a skirt, and Aaron took things a step farther. Admittedly, she hadn't wanted him to stop, and Aaron made her come right there in the front seat of his vintage Dodge Challenger—a car name that Ruby found ironically appropriate. "In case you're wondering," he'd said, "there's plenty more where that came from." She'd said nothing, panting deep breaths, and struggling to determine up from down.

_I'm done wondering, Aaron... I want to know... everything._ His mouth made unprecedented progress, Ruby realizing the benefit of nakedness and private stretch of beach. His entire body continued on a downward path, and Ruby had a fine inkling about where he was going. She wasn't that naïve—she read Cosmo. She'd listened to enough Tandy talk: " _Well, if actual sex is so off limits, what about... you know... I swear, it's hotter than it sounds, Rube, especially if you're on the receiving end..."_ Like the scene in the car, melting into what Aaron offered would have been easy. God knew it was tempting. But Ruby didn't like easy. She rarely fell to temptation. She pushed up on her elbows. "Wait... Don't."

From his thigh-level point of view, Aaron looked up. He looked confused. "Ruby, I promise... You're gonna love it."

She smiled, a touch of shyness nudging in between them. "I know. Well, I imagine I will. But next time... okay?"

"Why?" Ruby wiggled away and rose to her knees, Aaron followed. Their fingers tangled together, the way they did when walking down the street. Of course, there was a tad more intimacy in their clothes-less state. Aaron grinned, which was less than full, a story about a tire-iron to his jaw leaving the left side of his face numb. "Let me guess," he said. "It's not how you pictured this happening."

"No. It's more about me thinking half of this should be about you. I made you wait in ways you never imagined."

His brow knotted. "Ruby, with any other girl, I wouldn't have cared. I might have called her a cock tease. I don't know. It's been a long time since I thought about other girls."

It was such an honest Aaron remark. "So all this waiting, it's been just fine with you?"

"You know the answer to that. But what you might not realize is that if you wanted this to play out like we were living in the last century that would be fine too." Aaron leaned and Ruby's gaze traveled the slope of rigid arm muscle. Discarded silky white lingerie hooked around his fingers. "If you had told me it needed to be a white dress... and a church... and a priest before we got to here, I'd be good with that."

Oh my, take that, Tandy...

Ruby smiled at the potential promise. Aaron let go of the lingerie. His hands burrowed through her dark hair, her bare body pressing into his. He laid them down on the blanket where instinct and tradition took over. The intimate nature of things unfolded, Ruby answering every movement with a knowledge she did not know she possessed. Her fingers dug into his strong back. Her breath got away as Aaron skillfully repeated the moment in his car, and this time Ruby's hand cupped hard over his, Aaron whispering, "You are so fucking hot, Ruby... so ready for this..."

Everything plunged into a rolling wave of hot light, Ruby gasping as the feeling seemed to spill over to Aaron. His cock pulsed harder against her. Conversely, his hand eased between her legs. She could feel a pounding in his chest that matched hers. His breaths were intense, different than the ones that went with the five-mile runs that started Aaron's days. And while they were clearly at the precipice, and sex could very well happen this way—the way it did in lovely romances and sweet ending movies—Ruby felt Aaron had earned more. That and maybe she wanted a taste of the bad-boy she'd heard tell of. "I want to know something," she whispered. "And I want the truth."

"Always," he said.

"Does this, um... _position_ , meet your wildest expectations?" Ruby's hand was around the aching length of him now, feeling a little sticky wetness on her fingers.

Aaron pushed into the pressure she provided. He stared willfully into her eyes and swallowed hard. He looked a little dizzy. "Position? I don't... Yeah, this will work fine."

"Work, yes. Sounds like the diagram model the Church passes out to first-timers ten minutes before the honeymoon... sure. But is _this way_ ... is it what you want?"

His fingers, tangling in a whorl of hair, found just the right spot again.

Ruby tensed. She forced herself to focus, concentrate, to keep from spiraling to a place to which he knew the way. "You did all this for me," she said, her gaze leaving Aaron's to note the thoughtful setting. "I want to do something for you. I want this to be something you'll remember. So confess. Tell me how this Aaron Clairmont first-timer fantasy goes."

He half smiled, which really was his whole smile, and kissed her. "You mean like did I purposely leave my blindfold and handcuffs at home?"

She shrugged.

"Not my style."

"I didn't think so. But surely you've envisioned something more than what maybe I'd _mapped out_."

"Ah," he said, nodding. "I get it. Something between the Church approved version and my sex-crazed rep."

She nodded back.

"No," he said. "Us, right here..." But Aaron stopped talking because he knew that Ruby knew he was lying. His fingers glided over her bare skin, more aggressively over a taut nipple.

"I want to know. I want the piece of Aaron that you've been keeping from me."

"That piece, huh?"

She nodded again.

"Are you sure?" His abruptness gave the flutter a jolt.

The jolt radiated through her body as he slid a finger inside her. Ruby's teeth sunk into her bottom lip, enticed by the preview. "I'm sure. I trust you, Aaron... completely. So," she said, her mouth moving to his earlobe, nipping at it, "how does it go? I don't know what it is, but I bet something more than a lame missionary position has kept you up nights."

"Kept me up nights?" His arms slid beneath her, cocooning her safely before coming clean. His breath was warm in her ear. "Baby, you've no idea. More like got me through. Know that you make for one hot fantasy. But I'm still not sure..."

"Be sure," she said, inviting Aaron Clairmont's imagination into their new personal space. "Take a chance. I took a while to get here, but now that I am..." And Ruby knew this was true. Months ago, sex wouldn't have been this freeing and trust-filled.

He hesitated, still using the caution that had ruled their world. Ruby put an end to that, applying a tad more pressure. She allowed instinct and Tandy notes to steer, pushing against Aaron's body until she looked down over him. She kissed him, starting with the divot on his chin and progressing to his broad chest. She kept moving, onto his stomach, finding faint scents of aftershave fading as she went. The rawer, saltier taste of skin dominated, the smell of simple soap—a splash of wicked desire. But when she got to the trail of hair, the one that usually disappeared into his jeans, Aaron grabbed her by the shoulders. "Good guess. But that's more fantasy B. Not meant for this exact moment. I guess we're on the same page there."

"Why not you?" Ruby said, popping back up.

He looked confused, like maybe the answer wasn't so obvious. Then he recovered. "For the same reasons you passed."

"So then give me an instruction," she said, a shiver of curiosity rushing through her. "Tell me what you want."

"An instruction. Really?" It wasn't like Ruby to take instruction. "Okay... Before, you were on your knees, facing me."

"Right," she said, scrambling back to that position. He rose to meet her, his cock pulsing against her body. At the same time, Ruby felt herself mirroring the desire he physically displayed. But hers was all internal, a hollow of longing. His hands reached around, cupping her ass. He'd done that in the car too, the first time there wasn't fabric between Aaron and what he wanted.

"In any good fantasy—and there were plenty—I'd get out of bed and climb into a fucking ice-cold shower, where I ended up... Well, never mind, that's just embarrassing."

"Okay, but now I'm here... play it out. No stopping, no shower, no more fantasy."

His Adam's apple bobbed, his head shook a bit as if someone had stolen his reserved Ruby. "You continue to amaze me, Ruby Vasquez. Know that."

She smiled.

He didn't. "But if you're sure you want this..." He swallowed again, though it seemed as if she should be the one displaying nerves. "Turn around," he said, his deep voice commanding.

She did.

Aaron's hands, a steely cock, and his fantasy overtook everything. Another shiver rushed Ruby, but it was all expectation and satisfaction. She'd surprised him with more than what he'd politely anticipated.

While she got the gist of where this was going, she loved it when Aaron continued on, his body dominating hers until she felt her knees sink farther into the soft sand. She sensed Aaron's restraint as he made a steady progression. At first his hands made the most impact, wrapped around her lower back, his mouth moving over the bump of her spine. She felt him retreat slightly before kisses made contact with places Ruby had not considered, his teeth nipping invitingly into the flesh on a different cheek. Then things started to change. Aaron was closer again, completely in control. His body moved over Ruby's until her position had become— _submissive_. His hands were no longer the most penetrating part, and Ruby felt only a moment of discomfort. His voice was right there, demanding to know, as he entered her, if it was okay. She couldn't find words, the feeling explosive and poignant.

"Yes," she managed in a husky whisper. "God, yes..."

And the piece of Aaron she'd demanded showed up on cue. The rhythm grew more forceful, the moment electric. "Ruby," he said, the thrusting picking up pace. "You're... It's beyond any fantasy. This is..." But he didn't finish the sentence. A sense of touch reassured Ruby. His hands caressed her body, contrasting the forcefulness with which he took her. It went on like this—like music that built and crescendoed—Aaron reaching around to touch that intimate spot of flesh. Ruby's hand pressed hard over his. Natural sounds rose from that span of private beach, a breathless Aaron coming first, Ruby quickly following.

Sometime later, stars showed up and the earth went back to its regular rotation. As they lay on the blankets, Aaron's hand trailed along Ruby's collarbone and the delicate angle of her jaw. He kissed her and Ruby wanted to say, _"To hell with white dresses and marriage."_

It was Aaron who seemed to recover reality, suggesting something else. "Damn, Ruby. Tell me we haven't earned happiness in permanent ink?"

***

So six-months later, it was something more than the world spinning off its axis or turning inside out. It was the opposite of orgasmic. It was utter devastation, the truth hitting Ruby like a hellish branding iron. This would be her forever tattoo, her last vivid image of Aaron as she watched his body slam, face first, into the hood of his beloved Dodge Challenger. It took four officers from the Nickel Springs police force to get him into that position. Damn, it had only taken some smooth courting for Aaron to get Ruby into the position he'd wanted. Watching, a grimace that sounded like a dying animal erupted from her throat. You could hear the dent being made as they repeatedly smashed Aaron's hand into the hood.

Ruby stepped forward, but Dante held her back. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be real. And yet whirling lights, big-lunged orders about not moving, an officer aggressively kicking Aaron's legs apart as they searched for other weapons assured her that it was. Reporters were already on the scene, recording the heinous reality. From the trunk of Aaron's car, an officer held up two tightly packaged clear plastic bags of white powder. They kept smashing his hand hard and Ruby thought she heard the bones crumble. She wondered if it hurt as much as everything crumbling inside her. Finally, a gun dislodged, skidding forward. It bounced across the car hood and onto the lawn. It was the gun Aaron Clairmont had brought there. The gun he'd fired—mercifully missing—determined to carry out the hit on Dante Vasquez.

_Copyright 2015 by L. J. Wilson. All rights reserved_.

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