Morningsong: A Novel by Shelly Beach

After her terrifying accident on the shores of Lake Michigan, Mona Vander Molen is trying to pick up the pieces of her life. Mona's brain injury has limited her physically, and the doctor's uncertain prognosis isn't helping her feel any better. As she faces the threat of permanent disability, Mona also struggles to make sense of her relationship with the kindly carpenter Adam Dean.

At the peak of her own crisis, Hallie appears again, this time seeking Mona's help and refuge for both herself and her mother. But when their dear friend Harold Rawlings has a stroke, Mona and Hallie see their hidden fears come to light.

Can Mona resolve her doubts about her relationship, face her uncertain future, and help her sister-all at the same time

My Review:
Forgiveness is the theme of this Christian fiction romance novel. Each character has a deep need to forgive others so that life can be lived to its fullest. As Hallie states, "I thought forgiveness was something I was going to do once, but I guess the truth is that every day I have to die to a thousand things in myself.... Forgive me for my anger. Help me do what I know I can't do myself" (208). I could use this for a model prayer.

The character of Mona is believable. At times, when she clung to her stubborn solitary views, I sighed in frustration; how I wish I could sit her down for a good talking-to! On the other hand, the character of Mona's sister, Ellen, is quite unbelievable. After a life-time of heavy drinking, to a point that she ends up in a coma, and all she needs is two weeks in a rehab center? When she returns home, she is too cleaned-up, too perfect, and even though there's a small relapse, it's obscure. The male characters are all flat. Adam, Harold, and even Joe Spencer, the police officer are all too-good-to-be-true characters.

So I have a mixed review of this novel. This is the sequel to Christy Award-winning Hallie's Heart, and I'm sure the fans of that first novel will want to read this one. Read it and decide for yourself.

And now, the first chapter:

Chapter One

Halfway through her morning walk on the streets of Stewartville, Mona VanderMolen made her final decision to kill Miss Emily.

She pondered her decision as she stood at the edge of the lawn facing Glenda Simpson’s two-story, turn-of-the-century clapboard farmhouse.

What surprised her most was her numbness to the evil of it, even as her vision grew for how she’d carry out her plan. Sure, she’d done things she was ashamed of, things she and her girlfriends had laughed over at college reunions—things that kept her humble with memories of youth and stupidity. And then there were the years Ellen had blackmailed or manipulated her into being a silent accomplice to her rebellion—the times Mona had evaded her mother’s questions or pulled her drunk sister through a basement window in the dead of night.

But something intentionally evil, premeditated, and cold? Never in Mona’s forty-five years. Nothing like this. Since she’d moved to Stewartville, her public sins had been limited to an embarrassing unwillingness to observe the town’s forty-five-mile-per-hour speed limit and running up the highest tab in town for overdue library fines.

Killing Miss Emily would change everything. But then, that was the point of it, wasn’t it—to draw a line in the sand, to finally shut her up? Something in Miss Emily’s skittery eyes told Mona she knew she’d changed and could hear the voices that rang in her head.

Doubt. Fear. Indecision. Guilt.

Killing Miss Emily was the only way out of it, even if meant that everyone in Stewartville would know.

Mona VanderMolen was a good woman who had gone mad. Three months after she’d come out of her coma, she’d finally cracked.

The town would be stunned with the horror of it, and the sickening shame would separate her from the people she loved most: Elsie, Adam, Harold, Hallie, even Ellen. Mona pushed the thought from her mind.

The fact remained: it had to be done. She stared through the front window of Glenda’s house as the chill November wind bit through her black, French terry sweat suit and the lime green parka she’d layered over the top for extra warmth. Her thoughts rolled back to her first glimmering thoughts of murder. They’d drifted into her mind easily, like the russet oak leaves that had wafted downward to Stewartville’s lawns and sidewalks in gentle gasps and sputters of breeze as she’d headed west on Maple on her first lap that morning. By the time she’d turned north on Second, then east on Elm and south on Mercantile, the thought had grown to an idea, then to a resolve that hardened with the pain of each laborious step, until on her eighth lap, she found herself poised in front of Glenda Simpson’s bay window, holding a driveway paver brick in her right hand.

With one small twinge of pain, Mona’s vision had met flesh. The brick’s rough edges bit into the hammock of flesh between her thumb and index finger as she shifted its weight to get a better grip. She paused, then hefted it toward her shoulder, her arm trembling slightly as she drew it toward her chest. The weight was heavier than she’d expected, and she shifted her feet, then planted them wide apart for balance until the urge to lean to the right subsided.

Slowly, she closed her eyes and envisioned the throw. An overhand bullet that arched from her hand in a graceful swoop. The brick hurtling through the air and shooting through the pane of glass with perfect precision, raining glass shards into the juniper bushes below as the brick found its mark, leaving a starburst hole.

Then the sound of the thud, of stone meeting skull, and the sight of the body slumping to the living-room floor.

Mona opened her eyes and focused on the ripple of breeze through the juniper bush. If she thought about it another minute, she’d never follow through. It was pure evil, there was no getting around it, but some things in life weren’t to be tolerated. Tyranny came with a price, as Miss Emily was about to find out. And insurance would kick in and help with expenses, she was sure.

She raised her eyes and looked through the window at the face that had tormented her day after day.

You’re despicable, and I’ve taken all I’m going to take.

The face stared back silently. Mona could feel a trickle of blood running down the palm of her hand and the grit of the dirt on the tips of her fingers.

“I hate you.” She spoke the words out loud.

The face in the window continued to stare. Not even a blink broke the gaze. It was the staring Mona hated most, the fact that, to Miss Emily, the hard, violating gaze meant nothing, just like it meant nothing to the other faces who took in her stubble of auburn hair and the scarred scalp that still showed through. A few months ago her hair had fallen thick to well-muscled shoulders on a tall, athletic frame that could heft hay bales with the best of Stewartville’s men. But what did that matter now? Anger rose red-hot inside her like spewing lava, and she lifted the brick higher, staggering to regain her balance. But with the motion, her fingers lost their bite against the dirty chunk of concrete. She struggled to recover her grip, and the brick clattered to the sidewalk at her feet with a sonorous thud, landing inches from the raggedy hole where it had originally nested.

She blinked as she stood motionless and surveyed the streaks of blood on the palm of her right hand. Then she sighed, bent slowly to one knee, and nestled the brick back into place in the pattern of Glenda’s walkway where she’d found it kicked loose, like a half-dozen others.

So here I am, Lord, a pathetic crazy woman wasting your time, making you knock rocks out of my hand to save me from acts of insanity.

She eased the brick back and forth, working to make the edges lie even with the surrounding walkway.

This sure isn’t where I thought I’d be standing three months ago, after Elsie brought me home from the hospital. Of course, you know that. I was supposed to be finished with rehab by now, but your timetable and mine seem to be a little out of sync. And for some reason, praying and plowing through my agenda don’t seem to be working this time, even though they’ve worked pretty well in the past. I’m tired of all this, okay? I just want to lie down and sleep for a few weeks and wake up again when I’ll be able to walk again without staggering or read faster than a third grader or push three-syllable words through my brain.

She gave the brick a final smack, then lowered her head to her hands and rested on one knee before she slowly stood and blinked against the spinning. She fought against the swells that rose in her stomach and the flash of frustration that coursed through her veins.

Dr. Bailey’s warnings about post-craniotomy strokes and transient ischemic attacks, or TIAs, had simply been a doctor spouting medical protocol when he’d released her from the hospital. The headaches, fatigue, dizziness, and flashes these past few weeks were nothing, and she’d prove it to him if she had to. She’d fought every other hard thing in her life—her father, Stacy’s drowning, Hallie’s rebellion, her own near death—and she could fight this. She only had to get past her three-month MRI and hope that Dr. Bailey didn’t notice she’d already rescheduled it twice.

In the distance, the shriek of an ambulance approached as it headed in the direction of Stewartville Community Hospital’s emergency room.

With each bad day, I’m more exhausted and one step closer to losing it, Lord. Part of me wants to give up and crawl off into the dark with the doubt and fear that keep shouting that this is as good as it will ever get. The other part of me is outraged that I can’t control even the simplest things about my own body anymore. In five minutes, I swing from faith to depression to anger and then top it all off with a few ladles of guilt because I’m so weak.

And it’s no secret to you that I can’t walk by this house without fixating on killing Miss Emily because she’s the living, breathing embodiment of all the things I hate about myself. She’s as broken down and worthless as I’m becoming. Since we both know I’m losing it, what other excuse do I need to want her dead?

The calico with the flickering, crooked tail stared at her through the bay window that separated her from the outside world by a thin pane of glass. Mona had been told the story of Miss Emily soon after she’d moved to town. She was somewhat of a Stewartville celebrity, with her lightning-shaped tail, flinching fur, and skittery eyes that never rested anywhere for long unless she was shielded from the world in the protective recess of the bay window. Then, and only then, she would stare. She was one of Glenda Simpson’s six well-fed and pampered cats.

Rumor had it that one Saturday Miss Emily had ambled into Glenda’s dryer for an afternoon siesta, and Glenda had unknowingly tumbled both the cat and her husband’s Carhartts on permanent press for a good fifteen minutes before she’d figured out that the high-pitched shrieking she was hearing wasn’t coming from reruns of Cops in the next room. Miss Emily had emerged from the Kenmore with a walk that listed permanently to the left, a reengineered tail, and an aversion to anything remotely resembling the fragrance of Downy.

For the first time, Mona traced the lines of the lopsided tail and noticed the angles of the two breaks. Miss Emily’s eyes glared back, and Mona felt a surge of remorse.

“I’m sorry I’m staring, and I understand why you must have a deep-seated mistrust of humans. And I’m sorry I was planning your demise in kind of an . . . imaginative way. I was letting my mind play with how good it would feel to just hurl something . . . you know, let it all fly, inflict some pain because I’m hurting. We people commit murder like this dozens of times a day. I’m not saying it’s right, I’m just saying we’re more messed up than we like to admit. But I think I at least owe you a peace offering of canned albacore.”

Mona tamped the brick with the toe of her tennis shoe as she glanced over her shoulder. The last thing she needed was for someone to have seen her apologizing to a cat. But no harm done. To the casual passerby, it would have appeared she’d taken a neighborly interest in replacing one of Glenda’s loose bricks. Not for one moment would anyone ever guess that Mona VanderMolen had contemplated an actual act of violence like pitching a brick through Glenda Simpson’s bay window in a random act of feline homicide.

She pulled a tissue from her jacket pocket, dabbed it on her tongue, and wiped the blood from her palm.

And what would Adam think if he realized he was dating a middle-aged wack job whose mind and body were disintegrating like cotton candy in a rainstorm? He was a good man who deserved a healthy, sane woman, not one who believed a cat could read minds and understand apologies.

Mona felt suddenly exhausted. After two months of laps around the same three blocks, she’d finally figured out why she hated Miss Emily so much. After all, she was just a beat-up calico with a busted tail and eyes that looked east and west at the same time. A cat with a mortal fear of household appliances. A cat that through a freak accident had been left to navigate the sea of life without a centerboard that went fully down, steering a little off-center and listing a bit to port.

Miss Emily was a reminder of who she’d become—one of the broken and dazed who listed a bit to port with a body that longed to be what it once had been. She wore her imperfections where everyone could see them, and people pitied her for it.

Mona shoved the blood-stained tissue back into her pocket. It was time to move on.

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The Second Mile by Ron & Janet Benrey

The Pippa Hunnechurch Mysteries #2

Pippa Hunnechurch’s life is back on track after seven years of living away from God. But her newly reignited faith is about to be tested.

Pippa, a corporate headhunter, hears from one of her placements, Barry Goodwin, that he is unhappy with his job. Not taking his concerns too seriously, Pippa gives him a pep talk and encourages him to hang in there. Two days later, Goodwin commits suicide in his apartment. Shocked and fearing she did not go the second mile in placing this candidate, Pippa launches her own investigation into what has happened. Dismayed, she tries to drop out of her Christian fellowship, but her church small group will not let her give up on herself or God that easily.

Pippa’s persistence turns up what she feared all along. Goodwin did not commit suicide; he was murdered. But who would want him murdered and would smear Pippa’s reputation to cover it up? Pippa’s research uncovers a web of conspiracy and intrigue at the company Goodwin so desperately wanted to leave.

My Review:
I picked up my copy of this Christian fiction murder mystery from a sale bin. The cover intrigued me. I judged it to be an interesting read. I was correct, thus proving that you can judge a book by its cover.

Written in first person narrative, this novel chronologically follows Pippa Hunnechurch's investigation of the murder of Barry Goodwin, beginning with his apparent suicide.

I found the characters quite believable. Pippa is British, now living in Ryde, Maryland and working as a headhunter. She retains some British customs. For instance, she often has a "cuppa." Her love interest is James, a gentleman who speaks with a Southern drawl. His birthday party turns into a birthday tea party with sweets and savories. British foods are discussed in detail. In addition, I liked the description of the crackers provided for the guests. I remember popping a cracker and trying to wear he flimsy hat inside.

There is a theme of going the extra mile--going beyond what is required, and that's where the title comes in to play. The reader follows Pippa as she chronologically goes the second mile to uncover clues that solve this mystery of Barry Goodwin's death.

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What the Bayou Saw by Patti Lacy

The past can't stay buried forever 

Rising author Patti Lacy's second novel exposes the life of Sally, set amid the shadows of prejudice in Louisiana. Since leaving her home in the South, Sally Stevens has held the secrets of her past at bay, smothering them in a sunny disposition and sugar-coated lies. 

No one, not even her husband, has heard the truth about her childhood. But when one of her students is violently raped, Sally's memories quickly bubble to the surface unbidden, like a dead body in a bayou. 

As Sally's story comes to light, the lies she's told begin to catch up with her. And as her web of deceit unravels, she resolves to face the truth at last, whatever the consequences.

My Review:
This novel qualifies as one that will make an impact in our lives. Reading this historical fiction will cause the reader to reflect on what constitutes friendship and truth.

Written in the third person viewpoint of Sally Flowers Stevens, a Southern Belle from New Orleans, Louisiana, who lives and teaches in Illinois, the setting takes the reader from the early 60's up to the days of Hurricane Katrina. During the times when black and white races kept to strictly drawn lines, Sally's childhood best friend was Christella Ward, a black sixth grader. It was during this time that Sally became a proficient lier.

One of the themes is what makes women lie, and what could possibly cause a woman to reveal a well-hidden truth. Sally finds telling the truth more difficult than telling the lies that fall effortlessly from her mouth. Lies affect her marriage, her relationships with her two children and her students, and one day her lies affect her job.

There are some tough scenes, written with a delicate hand. This is one I heartily recommend.

And now, the first chapter:

Prologue

Hold the Wind, Hold the Wind, Hold the Wind, don’t let it blow.

—Negro spiritual, “Hold the Wind”

August 26, 2005, Normal, Illinois

“I’m meteorologist Kim Boudreaux.” Clad in a dark suit, the petite woman smiled big for her television audience. “Katrina’s track has changed.” She pointed to a mass of ominous-looking clouds that threatened to engulf the screen. “She’s no longer headed for Mobile but is on course for the Crescent City.”

Sally Stevens checked her cell phone, then paced in front of the television, as if that would make her brother Robert pick up the phone. She needed to talk to him, needed to know that he’d gotten her nieces and her sister-in-law out of the death trap that New Orleans suddenly had become. Needed to have him assure her, with his balmy Southern drawl, that he and his National Guardsmen were going to be okay.

A slender hand pointed to what must be a fortune’s worth of satellite and radar imagery. “As you can see, Katrina’s moving toward the mouth of the Mississippi, toward the levees . . .” The meteorologist buzzed on, seemingly high on news of this climactic wonder.

Every word seeped from the television screen, crept across the Stevens’s den, and crawled up Sally’s spine. Louisiana had once been her home. Her heritage. What would this hurricane do to the Southern state that she still loved?

A glance at her watch told Sally to get moving. Instead, she once again punched in Robert’s number. If she could just hear his voice, she’d know how to pray later as she stood in her classroom pretending to be passionate about her lecture on the history of American music, pretending to act like it was another ordinary afternoon in Normal, Illinois, while this mother of a storm wreaked wrath and vengeance upon her brother. Her home.

“. . . the next twenty-four hours are crucial . . .” The camera zoomed in for a close-up, focusing on a perfect oval face that, for just a moment, seemed to stiffen, as if a personal levee was about to be breached. “I’m not supposed to say this.” Urgency laced the forecaster’s voice “But I’m telling you. Leave. This is a killer.” The pulsating weather image seemed to confirm her report, a mass of scarlet and violet whirling about an ominous-looking eye. Growing like a cancer. Moving in for the kill . . .

Talk turned to evacuation, log-jammed roads, but Sally barely listened. Years flew away as she studied Ms. Boudreaux’s flawless mocha complexion, the tilt of her chin. The determination of this woman to save her city, or at least its people. So like the determination of Ella, that first friend, who’d taken off for New Orleans. It was as if the lockbox of Sally’s memories had somehow sprung open. Ella, that friend who’d saved her. Ella. And her brother Willie, if he’d gotten out of the pen. Were they digging in, evacuating—

A classical song Sally’s kids had downloaded onto her phone poured from the tiny speaker as the device vibrated in her palm.

“God, let it be—” She glanced at the readout. 504 area code. New Orleans. Robert. Her fingers suddenly clumsy, she struggled to flip open the phone.

Static greeted her.

“Robert? Bobby?” She was shouting, but she didn’t care. “Are you there? Are you—”

“Ssss—got them out.”

He’s out there somewhere, right in the elements, from the sound of it. “Where are you?” Sally cried. “Robert, what’s going on?” Sally pressed the phone against her ear until it hurt. All this technology, yet she could barely hear him, could barely—

The whooshing stopped. So did Robert’s voice. Sally stared at the readout. Ten seconds she’d had with him. Ten seconds to gauge the climate of a city. A city that might still claim as a resident that once-best friend. Sally whispered a prayer as she grabbed her briefcase and headed to class.

***

August 29, 2005, New Orleans, Louisiana

“It’s no use! The generator’s flooded!” A single battery-operated hallway light revealed the faint outline of Dr. Powers, the thin, impeccably groomed physician whom Ella Ward had worked with for a decade. “Ella? Ella?” He groped against the hospital’s second floor wall, his hands and arms made ghoulish by the shadowy dark. “Are you there? Ella? We’ve got to get them out of here! Now.”

Screams, howling winds, and debris crashing against boarded-up windows swirled into a hellish cacophony that tore at Ella’s heart. What were the three of them, she, Willie, and the doctor—no. Willie didn’t count. What were the two of them going to do for sixty-three patients writhing in excrement, gasping for breath, thousands of dollars of ventilators and BiPAPs rendered powerless? Dying, minute by minute, second by second?

Just to keep from falling down, Ella dug her fingernails into a wall sweaty with humidity. She opened her mouth to answer, but no words came out. At Dr. Powers’s side, she’d watched an aortic artery explode, a patient gurgle in his own blood . . . “The scalpel, Ms. Ward?” he’d said. “Suction, please.” With ice-blue cool, Dr. Powers had plucked life out of mangled messes and never even raised his voice. Now his screams pierced Ella’s ears, and her hopes. Even with one of New Orleans’ best surgeons at her side, the prognosis of surviving this storm was dim. There was nothing for Ella to do but close her eyes and beg. “Oh God. Please Spirit. Please Lord Jesus, please.”

Dr. Powers clutched at the sleeve of Ella’s cotton scrub. “Where’s Willie?”

The doctor’s touch and the mention of her brother brought Ella around. Still, she could barely speak for the quivering of her lip. “Where . . . do you think a junkie would be?”

“The . . . pharmacy?”

Even though Dr. Powers most likely couldn’t see her nod, Ella went through the motion. Twenty-four hours ago, she’d decided she and Willie would come here together. Yet even in her worst nightmare, she hadn’t really believed that they’d die here together.

“Someone, anyone, let me outta here!” It was Mrs. Smith, in Room 215.

“Hold the wind, Lord!” Mr. Lunsford, who’d thought he’d die of cancer.

Ella gritted her teeth. One by one, the patients were seeing the storm’s demonic fingers etching out a death sentence, and screaming their response.

“We’ve got to do something.”

Dr. Powers’s words sent a shiver through Ella. Had he read her mind? Or had she babbled without even knowing it? She clamped her hands over her ears. Lord! I’m goin’ crazy! Help me, Lord!

“What’s happenin’, Lawd? Oh, Lawd Jesus!”

“Sweet Jesus! Where are you?”

What had acted as a twisted tonic to incite the patients to a new level of chaos? Was it the howls of the winds, the thuds and crashes against the windows, the doors, the very roof of this place?

“Jesus, oh Jesus!”

Every moan, every scream, knifed into Ella like a scalpel. Nursing school hadn’t trained her for this. Nearly thirty years working at understaffed facilities hadn’t trained her for this. Nothing had trained her for this. With taut fingers, she pulled the doctor close, then shoved him to his knees and knelt by him, her hands flush against the wall. “We gotta pray,” she said.

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Unread and Waiting

If you would like to join in, click here.

Today's question: An idea I got from The Toddled Dredge (via K for Kat).

“Today I present to you an Unread Books Challenge. Give me the list or take a picture of all the books you have stacked on your bedside table, hidden under the bed or standing in your shelf – the books you have not read, but keep meaning to. The books that begin to weigh on your mind. The books that make you cover your ears in conversation and say, ‘No! Don’t give me another book to read! I can’t finish the ones I have!’ “

My Response:
Books are heavy! When we moved, I decided to be strong and give away boxes and boxes of books. Therefore, today's question is an easy one for me to answer. These few books on the top shelf of my office bookcase are waiting to be read.


This stack sitting just inside the front door are ready and waiting to be read. Notice the darling bookends that BJ sent me are holding them in place.


Here's the one I'm currently reading.


I've dramatically slowed down in my reading. Hey, something had to give!

How many books do you have calling out to you?

Giveaway! Critical Care (Mercy Hospital Series #1) by Candace Calvert

After her brother dies in a trauma room, nurse Claire Avery can no longer face the ER. She's determined to make a fresh start--new hospital, new career in nursing education--move forward, no turning back. 

But her plans fall apart when she's called to offer stress counseling for medical staff after a heartbreaking day care center explosion. Worse, she's forced back to the ER, where she clashes with Logan Caldwell, a doctor who believes touchy-feely counseling is a waste of time. He demands his staff be as tough as he is. 

Yet he finds himself drawn to this nurse educator . . . who just might teach him the true meaning of healing.

My Review:
I'm hooked on Grey's Anatomy, and now I'm hooked on anything that Candace Calvert writes. This is her first novel, so I'm hoping that there will be many more to come. Her experience as an ER nurse shines through the pages that I could not turn quickly enough. If medical programs interest you, this book would be worth your time.

The plot is an intricate one with twists and turns that keep the reader guessing. Characters are believable. Although this is a romance, it's not typical. Claire and Logan keep the reader wondering whether or not romance might develop. I won't tell as I don't want to ruin it for you. It's not the typical Christian fiction either. One character is a God follower, but others are not. Added into the plot is a bit of a whodunit when money disappears.  It's simply a good read.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am willing to give away my ARC (Advanced Reader Copy) copy of this book. ARC is an uncorrected proof, meaning there may be a few typos here and there. Once you read it, you cannot resell it (like on eBay) because it is illegal to resell ARCs.

• Winners are restricted to the US and Canada. No PO Box mailing addresses, please.
• Leave your email address in code in your comment (This is the biggest mistake entrants make. They forget to leave their email address! Please do not ask me to look it up. This is the only thing I ask you to do.)
• I'll close the comments at 6 PM EST July 15th and pick the winner. I will contact the winner via email to get mailing information. There will be three days to respond. If I do not hear from her within three days, I will select another winner(s).
• If you're interested, just say so in a comment with that all-important email address in code.
  Example of email in code: yourname AT hotmail DOT com.

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Don’t die, little girl.

Dr. Logan Caldwell pressed the heel of his hand against Amy Hester’s chest, taking over heart compressions in a last attempt to save the child’s life. Her small sternum hollowed and recoiled under his palm at a rate of one hundred times per minute, the best he could do to mimic her natural heartbeat. A respiratory therapist forced air into her lungs.

Don’t die. Logan glanced up at the ER resuscitation clock, ticking on without mercy. Twenty-seven minutes since they’d begun the code. No heartbeat. Not once. Time to quit but . . .

He turned to his charge nurse, Erin Quinn, very aware of the insistent wail of sirens in the distance. “Last dose of epi?”

“Three minutes ago.”

“Give another.” Logan halted compressions, his motionless hand easily spanning the width of the two-year-old’s chest. He watched until satisfied with the proficiency of the therapist’s ventilations, then turned back to the cardiac monitor and frowned. Asystole—flatline. Flogging this young heart with atropine and repeated doses of epinephrine wasn’t going to do it. A pacemaker, pointless. She’d been deprived of oxygen far too long before rescue.

Logan pushed his palm into Amy’s sternum again and gritted his teeth against images of a terrified little girl hiding in a toy cupboard as her day care burned in a suffocating cloud of smoke, amid the chaos of two dozen other burned and panicking children.

“Epi’s on board,” Erin reported, sweeping an errant strand of coppery hair away from her face. She pressed two fingers against the child’s arm to locate the brachial pulse and raised her gaze to the doctor’s. “You’re generating a good pulse with compressions, but . . .”

But she’s dead. With reluctance, Logan lifted his hand from the child’s chest. He studied the monitor display and then nodded at the blonde nurse standing beside the crash cart. “Run me rhythm strips in three leads, Sarah.” After he drew in a slow breath of air still acrid with the residue of smoke, he glanced down at Amy Hester, her cheeks unnaturally rosy from the effects of carbon monoxide, glossy brown curls splayed against the starched hospital linen. Dainty purple flower earrings. Blue eyes, glazed and half-lidded. Tiny chin. And lips—pink as a Valentine cupid—pursed around the rigid breathing tube, as if it were a straw in a snack-time juice box. Picture-perfect . . . and gone.

He signaled for the ventilations to stop and checked the code clock again. “Time of death—9:47.”

There was a long stretch of silence, and Logan used it to make his exit, turning his back to avoid another glance at the child on the gurney . . . and the expressions on the faces of his team. No good came from dwelling on tragedy. He knew that too well. Best to move on with what he had to do. He’d almost reached the doorway when Erin caught his arm.

“We’ve put Amy’s parents and grandmother in the quiet room the way you asked,” she confirmed, her green eyes conveying empathy for him as well. “I can send Sarah with you, if—”

“No. I’ll handle it myself,” Logan said, cutting her off. His tone was brusquer than he’d intended, but he just wanted this over with. “We need Sarah here.” He tensed at a child’s shrill cry in the trauma room beyond, followed by the squawk of the base station radio announcing an ambulance. “There are at least five more kids coming in from the propane explosion. We’ll need extra staff to do more than pass out boxes of Kleenex. I want nurses who know what they’re doing. Get them for me.”

***

Why am I here?

Claire Avery winced as a child’s painful cry echoed up the Sierra Mercy emergency department corridor and blended with the wail of sirens. Almost an hour after the Little Nugget Day Care explosion, ambulances still raced in. Fire. Burns. Like my brother. No, please, I can’t be part of this again.

She leaned against the cool corridor wall, her mouth dry and thoughts stuttering. Being called to the ER was a mistake. Had to be. The message to meet the director of nursing didn’t make sense. Claire hadn’t done critical care nursing since Kevin’s death. Couldn’t. She wiped a clammy palm on her freshly pressed lab coat and stepped away from the wall to peer down the corridor into the ER. Then jumped, heart pounding, at the thud of heavy footfalls directly behind her.

She whirled to catch a glimpse of a man barreling toward her with his gaze on the ambulance entrance some dozen yards away. He looked a few years older than she was, maybe thirty-five, tall and wide shouldered, with curly dark hair and faded blue scrubs. He leveled a forbidding scowl at Claire like a weapon and slowed to a jog before stopping a few paces from her.

“What are you doing?” he asked, grabbing his stethoscope before it could slide from his neck.

“I’m . . . waiting,” Claire explained, awkwardly defensive. “I was paged to the ER.”

“Good. Then don’t just stand there holding up the wall. Let’s go. The charge nurse will show you where to start.”

“But I—,” she choked, her confusion complete.

“But what?” He glanced toward sounds at the ambulance bay and then back at her.

Claire cleared her throat. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

He shook his head, his low groan sounding far too much like a smothered curse. “If that question’s existential, I don’t have time for it. But if you’re here to work, follow me. Erin Quinn will tell you everything you need to know.” He pointed toward a crew of paramedics racing through the ambulance doors with a stretcher. A toddler, his tiny, terrified face raw and blistered behind an oxygen mask, sat bolt upright partially covered by a layer of sterile sheets. “See that boy? That’s why I’m here. So either help me or get out of the way.” He turned and began jogging.

Speechless, Claire stared at the man’s retreating back and the nightmarish scene beyond: burned child, hustling medics, a flurry of scrubs, and a hysterically screaming parent. Help or get out of the way? What was she supposed to do with that ultimatum? And what gave this rude man the right to issue it?

Then, with a rush of relief, Claire spotted the Jamaican nursing director striding toward her. This awful mistake was about to be cleared up.

“I’m sorry for the delay,” Merlene Hibbert said, her molasses-rich voice breathless. “As you can imagine, there have been many things to attend to.” She slid her tortoiseshell glasses low on her nose, squinting down the corridor. “I see you already met our Dr. Caldwell.”

Claire’s eyes widened. Logan Caldwell? Sierra Mercy Hospital’s ER director?

Merlene sighed. “I’d planned to introduce you myself. I hope he wasn’t . . . difficult.”

“No, not exactly,” she hedged, refusing to imagine a reason she’d need an introduction. “But I think there’s been a mistake. He thought I’d been sent down here to work in the ER.” Tell me he’s mistaken.

“Of course. A natural mistake. He’s expecting two more agency nurses.”

Claire’s knees nearly buckled with relief. “Thank goodness. They need help. I can see that from here.” She glanced at the ER, where patients on gurneys overflowed into the hallway. A nurse’s aide held a sobbing woman in her arms, her face etched with fatigue. Styrofoam coffee cups, discarded cardboard splints, and scraps of cut-away clothing littered the floor. All the while, the distant cries of that poor child continued relentlessly.

“Yes, they do,” Merlene agreed. “And that’s exactly why I called you.”

“But I’ve been at Sierra Mercy only a few months, and my hours are promised to the education department—to train the students, write policies, and demonstrate new equipment.” Claire floundered ahead as if grasping for a life preserver. “I’ve interviewed to replace Renee Baxter as clinical educator. And I haven’t done any critical care nursing in two years, so working in the ER would be out of the—”

“That’s not why you’re here,” Merlene said. Her dark eyes pinned Claire like a butterfly specimen on corkboard. “I need you to assess my staff to see how they’re coping emotionally. I don’t have to tell you this has been one miserable morning.” She studied Claire’s face and then raised her brows. “You listed that in your résumé. That you’ve been recently trained in Critical Incident Stress Management?”

CISM? Oh no. She’d forgotten. Why on earth had she included that? “Yes, I’m certified, but . . .” How could she explain? Merlene had no clue that Claire’s entire future—maybe even her sanity—depended on never setting foot in an ER again. It was the only answer to the single prayer she’d clung to since her firefighter brother’s death in a Sacramento trauma room two years ago. Being helpless to save him left her with crippling doubts, sleep-stealing nightmares, and . . . She’d mapped her future out meticulously. The move to Placerville, a new hospital, a new career path, no going back. Everything depended on her plan.

Claire brushed away a long strand of her dark hair and forced herself to stand tall, squaring her shoulders. “I understand what you’re asking. But you should know that I haven’t done any disaster counseling beyond classroom practice. I’m familiar with the principles, but . . .” What could she possibly offer these people? “Wouldn’t the chaplain be a better choice?”

“He’s going to be delayed for several hours. Erin Quinn’s my strongest charge nurse, so if she tells me her ER team is at risk, I believe it. They received six children from that explosion at the day care. Four are in serious condition, and a two-year-old died.” Merlene touched the amber and silver cross resting at the neckline of her uniform. She continued, frowning. “Dr. Caldwell’s working them ragged. An agency nurse threatened to walk out. Security’s got their hands full with the media. . . . You’re all I can offer them right now.”

Claire’s heart pounded in her throat. With every fiber of her being, she wanted to sprint into the northern California sunshine; fill her lungs with mountain air; cleanse away the suffocating scents of fear, pain, and death; keep on running and not look back. It would be so easy. Except that these were fellow nurses in that ER; she’d walked in their shoes. More than most people, Claire understood the awful toll this work could take. The staff needed help. How could she refuse? She took a breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Good.” Relief flooded into Merlene’s eyes. She handed Claire a dog-eared sheaf of papers. “Here’s our hospital policy for staff support interventions. Probably nothing new there.” She gestured toward her office a few yards away. “Why don’t you sit down and review it for a few minutes before you go in? You can report to me later after I make my rounds.”

Before Claire could respond, the ambulance bay doors slammed open at the far end of the corridor. There was an answering thunder of footsteps, rubber-soled shoes squeaking across the faded vinyl flooring.

Logan Caldwell reappeared, shoving past a clutch of reporters to direct incoming paramedics. He raked his fingers through his hair and bellowed orders. “Faster! Get that stretcher moving. Give me something to work with, guys. And you—yeah, you, buddy—get the camera out of my face! Who let you in here?” The ER director whirled, stethoscope swinging across his broad chest, to shout at a tall nurse who’d appeared at the entrance to the ER. “Where are those extra nurses, Erin? Call the evening crew in early; a double shift won’t kill anyone. We’re working a disaster case here. Get me some decent staff!”

Claire gritted her teeth. Though she still hadn’t officially met him, there was no doubt in her mind that Logan Caldwell deserved his notorious reputation. Dr. McSnarly. The nickname fit like a surgical glove. Thank heaven she didn’t have to actually work with him—the man looked like he ate chaos for breakfast.

Claire turned to Merlene. “I’ll do the best I can,” she said, then drew a self-protective line. “But only for today. Just until the chaplain comes.”

“Of course. Very short-term.” Merlene began walking away, then stopped to glance over her shoulder. “Oh, a word of caution: Dr. Caldwell hates the idea of counseling. I’d watch my back if I were you.”

Claire hesitated outside the doors to the emergency department. She’d reviewed the summary of steps for an initial critical stress intervention and was as ready as she’d ever be. Considering she’d never done any peer counseling before. I’m a fraud. Why am I here?

She shut her eyes for a moment, hearing the din of the department beyond. It had been stupid to put the CISM training on her résumé. She’d taken the course last fall and participated reluctantly in the mock crisis situations, mostly because it would look impressive on her application for the clinical educator position. But afterward Claire knew that she could never volunteer as a peer counselor. Never. It felt too personal, too painful.

Healing the healers, they called it, the basis for the work of volunteer teams that waded into horror zones after events like 9/11, the killer tsunami in Indonesia, and the devastating aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. And a Sacramento, California, trauma room after a warehouse fire that killed seven firefighters.

Claire fought the memories. Yes, the counseling teams made sure that caregivers took care of themselves too, assessing them for burnout and signs of post-traumatic stress. Like difficulty making decisions, sleeplessness, nightmares, and relationship failures. Claire knew the symptoms only too well. She’d struggled with most of them herself these past two years, exactly the reason she’d run away from that Sacramento hospital—after refusing its offer of stress counseling—and never looked back.

But here she was at another ER door, peeking inside through a narrow panel of bulletproof glass. And now she was responsible for helping these people deal with everything she was trying so hard to forget and expected to offer the kind of counseling she’d never accepted herself. Beyond ironic—impossible and completely at odds with her plan.

Claire raised her palm and pushed the door inward.

Heal my heart and move me forward. She’d prayed it every single day.

So why was her life slamming into reverse?

The essence of Sierra Mercy ER hit Claire’s senses like an assault. Sounds: anxious chatter, a burst from the overhead PA speakers, beeping of electronic monitors, inconsolable crying, and painful screams. Smells: nervous perspiration, stale coffee, surgical soap, bandaging adhesive, the scorched scent of sterile surgical packs . . . and of burned hair and flesh.

No, no. Claire’s stomach lurched as she clutched her briefcase like a shield and scanned the crowded room for the charge nurse. Find Erin Quinn. Concentrate on that.

She took a slow breath and walked farther into the room, searching among the eddy of staff in multicolored scrubs—technicians, nurses, and registration clerks. She forced herself to note the glassed-in code room, a small central nurses’ station and its large dry-erase assignment board, the semicircular arrangement of curtained exam cubicles with wall-mounted equipment at the head of each gurney, and the huge surgical exam lights overhead.

Claire tried to avoid the anxious faces of the family members huddled close to the tiny victims. Because she knew intimately how much they were suffering. No, much worse than that. I feel it. I still feel it.

When she’d agreed to do this for Merlene, she’d hoped this smaller ER—miles from the Sacramento trauma center and two years later—would be somehow different, but nothing had changed. Especially how it made Claire feel, the same way it had in those weeks after Kevin’s death. Unsure of herself for the first time in her nursing career, she’d been antsy, queasy, and clammy with doubt. Dreading the wail of approaching sirens and jumping at each squawk of the emergency radio. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shake the irrational certainty that the very next ambulance stretcher would be carrying someone she loved, someone she’d be unable to save, and . . .

A cry in the distance made Claire turn. Her breath caught as the young charge nurse opened a curtain shielding a gurney.

A child, maybe three years old, rested upright in a nest of blue sterile sheets, tufts of his wispy blond hair blackened at the tips—some missing in spots—reddened scalp glistening with blisters. One eye had swollen closed, and his nose was skewed a little to one side by the clear plastic tape securing a bandage to his cheek. The other blue eye blinked slowly as if mesmerized by the drip chamber of the IV setup taped to his arm. An oxygen cannula stretched across his puffy, tear-streaked face.

Beside him, a stainless steel basin, bottles of sterile saline, and stacks of gauze squares sat assembled on a draped table. Burn care: control pain, cool the burn to stop it from going deeper, monitor for dehydration, and prevent tetanus and infection. All the bases covered. Unless the burns are horrific and complicated, like Kevin’s. Unless there is profound shock, heart failure, and . . . No, don’t think of it.

Claire exhaled, watching as Erin Quinn pressed the button on a blood pressure monitor and efficiently readjusted the finger probe measuring the child’s lung status. She made a note on a chart and moved back to the bedside as the child stirred and cried out.

“Mommy?”

“Mom’s getting a bandage on her leg, Jamie, remember?” she explained gently, then caught sight of Claire and acknowledged her with a wave. She called to another nurse across the room. “Sarah, can you finish the ointment on Jamie’s scalp? watch him for few minutes?” After giving a brief report to the petite blonde nurse, she crossed to where Claire stood.

“Good, you found me,” Erin said, noting Claire’s name badge and offering a firm handshake. Strands of coppery hair had escaped from her ponytail, and her blue scrubs were splotched with snowy white burn ointment. She nodded as Claire glanced once more at the injured boy. “Second-degree burns. No explosion trauma, otherwise he’d be on a chopper ride to Sacramento. But Jamie’s got asthma, and the smoke stirred things up. So . . .”

“He needs close observation,” Claire finished. “I understand.”

Erin smiled. “Hey, I really appreciate your coming here. We’ve had a horrible shift, and my staff are workhorses, but the Hester child was a real heartbreaker. We worked a long time to save her, but it didn’t happen. And only last weekend we had the first drowning of the season. Junior high boy fishing on the river. Overall my crew seems to be coping fairly well, but today might be that last straw, you know? So I have a couple of issues I’d like to discuss with you. I can spare about ten minutes to fill you in. Will that be enough to get you started?”

“Yes . . . okay.” Claire tried to recall the details of her review. How much could she offer here? One person couldn’t do more than a brief assessment and let the staff know more assistance was available. At least she’d found the self-help pamphlets. “But first I should tell you that I left a message for the hospital social worker because if an actual debriefing is needed, then a mental health professional is required. That’s policy.” She swallowed, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt. “The debriefing should be done tomorrow or the next day.”

“What?” Erin shot her a look that clearly implied Claire was the one who needed mental help. “Tomorrow? I called you here because we need help now. Didn’t Merlene tell you that?” She pressed her fist to her lips. “Look, I’ve had a lab tech faint, the media’s harassing family members in the waiting room, and an agency nurse threatened to walk out. Walk out, when I’m short-staffed already! I’m sorry if I seem testy, but I’m responsible for the quality of nursing care here. My team needs help, and I’ll do everything it takes to make that happen. Merlene told me you were a trained peer counselor. Aren’t you?”

She hated herself. Erin Quinn was right. Claire needed to do whatever she could for these people. Somehow. She reached into her briefcase and grabbed a sheaf of glossy pamphlets. “Yes, I’ve been trained. And I can start an initial assessment, get things going in the process. I promise I’ll do as much as I can to help, and . . .” Her voice faltered as heavy footsteps came to a stop behind her. She fought an unnerving sense of déjà vu and impending doom.

“Help?” A man’s voice, thick with sarcasm, prodded her back like the devil’s pitchfork.

Claire turned, several pamphlets slipping from her fingers.

It was time to officially meet the newest threat to her plan, Dr. Logan Caldwell.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.

The Shepherd's Fall (The Prodigal Recovery Series, Book 1) by Wanda Dyson

He is about to face the hunt of a lifetime.
Bounty hunter Nick Shepherd is fearless when it comes to chasing down criminals. It’s his difficult ex-wife, rebellious teenage daughter, and dysfunctional siblings that keep him awake at night. In charge of the family business, the Prodigal Recovery Agency, he thinks of himself as a shepherd of sorts. When his “flock” is out of his control, Nick’s well-ordered universe falls into chaos.

Danger comes too close to home.
Prodigal Recovery’s search for Zeena, a prostitute on the run, leads to a faulty arrest, complicating Nicks’s business. He is thrown together with Zeena’s twin, the beautiful Annie, and the two find themselves on a desperate search. The stakes significantly increase when Nick’s daughter is kidnapped.

Can the shepherd stand?
Nick and Annie unwittingly uncover a drug trafficking ring that further condemns the kidnapper. Now, to save someone he loves, Nick must risk everything…but will it be enough?

My Review:
Bounty hunting is a tough business, and this novel has the main character sacrificing all for it--even his marriage. An A-driven personality, Nick lives on very little sleep and Mountain Dew. He heads Prodigal Recovery, a bounty hunting organization struggling in these rough economic times. He has a hard time relating to his brother, and absent sister, along with his willful teenage daughter his ex-wife. His world is his business. 

The plot involves drugs, murder, kidnapping. However, some things are just not believable. For instance, a character breaks into a house, and after eating some food, wondering throughout, even reading a Bible passage, discovers that it's her brother's home.

Things are tied up too quickly and neatly at the end. The author seems to be telling rather than showing the tale. This was not one of my favorites. Perhaps you'll enjoy it.

If you would like to read a Prologue excerpt, click here.

If you would like to buy a copy, click here.

Talking to the Dead by Bonnie Grove

Twenty something Kate Davis can't seem to get this grieving-widow thing down. She's supposed to put on a brave face and get on with her life, right? Instead she's camped out on her living-room floor, unwashed, unkempt, and unable to sleep because her husband, Kevin, keeps talking to her.

Is she losing her mind? 

Kate's attempts to find the source of the voice she hears are both humorous and humiliating, as she turns first to an 'eclectically spiritual' counselor, then to a shrink with a bad toupee, a mean-spirited exorcist, and finally group therapy. There she meets Jack, the warmhearted, unconventional pastor of a ramshackle church, and at last the voice subsides. But when she stumbles upon a secret Kevin was keeping, Kate's fragile hold on the present threatens to implode under the weight of the past ...and Kevin begins to shout.

Will the voice ever stop? Kate must confront her grief to find the grace to go on in this tender, quirky story about second chances.

My Review:
Every once in a while a book grabs from the first sentence and doesn't let go until the reader turns the final page. Even then, like a magnet, the reader is drawn back to reflect. This is that book.

Written in the first person narrative of Kate, and interspersed with her snippets of memories in third person narratives, this tale of a grief stricken, young woman is told. Even though the topic is glum, the story shines with brightness. This is a must-read. 

Interview with the author and discussion topics are included.

And now, the first chapter:

©2009 Cook Communications Ministries. Talking to the Dead by Bonnie Grove. Used with permission. May not be further reproduced. All rights reserved.

Kevin was dead and the people in my house wouldn’t go home. They mingled after the funeral, eating sandwiches, drinking tea, and speaking in muffled tones. I didn’t feel grateful for their presence. I felt exactly nothing.


Funerals exist so we can close doors we’d rather leave open. But where did we get the idea that the best approach to facing death is to eat Bundt cake? I refused to pick at dainties and sip hot drinks. Instead, I wandered into the back yard.


I knew if I turned my head I’d see my mother’s back as she guarded the patio doors. Mom would let no one pass. As a recent widow herself, she knew my need to stare into my loss alone.


I sat on the porch swing and closed my eyes, letting the June sun warm my bare arms. Instead of closing the door on my pain, I wanted it to swing from its hinges so the searing winds of grief could scorch my face and body. Maybe I hoped to die from exposure.


Kevin had been dead three hours before I had arrived at the hospital. A long time for my husband to be dead without me knowing. He was so altered, so permanently changed without my being aware.


I had stood in the emergency room, surrounded by faded blue cotton curtains, looking at the naked remains of my husband while nurses talked in hushed tones around me. A sheet covered Kevin from his hips to his knees. Tubes, which had either carried something into or away from his body, hung disconnected and useless from his arms. The twisted remains of what I assumed to be some sort of breathing mask lay on the floor. “What happened?” I said in a whisper so faint I knew no one could hear. Maybe I never said it at all. A short doctor with a pronounced lisp and quiet manner told me Kevin’s heart killed him. He used difficult phrases; medical terms I didn’t know, couldn’t understand. He called it an episode and said it was massive. When he said the word massive, spit flew from his mouth, landing on my jacket’s lapel. We had both stared at it.


When my mother and sister, Heather, arrived at the hospital, they gazed speechlessly at Kevin for a time, and then took me home. Heather had whispered with the doctor, their heads close together, before taking a firm hold on my arm and walking me out to her car. We drove in silence to my house. The three of us sat around my kitchen table looking at each other.


Several times my mother opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Our words had turned to cotton, thick and dry. We couldn’t work them out of our throats. I had no words for my abandonment. Like everything I knew to be true had slipped out the back door when I wasn’t looking.


“What happened?” I said again. This time I knew I had said it out loud. My voice echoed back to me off the kitchen table.


“Remember how John Ritter died? His heart, remember?” This from Heather, my younger, smarter sister. Kevin had died a celebrity’s death.


From the moment I had received the call from the hospital until now, I had allowed other people to make all of my bereavement decisions. My mother and mother-in-law chose the casket and placed the obituary in the paper. Kevin’s boss at the bank, Donna Walsh, arranged for the funeral parlor and even called the pastor from the church that Kevin had attended until he was sixteen to come and speak. Heather silently held my hand through it all. I didn’t feel grateful for their help.


I sat on the porch swing, and my right foot rocked on the grass, pushing and pulling the swing. My head hurt. I tipped it back and rested it on the cold, inflexible metal that made up the frame for the swing. It dug into my skull. I invited the pain. I sat with it; supped with it.


I opened my eyes and looked up into the early June sky. The clouds were an unmade bed. Layers of white moved rumpled and languid past the azure heavens. Their shapes morphed and faded before my eyes. A Pegasus with the face of a dog; a veiled woman fleeing; a villain; an elf. The shapes were strange and unreliable, like dreams. A monster, a baby—I wanted to reach up to touch its soft, wrinkled face. I was too tired. Everything was gone, lost, emptied out.


I had arrived home from the hospital empty handed. No Kevin. No car—we left it in the hospital parking lot for my sister to pick up later. “No condition to drive,” my mother had said. She meant me.


Empty handed. The thought, incomplete and vague, crept closer to consciousness. There should have been something. I should have brought his things home with me. Where were his clothes? His wallet? Watch? Somehow, they’d fled the scene.


“How far could they have gotten?” I said to myself. Without realizing it, I had stood and walked to the patio doors. “Mom?” I said as I walked into the house.


She turned quickly, but said nothing. My mother didn’t just understand what was happening to me. She knew. She knew it like the ticking of a clock, the wind through the windows, like everything a person gets used to in life. It had only been eight months since Dad died. She knew there was little to be said. Little that should be said. Once, after Dad’s funeral, she looked at Heather and me and said, “Don’t talk. Everyone has said enough words to last for eternity.”


I noticed how tall and straight she stood in her black dress and sensible shoes. How long must the dead be buried before you can stand straight again? “What happened to Kevin’s stuff?” Mom glanced around as if checking to see if a guest had made off with the silverware.


I swallowed hard and clarified. “At the hospital. He was naked.” A picture of him lying motionless, breathless on the white sheets filled my mind. “They never gave me his things. His, whatever, belongings. Effects.”


“I don’t know, Kate,” she said. Like it didn’t matter. Like I should stop thinking about it. I moved past her, careful not to touch her, and went in search of my sister.


Heather sat on my secondhand couch in my living room, a two seater with the pattern of autumn leaves. She held an empty cup and a napkin; dark crumbs tumbling off onto the carpet. Her long brown hair, usually left down, was pulled up into a bun. She looked pretty and sad. She saw me coming, her brown eyes widening in recognition. Recognition that she should do something. Meet my needs, help me, make time stand still. She quickly ended the conversation she was having with Kevin’s boss, and met me in the middle of the living room.


“Hey,” she said, touching my arm. I took a small step back, avoiding her warm fingers.


“Where would his stuff go?” I blurted out. Heather’s eyebrows snapped together in confusion. “Kevin’s things,” I said. “They never gave me his things. I want to go and get them. Will you come?”


Heather stood very still for a moment, straight backed like she was made of wood, then relaxed. “You mean at the hospital. Right, Kate? Kevin’s things at the hospital?” Tears welled in my eyes. “There was nothing. You were there. When we left, they never gave e anything of his.” I realized I was trembling.


Heather bit her lower lip, and looked into my eyes. “Let me do that for you. I’ll call the hospital—” I stood on my tiptoes and opened my mouth. “I’ll go,” she corrected before I could say anything. “I’ll go and ask around. I’ll get his stuff and bring it here.”


“I need his things.”


Heather cupped my elbow with her hand. “You need to lie down. Let me get you upstairs, and as soon as you’re settled, I’ll go to the hospital and find out what happened to Kevin’s clothes, okay?”


Fatigue filled the small spaces between my bones. “Okay.” She led me upstairs. I crawled under the covers as Heather closed the door, blocking the sounds of the people below.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.

Spring Reading Thing, 2009, Wrap Up

Katrina at Callapidder Days was the host for Spring Reading Thing, 2009. Many lovers of reading were facilitated by Katrina's organized set-up of Mr. Linky. I appreciate her efforts. Here are her questions with my answers.

Did you finish reading all the books on your spring reading list?

I completed everything on my list as well as everything that came my way. Since I review books, my reading schedule is somewhat preset and quite intense. I love to read, so that is no problem for me. Each book I read, I review and all of my reviews can be found at Book Critiques, on the sidebar of my book blog.

What was your favorite book you read this spring? Why?

Salty Like Blood by Harry Kraus, M.D. was such a good read that I stated in my review: "What a great novel this is; it may be my all-time favorite!" Please click to read my many reasons for holding this book in such a high regard.

Did you discover a new author or genre this spring? Did you love them? Not love them?

Obviously, I'd like to read anything Harry Kraus has written or will write. Ooo, I loved that book!

In addition, I've read quite a few other new authors and will enjoy reading them again.

What was your favorite thing about the challenge?

I loved watching my list of books grow and grow, I enjoyed linking in my reviews with other readers, and I love the pretty little button that I get to keep in my sidebar!

Here's my completed list:

1. A Vote of Confidence by Robin Lee Hatcher
2. Salty Like Blood by Harry Kraus, M.D.
3. The Marriage Turnaround by Mitch Temple
4. Enduring Justice by Amy Wallace
5. Fatal Illusions by Adam Blumer
6. The House in Grosvenor Square by Linore Rose Burkard
7. Angel of Wrath by Bill Myers
8. My Son, John by Kathi Macias
9. Deadlock by Robert Liparulo
10. Nothing But Trouble: A PJ Sugar Novel by Susan May Warren
11. Unquiet Bones by Mel Starr
12. If Tomorrow Never Comes by Marlo Schalesky
13. New York Debut (Carter House Girls, Book 6) by Melody Carlson
14. How Can I Run A Tight Ship When I'm Surrounded by Loose Cannons? by Kathi Macias
15. Always Watching by Brandilyn and Amberly Collins
16. Blood Bayou by Karen Young
17. The Moment Between by Nicole Baart
18. The Real Enemy by Kathy Herman
19. A Sister's Secret by Wanda E. Brunstetter
20. I'll Make You an Offer You Can't Refuse by Michae Franzese
21. The Voice by Bill Myers
22. Enduring Justice by Amy Wallace
23. Gardenias for Breakfast by Robin Jones Gunn
24. Your Best Birth by Ricki Lake and Abby Epstein
25. Bobbi Brown Living Beauty by Bobbi Brown
26. How Not to Look Old by Charla Krupp
27. According to Their Deeds by Paul Robertson
28. The Note II: Taking a Chance on Love by Angela Elwell Hunt
29. Ruby Unscripted by Cindy Martinusen-Coloma
30. Lucy's Perfect Summer by Nancy Rue
31. Jillian Dare by Melanie M. Jeschke
32. Right on the Money by Pat Robertson
33. The G-Free Diet by Elisabeth Hasselbeck
34. Success Kills: Sidestep the Snares that Will Steal Your Dreams by Wayde Goodall
35. Face of Betrayal by Lis Wiehl with April Henry
36. The Ghostwriter by Travis Thrasher
37. A Passion Denied by Julie Lessman
38. Breaking Up Is Hard To Do by Anne Dayton & May Vanderbilt
39. You Make Me Feel Like Dancing by Allison Bottke
40. Talking to the Dead by Bonnie Grove
41. The Shepherd's Fall by Wanda Dyson
42. Morningsong by Shelly Beach
FINISHED!

You Make Me Feel Like Dancing by Allison Bottke

Va-Va-Va Boom series

Successful fifty-something, Susan Anderson owns and operates a hip hair salon on the Las Vegas strip, decorated with her collection of disco memorabilia accumulated decades ago when she was one of the beautiful people on New York''s disco scene. Now happily married, Susan is known for her business savvy, her fabulous vintage ensembles, her faith, her big heart - and the impromptu disco dance numbers salon staff and clients join in when the spirit moves. 

If life is a dance, Susan''s mastered all the loves. But an exciting business opportunity and her husband''s impending retirement rock her world, shaking Susan''s foundation and revealing regrets and painful memories she thought she''d dealt with. Will Susan be able to face her past, reinvent her marriage, build her dream... and keep on dancing?

My Review:
This Christian fiction is a good story with sweet characters who confront some ups and downs of everyday life. As one character states,  popular "reality TV shows ... got nothin' on us." Written in third person, every character's thoughts are easily followed.

Although they supposedly have a good marriage with good communication, Michael keeps a secret for twenty-five years from his wife, Susan, and she makes major plans without consulting him. Clearly, something's gotta give, and it sure does. Communication is a theme in this book which celebrates "God-cidences" rather than coincidences. If I could change anything, I'd change the ending; it's too predictable, but happy endings are what good chick lit is all about. Discussion questions included.

And now, the first chapter:

Susan Anderson yawned and mumbled an incoherent complaint. She tried to focus heavy-lidded eyes on the glowing chartreuse numbers of the digital clock. Six a.m. She rolled onto her side and picked up the ringing cell phone, wishing she’d shut it off the night before. This was her day off, the one day in seven she could stay ensconced in her luxurious bed, wrapped in Egyptian cotton like a mummy princess. The one day in seven she could snuggle with her hubby when he came home from working the night shift.


“I’m-sorry-to-wake-you-up-but-it’s-an-emergency-and-you’re-the-only-one-who-can-help-something-horrible-has-happened-to-Tina.”


“Slow down, Karen,” Susan whispered hoarsely. “I understand you haven’t been to sleep yet, but I’m still waking up, okay? Now, start from the top. Who’s Tina?”


Stretching like a limber feline, Susan propped her pillow against the headboard and slowly sat up, her eyebrows knitting together as she listened. Her eyes opened more fully as she listened to Karen’s amazing tale.


“… that’s the whole story. I’m afraid she’s going to do something drastic. Please, you have to help her. I know you don’t work Mondays, but you’re the only one I know who might be able to do something.”


Susan leaned her head back and yawned again as she considered.


“Susan? Susan, are you there?”


“Still here. Sorry. Okay. I need coffee and a bagel, but you can tell her to meet me at the salon at seven.”


“Seriously? Fantastic! You’re a lifesaver!”


Susan hung up the phone, rolled onto her stomach, and buried her face in her pillow. Part of her wanted to go back to sleep. But the rest of her loved a challenge—and this was truly a challenge. Although dull moments were few in her world, so were new ventures these days—at least ventures of the dramatic magnitude Karen had just described.


She pulled back the covers and eased up on the edge of the bed. Absentmindedly tucking a strand of ash-blond hair behind her ear, she considered her options for another minute or two before reaching for the phone.


“She works hard for the money, so hard.…”


“Stop singing, Loretta—please. It’s too early for Donna Summer, even for you. I hate caller ID.”


“Heretic—bite your tongue! It’s never too early for Donna. And you should love caller ID. It’s the only reason I always answer your calls.”


Susan laughed. More than a dependable employee, Loretta Wells was a good friend and a sister in faith. She was also the reason Susan could take Mondays off. Loretta was more than capable of handling things without the boss. In fact, she’d been Susan’s right hand for almost twenty years.


Every Monday morning before opening the salon at seven thirty, Loretta had coffee at the Starbucks just off Tropicana Boulevard. Susan knew she could depend on her to rise to this challenge, cut her Starbucks run short, and get things ready for Tina before she arrived.


Susan explained what little she knew about what she’d dubbed as Tina’s Tragic Trauma. “You don’t mind coming in early?” she asked.


“Are you kidding? Sounds utterly fascinating. Don’t worry about me—what about you? I don’t think I’ve seen you on a Monday in more than a decade. Think you can function?”


“Very funny. I’ll be just fine. See you in forty five.”


She flipped the phone shut, grabbed a notepad and pen from the bedside table, and scribbled a note to leave downstairs for Michael on her way out. Her husband wouldn’t get home until eight, about the time she was usually getting ready for work. He wouldn’t be happy with her for taking off like this on their one day together, but what could she do? This young woman needed her.


She recalled the most recent argument she’d had with Michael about this very subject.


“You’re a hairdresser for crying out loud—not George!” he had shouted into the phone last week when she called him from the salon at 2:30 a.m.


George was their neighbor, a psychologist who was on call for police emergencies twenty-four/seven.


“You wouldn’t say that, Michael, if you had seen her. The creep used a butcher knife to cut off her hair. I couldn’t say no. Michael, you should have seen …”


“What if he had showed up at the shop? What then? He might be outside waiting for you right now. Maybe I should come over and follow you home …”


“No, Michael, I’m fine. I’m sure he’s not waiting for me. He doesn’t have a beef with me.”


Susan didn’t tell him she had worried about the same thing when the girl showed up, referred by a friend who ran a shelter for battered women.


“I’m sorry I called,” she said with a sigh. What she had really wanted to share was her excitement at being able to pray with a young woman who was openly searching for an answer to the unexplainable emptiness in her heart.


“Me too,” Michael grumbled. “Now, get out of there and go home. I’ll stay on the phone while you lock up.”


That had been several days ago, and they had yet to talk about the situation again. She wasn’t exactly eager to bring it up—not with the way Michael had been acting lately. His sixtieth birthday loomed on the horizon, and Susan was quite certain he was having a delayed midlife crisis. She was hard-pressed to feel sympathetic. She was turning fifty in April, and she wasn’t snapping at everyone about every little thing.


Susan didn’t start thinking about Tina’s Tragic Trauma again until she was in the shower. What if she couldn’t help her? Lord, I’m almost embarrassed to bring this to you. I mean, I know it’s just hair. But what if Karen isn’t overdramatizing the situation? Surely someone wouldn’t commit suicide over a bad hair day, would she? Please help me help Tina. Amen.


Hurrying to get dressed, she pulled her thick hair back in a ponytail and wrapped a vintage Chanel scarf around her crown as a headband. She brushed her teeth, stroked on moisturizer, and applied her makeup in record time even though she’d been tempted to go without it, since her goal was to return home in a couple of hours and jump back into bed.


She quickly straightened up the bathroom for Michael, knowing he would take a shower as soon as he got home. When she finished, she sat down at her laptop and sent a quick e-mail to her online chat group. Then she checked herself one last time in the hall mirror and headed out the door.



From: Susan Anderson (boomerbabesusan@boomerbabesrock.com)

Sent: Monday, January 9, 6:43 a.m.

To: Patricia Davies; Mary Johnson; Lisa Taylor; Linda Jones; Sharon Wilson

Subject: You will NEVER believe this … story to follow


Good morning fellow boomer babes!


I’m off to work early … seems we have a Hair Emergency. I’ll fill you in when I know more. Can’t believe it’s only week two of the new year. Things haven’t slowed down at the shop … we’ve been operating full tilt since before Thanksgiving. Guess I shouldn’t complain … business is good. Hope everyone is healthy and happy.


Suze



Looking around the casino on his way out that morning brought Michael Anderson a bittersweet feeling. He liked his job, and every day yielded a new challenge. Yet, after thirty-five years, he was beginning to consider early retirement. The past night had been another busy one, and he was tired from walking the length of the property countless times as one mechanical problem after another surfaced. The Silver Spur was one of the oldest casinos in Las Vegas, and time was beginning to take its toll.


Of course, mechanical problems were easier to deal with than the inevitable people problems his wife seemed to encounter on a daily basis. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like for Susan, standing in one area, doing the same thing day in and day out. It must drive her crazy. It drove him crazy sometimes, just hearing about it.


“I love it, Michael, really I do,” she often told him. And he knew she was proud of her unique beauty salon, Disco Diva. But she had to be as tired of the daily grind as he was. They’d both been at it for so many years.


He couldn’t wait to get home and tell her his news—and this was the day to tell it. Monday was their only full day to spend together. Oh, sure, he saw her throughout the week, but not for long. Most days they were like the proverbial ships passing each other. He came home from the night shift just before she left in the morning, and she woke him when she returned from the salon in time for him to shower, get dressed, eat, and take off for work.


For years, though, they had enjoyed their evening meal together—Susan’s dinner and his breakfast. It was a solid ritual. And there was always something to talk about. Communication wasn’t a problem in their relationship. Having time to communicate was the problem. He’d once computed the time they’d actually spent together in the almost twenty-five years they’d been married; it was far less than the years implied.


And recently, it seemed, things were getting worse. More often than not during the past few months, Susan was already gone when he came home in the morning. And instead of waking him in person in the evening, she had taken to setting the alarm clock for him before she left for the salon.


This was all very unusual for her. He suspected she might be going through early menopause—not that he was an expert on such things. But she was certainly acting strangely these days. She spent more time at the salon than ever and seemed on edge a lot of the time.


That was another reason he’d decided to unveil his surprise a little early. It was time to free her from the growing responsibilities that were clearly taking away her joy.


Time for him to make their longtime dream come true.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.

Giveaway! Breaking Up Is Hard To Do by Anne Dayton & May Vanderbilt

A Miracle Girls Novel
Ana, Christine, Riley, and Zoe have grown closer than ever over the past few months, but summer is over and it's time to put their friendship to the test.

It's been a little over a year since Christine Lee's mom passed away in a tragic car accident. Now her dad is engaged to Candace--"The Bimbo"--and Christine couldn't be less thrilled. When her attitude starts to take a toll on her schoolwork, the administration forces her to attend counseling sessions. At least she gets to skip gym class!

But with her father's wedding inching closer, Christine is growing even more bitter. To make matters worse, the Miracle Girls are beginning to drift apart. Christine's anger and the pressures of high school threaten to break the girls up when they need each other the most. Will they find a way to join together to help Christine come to terms with her mother's death . . . and her father's remarriage?

My Review:
I enjoyed this delightful teen novel. Written in the voice of Christine, a teenager, the story peels away like an onion--layer by layer--as she moves through the grieving experience from the recent death of her mother, to the idea of a new step-mother. Added to the mix are driving, dating, and her roller coaster relationship with her friends, the Miracle Girls.

When Christine listens to Handel's Messiah, I find descriptive writing at its best. That scene along with another brought me to tears. This may have been written for teens, but it touched my old heart, and I give it a big thumbs up.

If you would like to read the first chapter, click here.

If you would like to buy a copy, click here.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The generous folks at Hachette Book Group are allowing me to host this book giveaway for five (5) copies!

• Winners are restricted to the US and Canada. No PO Box mailing addresses, please.
• Leave your email address in code in your comment (Please do not ask me to look it up! It's the only thing I ask of you.) Example of email in code: you[at]yourmail[dot]com
  
• I'll close the comments at 6 PM EST June 27th and pick the winners. I will contact the winners via email to get their mailing information. The winners will have three days to respond. If I do not hear from a winner within three days, I will select another winner(s).
• If you're interested, just say so in a comment with that all-important email address in code.

Giveaway! The Note II: Taking a Chance on Love by Angela Elwell Hunt

Newspaper columnist Peyton MacGruder has returned to her job after covering the story of an ill-fated Pan World flight. Having recently discovered Christine, the daughter she gave up to an adoption agency nineteen years ago, she is reluctant to commit to the handsome sportswriter Kingston Danville. She feels she owes it to Christine to set her love life aside and make up for lost time.

But when a reader challenges Peyton’s advice to “let caution trump passion,” Peyton determines to learn the reason behind her reader’s cynicism...and in the process, discovers answers to her own heart-rending dilemma.

A sequel to Angela Hunt’s best-selling novel, The Note, on which the Hallmark movie was based. This novelization based on the Hallmark movie sequel will contain color images from the second movie.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Christy Award winner Angela Hunt writes books for readers who have learned to expect the unexpected. With over three million copies of her books sold worldwide, she is the best-selling author of The Tale of Three Trees, The Note (which became a Hallmark holiday film), and more than 100 other titles. Angela has won gold and silver medals from ForeWord magazine’s Book of the Year Award and has received the Lifetime Achievement Award from a major readers’ magazine.

Visit the author's website.

 



My Review:
If you enjoy a good love story, here's one for you. Actually, this quick-to-read novel contains two love stories.

There is a theme of taking the initiative to step out and ask forgiveness of those you've wronged so that you can move forward with life. Lead with your heart, not your head. This story begins where the The Noteleaves off.

Everyone knows that the book is better than the movie, and in this case, that certainly proves true. I enjoyed reading the thoughts of the protagonist, Peyton. Her thoughts need to be "heard." In the movie, the viewer is forced to "read between the lines." In the book, the reader peeks inside her brain to better understand her thought process. Discussions questions are included.


If you would like to read the first chapter, see here.

With one elbow propped on her desk, Peyton MacGruder chewed on the edge of a fingernail and glared at the clock on the wall. On days like this, when she was twenty minutes away from her deadline and far from finished with her column, she could swear that the minute hand swept over the clock face at double speed.

She transferred her gaze to the computer monitor and fluttered her fingers over the keyboard. Some days the magic worked and the words flowed. Other days she might as well be typing gibberish.

She skimmed the half-completed column on her screen and tried to focus her thoughts. Last week a reader had written that she was afraid to trust a brother-in-law who had stolen from her in the past. Peyton had answered that forgiveness was important, but experience could not be ignored. And when it came to matters of the heart, caution should always trump passion. Dozens of readers had e-mailed, filling her in-box with responses, most of them supportive.

Now she was working on a recap that included reader comments, but everything she’d written so far looked like extended self-congratulation. She needed a corroborating opinion . . . and any column could be improved with an appropriate quote, couldn’t it? She reached for her dictionary of popular quotations, scanned the index, and jabbed her finger at an appropriate entry. Smiling with satisfaction, she propped her reading glasses on the end of her nose and worked the quote into her piece:

And so, dear readers, when it comes to dealing with relationships, perhaps we should keep the words of Eumenides in mind. That venerable sage once wrote, “There are times when fear is good. It must keep its watchful place at the heart’s controls. There is advantage in the wisdom won from pain.”

Perhaps a happy heart is, at its core, a cautious heart.

There. She leaned back and clicked the word count tool. Seven hundred words—not bad. The dragon lady shouldn’t have to cut any of this column.

After a quick proofread, Peyton clicked Send and addressed the file to Nora Chilton, senior features editor. Another click and away it went.

She turned as something slapped the surface of her desk. Mandi Hillridge, an overenthusiastic intern from the University of North Carolina Wilmington, stood in the aisle, her arms filled with folders. Peyton picked up the envelope Mandi had tossed her way and studied the return address. “Am I supposed to know this Eve Miller?”

Mandi shifted her burden from one arm to the other. “I doubt it. I think she’s a reader.”

Peyton ran her fingertip across the ragged edge. “Why has this letter been opened?”

“Because Phil Brinker didn’t check the address before he tore into it. Our stellar mailroom staff mistakenly delivered it to him while he was in New York working on that story about the media covering the media. He just got back and told me to bring it to you.” Mandi stepped closer, her eyes gleaming. “You want me to go fuss at the guys in the mailroom? One of them’s kinda cute.”

Peyton glanced over the short walls of the reporters’ cubicles and saw Nora stepping out of the elevator. “No.” She propped both elbows up on her desk. “I want you to get me two Tylenol. Extra strength.”

“You have a headache?”

“Not yet.”

Mandi turned in time to see Nora approaching, a folded newspaper in hand. Even from her desk Peyton recognized the distinctive banner that contained her byline and staff photo. Had Nora come down to complain about a column that had already run? She wouldn’t, unless one of the higher-ups sent her to confront Peyton about some obscure point.

“About that headache—” Mandi lowered her voice—“I’ll bring the bottle.”

The young woman hurried away as Nora approached Peyton’s desk. The editor waved the paper before Peyton’s anxious gaze and nodded. “By the way, about this column last week? You were absolutely right.”

“That’s a nice change.” Peyton managed a smile. “About what?”

“Passion. It should always be tempered with caution. Especially when it comes to affairs of the heart.”

Peyton straightened in her chair, not certain why the editor had felt compelled to personally deliver this bit of elaboration. “You speaking from conviction or firsthand experience?”

Nora managed a coy smile. “None of your business. Anyway, you’ve been doing really good work lately. I had my doubts at first, but you’ve grown into the job.”

“You came all the way down here to pat me on the back?”

“Actually, I came down here to tell you that in addition to writing the Heart Healer, I’m going to need you to handle a feature or two for the Lifestyles section. We got the call last night; Marlo Evans had a baby boy, so she’ll be out on maternity leave for the next several weeks.”

Peyton dropped her head to her hand and groaned. “Why not use freelancers?”

“Because I don’t have the patience or the finances to deal with neophytes. The budget cuts have made it necessary for all of us to pick up the slack now and then. Besides—” her mouth curved in a wry smile—“you’re fast and you’re good at researching. A feature or two shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

“But I’m swamped with—” Peyton swallowed the rest of her complaint as sports editor King Danville moved into her line of vision. A warm feeling settled in the pit of her stomach and brought a smile to her lips. Would she ever stop feeling all gushy and girly whenever King approached her desk?

King glanced at the features editor before returning Peyton’s smile. “Hello, Nora.”

Nora’s chin dipped in a stiff nod. “Kingston.”

Like a flower seeking the sun, Peyton shifted to face the man who had recently brought new joy to her life. “I was just telling Nora that these days I don’t have time to keep up with my column and write a weekly feature, no matter how occasional it is.”

Nora glanced from Peyton to King and then arched a brow. “Perhaps if you temper your newfound passion, you’ll find the time.”

King grinned as the editor smiled and moved toward the elevator; then he pulled a white bottle from his jacket pocket and shook it. Peyton placed the familiar rattle within seconds: Extra Strength Tylenol, as requested.

“Ran into Mandi in the coffee room,” King explained. “She said you were going to need these.”

“She was right.” Peyton sighed. “Nora seems to think I can sit down and whip up a decent feature while I’m outlining my next column. I don’t know where she got the idea that I’m some kind of writing machine.”

“Maybe from the fact that you write so fast you make the rest of us look like we’re moving backward.”

Peyton shook her head, unwilling to accept praise she didn’t deserve. She knew the truth—she could turn an assignment around quickly because outside the newspaper office she had no life. While other writers struggled to work amid the pressures of family schedules, children’s homework, school events, sporting activities, and the needs of a spouse, Peyton only had to take care of herself and her two cats.

At least that’s the way things were before King and Christine came into her life. The situation was a little different now, and she was feeling the pressure.

“I’m not that fast,” she insisted. “And I’m not that versatile.”

“Then don’t cave so quickly, MacGruder. Just because Nora’s your boss doesn’t mean you have to let her push you around.”

“I was ready to push back until she played the guilt card. When she mentioned the budget cuts, I realized how lucky I am to even be employed. How can I not agree to write whatever she wants?”

“That’s what I like about you—you’re a solid team player.”

“I’m a pushover.”

King smiled and stepped to the side of Peyton’s desk. “In that case, I’d better prescribe two of these—” he held up the bottle of pain relievers—“or one of these.” Before Peyton could point out that they were surrounded by coworkers in cubicles, he bent and pressed a kiss to her lips. She closed her eyes, ready to forget about an audience of staff reporters, clerks, and copy editors, but the kiss didn’t last.

She looked up at him, unsatisfied.

“Do any good?” he asked.

“Not sure. Try again. Maybe increase the dosage.”

He bent, his lips warming hers with more passion this time. When he finally pulled away, Peyton exhaled a long sigh of happiness . . . and the writers around her erupted into applause.

Peyton grinned as her cheeks warmed. “They approve.”

“I don’t give a fig about them. What did you think?”

“Um . . . better.”

“Only better? Well, you know what they say about practice making perfect . . .”

As the other reporters hooted and King leaned in for yet another kiss, Peyton pressed her palm against the center of his chest. “You know, it’s this kind of temptation that led to Marlo Evans’s maternity leave. And in turn, to my impending headache. So maybe we should get back to work.”

With a roguish grin, King straightened and stepped away from her chair. “Yes, ma’am.”

“But after work—” Peyton squinted at him—“would you want to go for a jog with me and Christine? We wanted to run the paths down by the shoreline.”

King shook his head. “Enticing offer, but I’ve got to run out to the university after I finish up today. David needs to talk to me about something. He says it’s important.”

Peyton nodded, once again reminded that their relationship was not as simple as it would have been if they’d met in their twenties. She had Christine to consider, and King had David. Both children, hers and his, were nearly grown, and both had been forced to deal with the aftermath of their parents’ unwise decisions.

“MacGruder.” King’s voice, warm and insistent, drew her from her thoughts. “Maybe I’ll stop by your place later.”

“I’d like that.” Peyton offered him a forgiving smile. “I’ll be waiting.”

King took two steps toward his office, then halted. “Hey—” he turned, propping his arms on the cubicle wall—“I found an interesting e-mail in my in-box this morning. A friend in New York said my name recently came up in a board meeting at the Times.”

Peyton felt a frigid finger touch the base of her spine. “The New York Times?”

He chuckled. “Hard to imagine, huh? Moving from the Middleborough Times to the Gray Lady?”

“Your name came up in a board meeting? What does that mean, exactly?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’ll keep you posted.”

As he walked away, exchanging gibes with other writers as he passed their desks, Peyton felt fear blow down the back of her neck. Any other journalist would be salivating at the thought of writing for the Times, but King never seemed to get ahead of himself. Contentment was one of his primary virtues, and Peyton hadn’t realized how much she’d been counting on his ability to remain satisfied with the status quo.

What would she do if she lost him?

The thought struck like a blow to the chest, stealing her breath. Until recently, she had managed to keep herself detached from complicated personal relationships. But then the tragedy of a horrific plane crash taught her about the brevity of life and the importance of connection. Now she was desperate to understand two precious people, but understanding took time, and time was something she no longer possessed in abundance.

She forced herself to take a deep breath and steady her pulse. No one was abandoning her; the world had not shifted on its axis. Her imagination was simply working overtime, a tendency that nearly always resulted in needless worry and borrowed trouble.

With her gift for imagining disaster, maybe she should have been a novelist.

When she swiveled toward her computer, determined to set her fears aside and tackle her e-mail, her gaze fell again on the envelope from Eve Miller. The postmark was five days in the past, so by now the woman’s comments were old news. And in an electronic society, old news was dead news.

Peyton tossed the envelope into a bin filled with unopened letters and turned her attention to her in-box.

***

Peyton slid behind the wheel of her car, tossed her purse into the empty passenger seat, and fumbled with the buckle of her seat belt. When she was certain the car’s computer wouldn’t scold her for forgetting some vital procedure, she turned the ignition switch and waited for the automatic seat to slide forward, tilt, rise, and whatever else it did to adjust to her frame.

King had talked her into buying this vehicle last weekend, insisting that her old car was only a few miles away from imploding. “Ninety-eight thousand miles?” he exclaimed after glimpsing her odometer. “Good grief, MacGruder, are you going for some kind of endurance record?”

She had to admit the new vehicle was nice, but its myriad bells and whistles bewildered her. She hadn’t taken the time to read the manual, and she barely managed to sit through the salesman’s demonstration. “I don’t have time to fuss with fancy gadgets,” she told the desperate young man who had greeted her and King at the auto dealership. “So just point me toward something safe and inexpensive. Something I won’t have to give up chocolate to afford.”

Like a village matchmaker, the salesman grinned and fixed her up with this sleek blue machine, which he kept calling a crossover—a cross between a sedan and an SUV. She had a feeling the vehicle was too big to be economical or politically correct, but since an entire row of similar vehicles waited behind a fence at the dealership, the manager was probably eager to move his inventory. Regardless, the car earned good crash ratings, it used less gasoline than a tank, and it had the one accessory she couldn’t live without: a CD player.

Before putting the car in gear, Peyton punched the button of the stereo system and relaxed when the professional reader’s voice poured through the surround sound speakers. She’d bought this audiobook about mothers and daughters shortly after telling Christine the truth about their relationship—yes, they were reporter and reader, but they were also biological mother and daughter. Eighteen years and difficult circumstances had kept them apart, but a series of newspaper columns had brought them back together.

Now Peyton wanted nothing more than to be the mother she would have been if tragedy hadn’t intervened. A heaven-sent miracle had restored the child she’d been forced to surrender for adoption, and Peyton didn’t want to forfeit this second chance to love. And parent. And occasionally nag.

She and Christine were still in the midst of that awkward getting-to-know-you phase, but Peyton felt they’d made great strides in their relationship. They tried to talk every day, even if only briefly, and though Christine still lived in the house she’d inherited from her adoptive parents, she felt free enough to drop into Peyton’s home unannounced, as any daughter naturally would.

Still, Christine rarely called Peyton “Mom.” When necessary, she called Peyton by name . . . or she didn’t call her anything at all.

“By late adolescence,” a confident voice intoned as Peyton put the car in gear and backed out of the parking space, “most daughters can be placed in one of three categories—distant, dissatisfied, or dependent. Do any of these words remind you of the young woman in your life?”

Peyton shook her head and shifted into drive. The author needed a fourth category for Christine—maybe delightful. They were still in the honeymoon phase, each of them unbearably grateful to have found the other. They might have disagreements later—in fact, they probably would—but for now Peyton was thrilled to be able to know and love the young woman who had never been far from her thoughts and prayers.

“Outstanding mothers devote most of their time to their children, instilling healthy values into daughters who will become outstanding mothers themselves,” the reader continued, “but unsuitable mothers abandon and abuse.”

Peyton winced at the author’s use of the word abandon.

“Bottom line, if you provide your child with what she needs—clothing, shelter, food, affection—you, concerned mother, are off the hook if your daughter makes unwise decisions. After you have taught your child right from wrong, your daughter has the freedom to choose . . . right or wrong. Do not blame yourself if she chooses to learn life’s lessons through negative experiences.”

Peyton frowned as she pulled out of the parking lot and into traffic. Over the years, she’d covered dozens of stories involving teenage delinquents—wayward boys who got mixed up with guns and drugs, runaway girls who ended up on the street or in the hospital because they went looking for love in all the wrong faces. Behind every sad teenager’s story, Peyton found a distraught mother who couldn’t seem to understand how her child ended up in such a deplorable state.

She hated to admit it, but every time she interviewed one of those mothers, she’d walked away feeling resentful and slightly smug, convinced that she would have managed better if only given a chance. But now that she was being given an opportunity to mother a teen, she had no idea what she was supposed to do.

To make matters worse, her time of greatest influence would be limited. After the plane crash in which her father died, Christine had taken time off to grieve, but soon she’d go back to school and get busy with her studies. She’d probably meet a young man on campus and want to settle down. Then she’d center her world on her husband and her children, and she’d expect Peyton to focus on being a doting grandmother, not a mom. So this precious opportunity to parent her daughter would be relatively short-lived.

Peyton pulled up to the red light at an intersection and snapped off the CD player. The bookstores were loaded with books about how to parent newborns, toddlers, middle schoolers, and teens, but no one had much advice for brand-new parents of young adults.

No one even seemed to be able to answer Peyton’s most basic question: at eighteen, which did Christine need most: an authority figure or a friend?


Copyright ©2009 by Angela Hunt. Used with permission from Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The generous folks at Tyndale House Publishers are allowing me to host this book giveaway for five (5) copies!

• Winners are restricted to the US and Canada. No PO Box mailing addresses, please.
• Leave your email address in code in your comment (Please do not ask me to look it up! It's the only thing I ask of you.) Example of email in code: you[at]yourmail[dot]com
  
• I'll close the comments at 6 PM EST June 25th and pick the winners. I will contact the winners via email to get their mailing information. The winners will have three days to respond. If I do not hear from a winner within three days, I will select another winner(s).
• If you're interested, just say so in a comment with that all-important email address in code.

A Passion Denied by Julie Lessman

The Daughters of Boston, Book 3

Young Elizabeth O'Connor is the little sister John Brady always longed for. But she wants much more than that from her spiritual mentor. As she blossoms into a beautiful young woman intent on loving John, he must push back the very real attraction he feels for her. 

His past just won't let him go there. Unfortunately, Lizzie won't let him go anywhere else--until she discovers he is not all that he seems. 

Can true love survive such revelations? Full of the romance and relationships Lessman readers have come to love in the popular series.

My Review:
This is my first Julie Lessman novel, and I'm certain it will not be my last. Delicately written, the novel contains sex scenes without graphic details. Therefore, this Christian romance is not pablum; real life situations are portrayed, but in an inoffensive style.

Set in the 1920s, it's fun to read about the tug-of-war women faced then and still continue to face. Should I work or stay at home? When is the correct time to begin a family? The characters in this Irish Catholic family clearly love God as well as each other. By writing in third person narrative, the reader easily understands how everyone thinks and feels. Interesting twists and turns are aplenty, in addition to a good-sized surprise toward the end.

For historical romance fans, here's a good one. Although this is a series, it is a stand-alone novel and can be enjoyed without having read the two preceding books. No doubt the next volume in this series will be about Katie, the spunky baby of the O'Connor family.

And now, the first chapter:

“O Lord my God, how great you are!

You are robed with honor and with majesty …

You make the clouds your chariots; you ride upon the wings of the wind.

The winds are your messengers; flames of fire are your servants.”

– Psalm 104:1-4


A PASSION DENIED


Chapter One


Boston, Massachusetts, Spring 1922

Oh, to be a calculating woman! Elizabeth O’Connor sighed. She dodged her way down the bustling sidewalk of Boston’s thriving business district, wishing she were more like her sister, Charity. She chewed on her lip. Regrettably, she wasn’t, a definite character flaw at the moment. And one that would have to change.

She sidestepped a rickety wood wagon heaped high with the Boston Herald, hot off the presses. The freckle-faced boy hauling it muttered an apology before disappearing into a sea of pin-striped suits, short skirts and bobbed hair. On his heels, a young mother ambled along, cooing to a wide-eyed baby in a stroller. The baby’s soft chuckle floated by, and the sound buoyed Elizabeth’s spirits. Spring in the city! Despite the whiff of gasoline and tobacco drifting in the unseasonably warm breeze, she was ready for the promise of love in the air. Her heart fluttered. And maybe, just maybe, a little spring fever would do the trick!

She pressed her nose to the window of McGuire & Brady Printing Company and peered inside. John Morrison Brady was bent over a press, his lean, muscled body poised for battle with a screwdriver in his hand. Her chin hardened, and her smiled faded. That man suffered from a terminal illness that would be the death of their relationship: friendship. Elizabeth straightened her shoulders. And the worst kind of friendship at that—the big-brother kind.

She touched a hand to the wavy shingle haircut her friend Millie had talked her into. “It’s all the rage, Lizzzzzie Lou,” Millie had insisted, the sound of Lizzie’s name buzzing on her tongue like the hum of a busy beehive. A self-proclaimed modern woman, Millie had convinced Elizabeth “Beth” O’Connor to change her name to Lizzie over a year ago—to add excitement to her life, she’d said. And now, in the throes of radical 1920s fashion, Lizzie’s best friend had also convinced her that the chestnut tresses trailing her back simply had to go. The result was a short, fashionable bob, newly shorn just yesterday. Softly waved, it fell to just below her ear, showing off her heart-shaped face and slender neck to good advantage. Or so Millie had said. She squinted at her reflection in the window. She did look older, more sophisticated, she supposed. A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. And it certainly seemed as if she had turned a few more heads at the bookstore where she worked. She opened the door, spurred on by the tinkling bell overhead, and took a deep breath. Now to turn the right one …

Her brother-in-law, Collin, looked up from his desk where he tallied invoices for printing jobs just completed. A slow grin spread across his handsome face before he let out a low whistle, causing a pleasant wash of heat to seep into her cheeks. “Sweet saints above, Lizzie, is that really you? What are you trying to do? Break a few hearts?”

Her gaze flicked to the back room where Brady lay on a flat wooden dolly beneath their Bullock web-fed press. She studied his long legs sprawled and splattered with ink, then looked back at Collin with a shaky smile. “Nope, only one. But I suspect it’s forged in steel.”

Collin chuckled and glanced over his shoulder, stretching his arms overhead. “Yep, I’d say so, but I admire your tenacity. You might say you’re the little sister he never had. But I suspect that pretty new hairdo and stylish outfit could go a long way in changing his mind.”

She grinned and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Thanks, Collin. One can only hope.” She tugged on her lavender, low-waisted dress, then smoothed out its scalloped layers with sweaty palms. “And pray, I suppose, since it is Brady we’re dealing with here.”

Collin stood and draped an arm around her shoulders. He lowered his voice and gave her a squeeze. “He’ll wake up one of these days, Lizzie. I just hope it’s not too late. You’re too pretty to be waiting around. And he’s a slow one, you know.”

She sighed and leaned against him, staring at Brady with longing in her eyes. “Now there’s a news flash for you.”

Collin laughed and gave her a gentle prod toward the back room. “Show him no mercy, Lizzie.”

She nodded and made her way to the rear of the shop, her pulse tripping faster than the tap-tap-tapping of Brady’s trusty screwdriver. She stopped at the foot of the press and sucked in a deep swallow of air. “I have a notion, John Brady, that whenever you want to get away from the world, you disappear under that silly machine.”

A deep-throated chuckle floated up between the rotors of the press. He rolled out, flat on his back. The smile froze on his face. “Beth? What’d ya do to your hair?”

Heat flooded her cheeks. “I had it bobbed. Do you like it?”

He sat up and rubbed his jaw with the side of his hand, screwdriver angled as if he were playing a violin. “Yeah … it’s pretty, I guess. In a newfangled sort of way.”

She twirled around to give him the full effect, her smile brimming with hope. “Well, I am a modern woman, in case you haven’t noticed.”

He lumbered to his feet. His tall frame unfolded to eliminate everything else in her view. He squinted and scrunched his nose, causing smudges of ink to wrinkle across his tanned cheek. “Mmmm … makes you look old.”

“I am old, Brady, a fact you refuse to acknowledge. Almost eighteen, remember?”

He chuckled. “Seventeen, Beth, and I’ll give you the half.” He turned and ambled to the sink to wash his hands. His husky laugh lingered in the air. She stared at the work shirt spanning his back and barely noticed the ink stains for the broad shoulders and hard muscles cording his arms. He dried his hands on a towel and turned to lean against the counter. The corners of his mouth flickered as if a grin wanted to break free. “You’ll always be a little girl to me, little buddy, especially with those roses in your cheeks and wide eyes. I suspect I’ll feel that way when you’re long gone and married, Beth, with a houseful of little girls all your own. That’s just the way it is with big brothers.”

She notched her powdered chin in the air. “You’re not my brother, John Brady, and no amount of touting will make it so.” She propped hands to her waist and gave him a ruby red pout. “And I’m not a little girl. I’m a woman … with feelings—”

“Beth, we’ve been over this before.” He slacked a hip and ran a calloused hand over his face. His brown eyes softened with compassion. “I see you as my little sister, nothing more. These ‘feelings’ you think you have for me—”

“Know I have for you, Brady! I know it, even if you don’t.” Her chest rose and fell with indignation.

He groaned. “All right, these feelings you know you have for me … I’ve known you since you were thirteen, Elizabeth, and I’ve been a mentor in your faith since fourteen. It’s natural for you to think you have feelings—”

She stomped her foot. “Know, Brady, I know! And if you weren’t so socially inept and totally blind—”

He rose to his full six-foot-three height, making her five-foot-seven seem almost petite. The chiseled line of his jaw hardened with the motion. “Come on, Beth, totally blind?” His gaze flicked into the next room as if he were worried Collin was listening.

Tears threatened and she wanted to bolt, but she fought it off. This was too important. Fueled by frustration long dormant, she slapped her leather clutch onto the table and strode forward. She jabbed a finger into his hard-muscled chest. “Yes, blind, you baboon! And don’t be looking to see what Collin thinks, because he knows it too. Honestly, Brady, as far as the Bible, you’re head and shoulders above anyone I know. But when it comes to seeing what God may have for you right in front of your ink-stained nose, you don’t have a clue.” She dropped a trembling hand to her quivering stomach. Oh, my, where had that come from?

He stood, mouth gaping. A spray of red mottled his neck. “Beth, what’s gotten into you?”

She faltered back, shocked at the thoughts and feelings whirling in her brain. With a rush of adrenalin, she crossed her arms and stared him down, energized by her newfound anger. “You’ve gotten into me, John Brady, and I want to know straight out why you refuse to acknowledge me as a woman? Am I not pretty enough? Smart enough? Mature enough?”

The ruddiness in his neck traveled to his ears. He took a commanding stride toward her and latched a hand on her arm. With a firm grip, he pushed her into a chair at the table and squatted beside her. “Beth, stop this! I’m close to thirty, which is way too old for you. You’re young and beautiful and smart, and more mature than most girls … women … I’ve met. You’re going to make some lucky man a wonderful wife.”

She stared at his handsome face, the contrast of gentle eyes and hard-sculpted features making her heart bleed. Wisps of cinnamon-colored hair curled up at the back of his neck, softening the hard line of his jaw, which was already shadowed by afternoon growth. She swallowed hard, the taste of dread pasty in her throat. “Just not you,” she whispered.

A muscle flinched in his cheek. He smothered her hands between his large, calloused ones. “Beth, I love you, you know that—”

She looked away, unable to bear the empathy in his eyes. “But you’re not attracted to me—”

As soft as a child’s kiss, he lifted her chin with his finger, urging her eyes to his. “Of course I’m attracted to you—your gentle spirit, your thirst for God, your innocence—it draws me to want to protect you and care for you—as a friend and a brother.”

Brother. The sound of that hateful word stiffened her spine. She jerked her hand free and angled her chin. “But not as a woman, is that it, Brady? Someone you can take in your arms and kiss and make love to?”

Blood gorged his cheeks as he stood up. A rare hint of anger sparked in his eyes, and satisfaction flooded her soul. So he wasn’t pure stone. Good! At least she could arouse his temper, if nothing else.

“So help me, Beth, if you spent a fraction of the time reading the Bible as you do those silly romance novels, we wouldn’t be having this problem.”

She jumped up with tears stinging her eyes. “And if you took your nose out of your Bible long enough to see that God has a plan for your life other than smearing yourself with ink, you might see that you are the problem.” With a gasping sob, she snatched her purse from the table and rammed it hard against his chest, pushing him out of the way. She turned toward the door.

He stumbled back, then grabbed her arm. “Beth, wait! We need to pray about this …”

She flung his hand away. Humiliation and anger broiled her cheeks. “No, you pray about it. It seems to be the only thing you know how to do. And while you’re at it, pray that he heals that stupid streak inside of you … and in me, too, for loving you like I do.” She bolted for the door, ignoring Collin’s gaping stare.

“Beth—” Pain echoed in Brady’s voice.

She whirled around, hand fisted on the knob. “And one more prayer, Brady, if you don’t mind. Pray that I hate you, will you? Shouldn’t be too hard, I don’t think. You make it so easy.”


The door slammed closed, rattling the glass.

Brady blinked at Collin. “What just happened?”

Collin let out a low whistle and arched a brow. “Don’t look now, ol’buddy, but I think you’re back in the Great War. What’d ya say to set her off like that? I’ve never seen Lizzie lose her temper before.”

Brady exhaled and dropped into his desk chair. He mauled his face with his hand. “Beth. Her name is Beth, Collin, and I didn’t say anything I haven’t said before.”

“She’s been Lizzie for over a year, Brady. It’s what her friends call her and her family most of the time. You’re the only holdout—in more ways than one.”

Brady glanced up, his eyes burning with fatigue. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means she’s not thirteen anymore; she’s a grown woman. You’re the only one who still treats her like a kid.”

“Don’t start with this, please,” Brady groaned, “I’m way too tired.”

Collin sighed and shuffled to the rack over the door to snatch his keys. “So is Lizzie. Tired of being in love with someone who treats her like a little sister. She wants more. How long are you going to ignore it?”

Brady dropped his head in his hand to shield his eyes. “I haven’t ignored it. I’ve been praying it would go away.”

“Burying your head in the sand—or in your prayers—won’t work, ol’ buddy. You taught me that.”

The truth congealed in Brady’s stomach along with the cold oatmeal he’d eaten for lunch. “I know,” he whispered.

Collin stared for a moment, then wandered over to Brady’s desk. He sat down on an old proof sheet and crossed his arms. “Look, I’ve tried not to butt in where Lizzie is concerned, but it’s kind of hard right now. And to be honest with you, I’m worried.”

“You don’t need to worry about Beth.”

Collin sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s not Beth I’m talking about.”

“Well, don’t worry about me, either, because first thing Monday, I’m going to sit her down and explain once and for all why we can’t be more than friends.”

Collin’s gaze narrowed. “And why is that, exactly? Because you’re not attracted to her?”

Heat blistered Brady’s cheeks.

Collin stared, then broke into a grin. “You are, aren’t you?”

“Knock it off, Collin.”

Collin chuckled. “No, Brady, I won’t ‘knock it off.’ Everybody in this family knows how Lizzie feels about you, but nobody really knows how you feel about her. Until now.”

Brady jumped up and headed to the back room, heat stinging his neck. “I’m going home.”

“You’re in love with my sister-in-law, aren’t you?” Collin hopped up and followed. “Why don’t you just admit it?”

Brady spun around. “I love Beth, but not in that way.”

Collin hesitated and his smile faded. He cocked his head. “I know you won’t lie, Brady, so I’m asking you one more time. Are you attracted to Lizzie?”

“I don’t have to answer that.”

“No, but I’m asking as a friend—to both you and Lizzie. Are you?”

Brady stared, his heart pounding in his chest like the rotors of the Bullock pounding against paper. His voice was barely a whisper. “Yes.”

“I knew it! That’s great news. So, what’s the problem?”

“Because I can’t love her that way.”

Collin frowned. “Why not? I don’t understand. You’re a man and she’s a woman—”

“No!” Brady shocked himself with the vehemence in his tone. “She’s like a sister to me. I could never … would never … think of Beth that way.”

Collin blinked. “Calm down, ol’ buddy. Lizzie is not your sister no matter how much you see it that way. I can’t help but think there’s more to this, John, something you’re not telling me. What is it? Why are you holding back?”

Nausea curdled in Brady’s stomach. He fought back a shudder. “Nothing, Collin. Nothing I care to go into.”

Collin stared long and hard. He finally sighed and jingled the keys in his pocket. “Okay, I’ll leave it be. For now. But I can’t leave Lizzie be. She’s in love with you, my friend, and if you don’t intend to return that love, then you better do something about it. Now.”

Brady braced a hand against the door frame while fear added to the mix in his gut. “I know.”

“That means cutting her loose, Brady. No more Bible study or private prayer time or lunchtime chats. Every minute you spend with that girl is only leading her on.”

Brady closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

Collin gripped an arm around Brady’s shoulder. “I love you, John. You’re the brother I never had and the best friend I’ve ever known. It tears me up when I think you’re not happy. I know how much Lizzie means to you. And I’m here, if you need me.”

“I know. I appreciate that.”

Collin cuffed him on the shoulder and headed for the door. “See you tomorrow.”

Brady looked up. “Collin?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t tell Faith … or anyone … how I feel about Beth, okay?”

Collin stared, his lips poised as if to argue. He released a weighty sigh. “Okay, old buddy, not a word. Have a good night.”

Brady nodded, then swallowed hard. Yeah, as if that were possible.

***

Strangers were gawking, but she didn’t care. She bolted down the crowded sidewalk like a madwoman, tears streaming her cheeks and her chest heaving with hurt. Curious gazes followed as she tore down Henry Street where the farmer’s market was in full sway. She barely noticed the milling patrons who swarmed wooden stands heaped high with oranges and lemons freshly plucked and shipped from Florida groves. Stern-eyed ladies rifled through leaf lettuce while apron-clad vendors hovered and hawked their wares. Lizzie ignored them all, racing past and almost tumbling as she hurdled a crate of potatoes in her path.

“Miss, are you okay …”

Lizzie heard the concern in the shopkeeper’s voice, but she dare not acknowledge his kindness. It would surely unleash the broken sob that lodged in her throat. Right now all she wanted to do was to crawl into a dark corner of St. Stephen’s Church and cry. She sniffed. That and spit into John Brady’s eye. She flew up the church’s marble steps and tugged at the heavy oak doors.

The hallowed darkness inside strained her eyes as she adjusted to its dim light. She scanned the pews to make sure she was alone. With a shuddering heave, she made her way to the right alcove at the front and sank into her favorite row in the back corner. She set her clutch purse aside and lay down on her back, stretched out like she used to when she was a child, in search of her own little world where she could read and dream and pray. Recess in grade school had always been filled with giggles and games of red rover and girls flirting with boys who didn’t know they existed. But at times, when the pull of a favorite book or a longing for romance would strike, she would steal away, unbeknownst to the nuns. It was here, in this shadowed church, lit only by the soft glow of flickering candles and sunlight shafting through stained-glass windows, that she would finally connect with God.

She’d lie on the polished wood bench and look up, squinting to imagine that Jesus was lying down too, on a bench in the balcony across the way, ready to chat. At times, she could almost see his white gown through the marble balustrade as he listened to her. She always felt close to him there, amidst the lingering scent of incense and lemon oil. As if they were best friends. And they were. Their brief encounters always filled her with peace, often providing a much-needed balm to her young soul.

With a weary sigh, she lay down in the darkened pew and closed her eyes, allowing her thoughts to stray to Brady as they so often did. In her daydreams, she found herself comparing him to heroes she idolized in her favorite books. Her lips curved into a sad smile. Without question, John Brady was her Mr. Darcy, possessing all the exasperating prejudice of Jane Austin’s hero in Pride & Prejudice. At least when it came to her, she thought with a twist of her lips—too blinded by his own stubborn perceptions to see what everyone else so clearly saw—that his “little buddy” was destined to be his very own “Lizzy.”

She stared now, lost in a faraway look that blurred the flame of the sanctuary light as it glittered in its scarlet holder. “Why, God? Why can’t he love me? I know he cares—I can see it in his eyes and feel it in his touch. And I love him too—you know I do. But he gives me nothing.”

She peeked up at the balcony. “He’s a man after your own heart, God, which has me wondering if you’re as stubborn as he. I surely hope so, because I’m going to need help in matching wits with him. And if you don’t mind my saying so, when it comes to stubborn, this man is one of your finest creations. But if we belong together—loving each other while loving you—then you’ve got to open his eyes to the truth. And if I’ve missed it all these years and not heard your still, quiet voice, then please … please … set me free from his hold.”

She closed her eyes and settled in once again, her focus intent on the prayer at hand. All at once the heavy oak door squealed open, emitting a shaft of light that filtered in from the vestibule. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the cavernous building and then stopped. A broken sob pierced the darkness. Lizzie’s eyes popped open. She stiffened in the pew. What in the world?

Pitiful heaves rose to the rafters as Lizzie sat and scanned the dark church. Nothing … except the painful sound of someone’s grief. With a tightening in her chest, Lizzie rose and followed the sound of the weeping. Her eyes widened as she discovered its source in the very last pew. “Ellie? Is that you? Oh, honey, what’s wrong?”

A sprite of a girl lay collapsed in the pew, her ragged overalls torn and tattered. Wisps of carrot-red hair escaped from stubby braids, lending a halo effect that reminded Lizzie of a fuzzy spider monkey. Her slight shoulders shuddered with every heartbreaking heave, but at the sound of Lizzie’s voice, she jolted upright. She blinked in shock, enormous hazel eyes glossy with tears.

“Lizzie! I-I thought I was a-alone.” She sniffed and swiped at her nose with the sleeve of her blouse. With a lift of her chin, she squinted up, forcing a million tiny freckles to scrunch in a frown. “And nothing’s wrong.”

Lizzie folded her arms and arched a brow. “It’s a sin to lie, Eleanor Walsh, and well you know it. And in a church, no less.”

The faintest hint of a smile flickered at the edges of the girl’s mouth. “So I’ll duck in the confessional on the way out. Betcha God will barely notice.”

“He notices everything, Ellie, especially when one of his favorite little girls is making such a ruckus in his house.” Lizzie nudged her over and sat down. “What’s wrong?”

“Aw, Lizzie, you wouldn’t understand.”

“Mmm … maybe. Maybe not. But you won’t know till you tell me, now will you?”

Ellie glanced up, her face skewed in thought. She took a deep breath and settled back against the pew, expelling a long, heavy sigh. “I beat up Brian Kincaid.”

Lizzie leaned forward in shock. “What? That big, hulking boy from the 7th grade? Sweet Mother of Job, how? Why?”

“Because he’s a snot-nosed bully, that’s why. So I walloped him.”

“Good heavens, Ellie, he’s a foot taller than you!”

A grin parted the nine-year-old’s lips, revealing a flash of teeth. “Not anymore. I thrashed him down to size just like I do my brothers when they fire me up. That’ll teach him to call me names.”

“Lizzie bit back a smile. “What kind of names?”

She jutted her lip and folded her arms, squinting hard at the pew in front of her. “Calls me an ‘it.’ Says I’m not a girl.” She looked away, but not before Lizzie caught the quiver of her chin. “A freak of nature.” Her voice wavered the slightest bit before it hardened. “Ellie Smellie, the circus sideshow.”

Hot wetness sprang to Lizzie’s eyes and fury burned in her throat. She grabbed Ellie in a ferocious hug. “Bald-faced lies, all of it! You’re a beautiful girl, Eleanor Walsh. And Brian Kincaid is nothing but a bully who is appropriately named—lyin’ Brian.”

Ellie pulled away, clearly avoiding Lizzie’s eyes for the tears in her own. She sniffed several times. “No, Lizzie, he’s right. I’ll never be a girl—at least not a pretty one like you.” Her small frame shivered as she looked away. “Ain’t nobody to teach me since ma up and died—” Her voice cracked before she continued. “And even if there was, Pop barely makes enough to feed me and the boys. He sure can’t buy me no fancy dresses.”

Lizzie’s heart squeezed in her chest as she studied the frail little girl whose mother died three years prior, giving birth to her fifth son. Since then, Ellie had become one of the Southie neighborhoods scrappiest tomboys, weathering her fair share of cruel teasing and fights. Lizzie chewed on her lip in deep thought. “Ellie, my sister Katie is a few years older than you, and I’ll just bet we can come up with some clothes that don’t fit her anymore if you don’t mind hand-me-downs.”

Ellie flicked the strap of her threadbare overalls. “Mind hand-me-downs? Gosh, Lizzie, I’d be naked as a jaybird if it wasn’t for my older brothers.” Her jaw leveled up a full inch. “But I don’t aim to take no charity.”

“No, not charity. I was thinking more along the lines of earning it. Do you like to read?”

“Nope. Got no money for books either.”

Lizzie smiled. “You don’t need money for these books. I’m talking about helping me—at Bookends, the bookstore where I work. You know, story time on Saturdays?”

One pale strawberry brow angled high. “Ain’t that for kids?”

“Yes, but I could use your help with setting up and cleaning up.” Lizzie’s eyes narrowed as she gave Ellie a tight-lipped smile. “And there are one or two little troublemakers who I bet you could keep in line with a withering glance.”

A grin sprouted on Ellie’s face. “Boys, I hope—they’re my specialty. With a houseful of brothers, I’m real good with boy troublemakers.”

Lizzie stood to her feet with a chuckle. “Are there any other kind?”

“Nope. Least not for me.” She squinted up. “I’ll bet you never have trouble with boys, do ya, Lizzie, pretty as you are?”

Brady’s handsome face invaded her thoughts. Her jaw stiffened. “Don’t be too sure, Ellie. Boys can be troublemakers at any age, trust me.”

Ellie rose to her feet and shoved her hands deep in her pockets. “Yeah, especially brothers.” She cocked her head and gave Lizzie a curious look. “You got a brother that gives you trouble, Lizzie?”

Brother. The very word grated on Lizzie’s nerves. She wrapped an arm around Ellie’s shoulder. “Yeah, I do, Ellie, but I have every intention of taking care of it. Just like I’m going to teach you to take care of bullies like Brian Kincaid.”

Ellie looked up. “How?”

“Well, for starters, if you’ll work story time with me for the next four Saturdays, I will pay you back by taking you home to try on all of Katie’s hand-me-downs. And then, if you want, I can cut your hair and show you how to fix it. What do you say?”

“Gosh, Lizzie, that would be swell!” She paused, her smile suddenly fading.

Lizzie’s brows dipped. “What?”

“Well, what if it doesn’t work? I mean, what if everybody still thinks I’m an ‘it’?”

“They won’t, trust me.”

A glimmer of wetness shone in Ellie’s eyes. “But what if I’m too much like a boy to ever learn to be a girl?”

Lizzie bent and gently cupped Ellie’s face in her hands. “You’ll learn, Ellie, because this is too important. And when something is that important, you do whatever it takes.”

A smile trembled on Ellie’s lips as she threw her arms around Lizzie’s waist. “Gosh, Lizzie, you sound just like my momma before she …” She pulled away and straightened her shoulders, then swiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “I gotta go, but I’ll see you on Saturday, okay?”

Lizzie blinked to clear the moisture from her own eyes. “Saturday, ten o’clock. Don’t be late or I’ll send Lyin’ Brian to hunt you down.”

Ellie nodded and grinned before bolting out the door, once again leaving the sanctuary in a state of peaceful calm. With a heavy sigh, Lizzie made her way back to her pew and lay down. With no effort at all, her thoughts returned to Brady.

Whatever it takes.

At the thought of her advice to Ellie, a smiled flitted on her lips. She lay there a while longer to drink in his peace and his strength, and then sat up and squared her shoulders, finally rising to her feet. She smoothed out her skirt and lifted her chin. Resolve kindled in her bones. An air of stubbornness settled in, shivering her spine like the cool air currents that whistled through the domed ceiling of the drafty church. “Okay, God, I plan to take my own advice and do whatever it takes. Mr. John Brady is no longer dealing with ‘his little sister.’ He’s dealing with a woman in love.” Lizzie plucked her clutch purse from the pew and marched to the door with renewed purpose. “It’s said that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,’” she mused. “Ha!” Her lips clamped into a tight line. “Just wait till he sees a woman ignored.”

***

Brady buried his fists in his pockets and hung his head, barreling toward his apartment on Rumpole Street with one driving purpose: to be alone. His thoughts couldn’t be farther away from the pretty spring evening in his bustling Southie neighborhood than if he were safely locked behind his apartment door. Any other night, he would have enjoyed taking his time, stopping to chat with a neighbor or easily coerced into a game of stickball with a rowdy group of kids. He would have enjoyed the faint haze of green in the trees as new buds burgeoned forth, washing the landscape with a soft watercolor effect. But for once, the rich scent of freshly hewn mulch as neighbors readied their gardens, and the shrieks of children at play and birds in song, failed to coax a smile to his lips.

No, not tonight. Tonight his thoughts were elsewhere. Mired in a place where the innocent laughter of children and the peace of a wholesome neighborhood were as foreign as an ice storm on a balmy spring day. Brady shivered inside in spite of the 60-degree temperatures. He quickened his pace when he neared his three-story brick brownstone. Flanked by graceful federal pillars and forsythia heavy with yellow blooms, it welcomed him home, tonight more than usual. He hurried up steps lined with crocus and littered with the occasional pressed-steel toy truck and cap-gun cannon. He sucked in a deep breath and grasped the steel knob of the glass-paned door with rigid purpose, seeking nothing but solitude.

“Hi ya, Brady, what’s your hurry?”

Brady hunched his shoulders and moaned inwardly. He turned slowly, a poor attempt at a smile on his lips. “Hi ya, Cluny. Enjoying the weather?”

Fourteen-year-old Cluny McGee grinned, a spray of wild freckles lost in a layer of dirt on his delicate face. The cuffs of his pants were several inches too short, and his ill-fitted shirt strained at the buttons despite a spindly chest. He slapped a strand of white-blond thatch out of his twinkling blue eyes. “Yeah, gives me spring fever for all the pretty girls.”

Brady forced a grimace into a smile. “This time of year will do that. Well, enjoy.” He yanked the door open, desperate to escape to the haven of his home.

“Wait! You goin’ to the gym tonight? I thought maybe we could box a match or two.” Cluny flexed his muscles. “Gotta shape up for the ladies, you know.”

Brady hesitated. He glanced at Cluny, not missing the hopefulness in his eyes. He managed a smile. “Too tired, Cluny. How ‘bout tomorrow?”

The boy grinned, exposing a smile that could melt stone. “Sure thing, Brady. Same time as usual?”

Brady nodded and waved, exhaling as the door closed behind him. He mounted the steps with trepidation, hoping to make it to the next landing as quietly as possible. This was one night he needed to be alone, to fall on his knees before God and seek his peace.

A door squealed open. So much for peace.

“Brady, you’re home!”

He stopped on the steps and smiled at his eleven-year-old neighbor. “Esther, why aren’t you outside with your friends?”

She giggled and ducked her head, then flipped a long, thick braid the color of molasses over her shoulder. “Because I baked cookies. Your favorite kind—gingerbread. Wait here.”

She darted off, leaving the door ajar, then returned with a plate of cookies, still warm. The delicious smell filled the tiny foyer, evoking noises from his stomach. She giggled and held them up. Her proud look warmed his heart. He tweaked her braid and smiled, then hoisted the cookies with one hand. “You’re going to spoil me, Esther Mullen. What’s the occasion this time?”

“For lending me the books, of course. I’m almost finished with the last one.”

He tucked the cookies under one arm and cocked a hip. “Which was your favorite?”

She scrunched her nose in thought. “Jane Eyre, I think, although I love Pride & Prejudice too. I’m almost done. Do you have anymore?”

“Tons. You just knock on my door whenever you need a new batch, okay?”

She smiled shyly. “Thanks, Brady.”

He chucked a finger under her chin. “And thanks for the cookies, Ess. You’re going to make a wonderful wife the way you bake like you do.”

A sweet haze of pink dotted her cheeks, and she nodded. “Good night, Brady.”

“G’night, Esther.”

The door closed and Brady sighed. Forgive me, Lord, for being so grumpy. And thank you for small blessings like Esther and Cluny.

He trudged the last few steps to his door and fished the key from his pocket. He caught a whiff of gingerbread and smiled, unlocking the door and prodding it closed with his shoe. He put the plate of cookies on the table and sampled one as he made his way to the kitchen cupboard. He reached for a glass, then opened the icebox to pull out the milk. He poured it and frowned, suddenly remembering the scene with Beth. His gut curdled like the two-week-old milk in the glass. Brady sighed and leaned against the counter.

Why, Lord? She was the only good and decent thing in his life. His love for her was deep and genuine and, yes—through the grace of God—pure. He wanted to protect her and nurture her and always be there for her. Why did he have to give her up?

Brady poured the sour milk into the sink and rinsed it out. He absently washed the glass as he struggled with his thoughts. He traipsed to the sofa and collapsed, dropping his head back and closing his eyes.

He knew why.

As far as the east is from the west, so far hath he removed our transgressions from us.

A bitter smile twisted his lips. If only he could forget as easily as God. Remove his own shame as far as the east is from the west. Instead, it burned inside him like an eternal fire, singeing any hope of beauty and innocence. Any hope of Beth.

Brady hunched on the couch and put his head in his hands. “Help me, Lord. I’m sick with grief over what I have to do. I love Beth more than my own life. Help me to give her up, to let her go. Give me the grace to do it. To see it through. I pray that you will help her understand. And bring a godly man who will love her like she deserves to be loved.”

A heaviness settled on him like the cloying heat of his tiny apartment. He rose and crossed to the window to lift the sash and let in what little breeze he could. He inhaled the fresh evening air, heartened by the scented promise of rain. He grasped his leather Bible from the mahogany desk and settled back into the couch. He began to read and felt the gentle wind of God blowing through his mind with every anointed word.

As always, peace flooded his soul. He exhaled. Thank you, God. His eyes lifted to roam his tiny apartment, grateful for the oasis it offered. Though sparse in décor, it exuded a definite masculine air that made him feel comfortable. Heavy but simple wood pieces were arranged in a practical manner. His antique mahogany desk, a gift from his Aunt Amelia in New York, was laden with books wedged between brass bookends from his father. On its polished surface, there was just enough room for a simple wood and brass lamp in the shape of a sailing vessel. His eyes scanned across the dark burgundy sofa on which he sat, moving on to admire the framed prints of ships hung on the walls throughout the room. Their nautical feel always seemed to soothe him. He closed his eyes and pictured the blue of the ocean as he sailed across it in his mind. Sailing, free and easy as a bird, the wind in his face. Not moored to a past … nor a future.

Brady expelled a breath and opened his eyes to the imposing chestnut bookcase across the room. He had made it himself. Its shelves were lined with the rich hues of literature that helped to sate the inevitable loneliness that surfaced from time to time.

He suddenly thought of Beth and her love of reading, and his earlier malaise returned with a vengeance. He stared at his collection of leather-bound books. Her hands had touched every volume on his shelves, cradled them in her lap, fingered each page with care. He had bought them all for her, to satisfy her craving for literature.

He laid his hand on the worn pages of his Bible and closed his eyes, remembering his arrival in Boston almost fours years ago. He hadn’t known a soul but Collin, but the O’Connors had quickly drawn him into the warmth and security of their family. He had fallen in love with all of them, completely in awe of the closeness they shared, a reaction only heightened by his own bleak childhood. Beth had been thirteen then, almost fourteen, a shy and fragile little girl with soft violet eyes and a gentle nature. She had taken to him at once, enamored with his own love of literature and God. Seeking him out, making him feel special.

Brady dropped his head back against the couch. She was the little sister he’d longed for. The one feminine touch in his life that would never become corrupt. All he had wanted was to protect her, nurture her, love her in the purest sense of the word. It was never meant to be more.

Not for her. And certainly not for him.

With a heavy expulsion of air, he closed his eyes, as if by doing so, he could shut out the feelings that had begun to surface over the last few months. When had the seeds of attraction been sown? At what precise moment had the tilt of her smile begun to trigger his pulse? Fear tightened his stomach. When had she ceased being a little girl? He opened his eyes with new resolve and cemented his lips into a hard line. It didn’t matter. He was her friend and mentor, a devoted big brother who wanted nothing but the best for her.

And he was definitely not it.

An urgent knock at the door shook him from his thoughts, and he lunged to his feet. He opened it to the sound of weeping. His neighbor across the hall stood on his threshold, her face streaked with tears. Strands of brown hair fluttered free from a disheveled bun as she stared up at him, her dark eyes pleading. “Oh, Brady, you’re home! Can you help me, please?”

Brady’s gut tightened. “Pete again?”

She nodded and clutched her arms around her middle, her body shuddering.

“Ei-leen! Where the devil are ya?” Pete’s slurred tone rumbled from the bowels of the dark apartment, bringing with it a whiff of stale whiskey.

Brady stared at the bruise on her cheek and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Are you okay? Did he hurt you—”

She shook her head, then wiped her face with her sleeve. “No, I just got home. All he had time for was one quick whack across my face. I thank God you’re here to stop him, Brady. You always seem to have a way with Pete when he gets like this.”

Brady pulled her into his apartment. “I’ll talk to him, Eileen, but I want you to stay here. I thought he’d given up the bottle. What set him off this time?”

“Ei … leen! So, help me …”

She shivered. “He was home before me, so I’m guessing he lost his job again. Oh, Brady, I’m so scared! What are we going to do?”

Brady wrapped an arm around her shoulder and led her to his kitchen. He gave her a quick squeeze. “Same thing as always, Eileen, we pray. God always turns it around, doesn’t he?”

She shook her head and sniffed.

“There’s coffee in my cupboard. Make a pot, will you? Double strength. I’ll go in and talk to Pete, and you bring it in when it’s ready, okay?”

She nodded and then threw her arms around Brady’s middle. Her voice broke. “Oh, Brady, you’re a gift from God, ye are! Sometimes I think you’re an angel instead of a man.”

Heat scalded the back of his neck. He patted her shoulder. “No, Eileen, I’m just a man who’s found the grace of God.” He steered her toward the cupboard, then headed for the door. He turned and gave her a reassuring smile. “Prayer and coffee, in that order, okay?”

A smile trembled on her lips and she nodded. He closed the door behind him.

“Ei … leen! I’m gonna blister you …”

Brady strode into Eileen and Pete’s apartment and drew in a deep breath for the task ahead. An angel instead of a man. His lips quirked into a sour smile. That would certainly be nice. Especially at a moment like this. His jaw tightened. As if he could qualify.

Angels didn’t have his past.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.

Giveaway! The Ghostwriter by Travis Thrasher

For years Dennis Shore has thrilled readers with his spooky bestselling novels. Now a widower, Dennis is finally alone in his house, his daughter attending college out of state. When he's stricken by a paralyzing case of writer's block and a looming deadline, Dennis becomes desperate.

Against better judgment, he claims someone else's writing as his own, accepting undeserved accolades for the stolen work. He thinks he's gotten away with it . . . until he's greeted by a young man named Cillian Reed--the true author of the stolen manuscript.

What begins as a minor case of harassment quickly spirals out of control. As Cillian's threats escalate, Dennis finds himself on the brink of losing his career, his sanity, and even his life. The horror he's spent years writing about has arrived on his doorstep, and Dennis has nowhere to run.

My Review:
Spooky. That would sum up how I feel about this book in one word--spooky. Although I like suspense novels, this goes way beyond suspense; this is a tale of horror. However, the author steers away from graphic violence; he allows the readers' imagination to work.

Dennis Shore, the protagonist, is believable as a man grieving for his wife, who has recently died from cancer. Furthermore, he suffers from writer's block and a deadline is approaching. His writer's block is not the only thing that torments him, nor is it the biggest terror he faces.

The name of Cillian Reed, sounds like the chill this reader gets as we peek inside his evil mind. And Bob ... oh, I cannot tell you about Bob.

Read this one with the lights on, and be prepared to keep turning pages rather than close your eyes and chance nightmares. Contains mild profanity. Interview with the author included.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The generous folks at Hachette Book Group are allowing me to host this book giveaway for three (3) copies!

• Winners are restricted to the US and Canada. No PO Box mailing addresses, please.
• Leave your email address in code in your comment (Please do not ask me to look it up! It's the only thing I ask of you.) Example of email in code: you[at]yourmail[dot]com
  
• I'll close the comments at 6 PM EST June 20th and pick the winners. I will contact the winners via email to get their mailing information. The winners will have three days to respond. If I do not hear from a winner within three days, I will select another winner(s).
• If you're interested, just say so in a comment with that all-important email address in code.

If you would like to read the first chapter, click here.

If you would like to buy a copy, click here.

Success Kills: Sidestep the Snares that Will Steal Your Dreams by Wayde Goodall

The danger is a subtle and hidden one - the same qualities exemplified in the lives of the most successful, can also be the qualities that lead to disgrace and ruin. This book explores the fascinating and tragic inclination among successful men and women to ultimately destroy themselves. It provides insights into lives that fall out of personal, spiritual, and career balance. It discusses the concept of success, and how we choose to define it, which can ultimately destroy our dreams.

The book is filled with insight from an author who has counseled, encouraged and ministered to individuals, churches, Para-church organizations and community leaders for more than three decades.

How can you protect yourself from making wrong decisions and losing much of what you have worked so hard for? ...And when you achieve what you feel is success, how do you maintain your equilibrium and your sense of balance, and ensure that you finish your career and life well? In this follow-up to his book Why Great Men Fall, Goodall points out safeguards and principles that we can focus on to insure balance with excellence in what we do.

My Review:
This small (160 page) book contains some age-old advice and principles to safeguard the proper decisions to keep balance once success is achieved. Interspersed with quotes from the Bible, success is fully defined and discussed.

And now, the first chapter:

Success Kills

Sidestep the Snares that Will Steal Your Dreams
NIV unless otherwise noted
By Wayde Goodall

Chapter 1

What Is Success?

“Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man’s character, give him power.” – Abraham Lincoln.


How can someone who seems to have it all, who has achieved a level of success or fame, risk it all? How can a company or ministry who has the books to prove that it is unusually successful make a decision that will literally “bring the house down?”

A high-profile pastor, writer, advisor to government leaders, and leader of the National Association of Evangelicals, Ted Haggard, admitted having some level of relationship with a male homosexual masseuse.

His position, power, and popularity might have been the toxic combination that gave him “permission” to drive just an hour from his home to visit this man…hoping to hide his behavior from the public, his church, and his family. This “fog” in his thinking permitted his arrogance, lack of judgment, and sense of entitlement.

Mark Foley, the U.S. congressman from Florida, resigned after it was revealed that he sent sexually suggestive instant messages to teenage congressional pages. Other government leaders have told me that many people change when they reach these high-profile offices.

Professor of psychology, Tomi-Ann Roberts says, “The more power we have, the more we can convince ourselves we are invulnerable and we can get away with the things that all of us have just beneath the surface the desire to do.”

Companies such as Christian publisher, Multnomah Press, can make very ambitious expansion plans that are high risk because of the appearance of a trend of success for the long-term future.

Multnomah’s huge hit, The Prayer of Jabez, sold over eight million copies in 2001 (more than any other book that year). Thinking that this was going to fund the future of their organization, Multnomah made decisions that were “off the chart” of realistic growth. Money was spent, stock was produced, staff was hired, but the book took heavy returns (millions of copies) from bookstores. As a result, the company was forced to reduce staff and eventually sell the organization. They are no longer in business.

The lesson?

Momentary success, victory, or achievement does not guarantee a stable future.


“So, if you think you are standing firm, be careful that you don’t fall!” (1 Cor. 10:12)


History is full of stories of those who were successful, but lost most if not all of what they had. Talent, ability, and power can “go to your head.”

Subtle changes often take place in us when we achieve fame, or are elevated to places of influence and power. Authority and the power to influence are necessary if we are going to be a leader, but they can also be the deadly arrow that will bring us down. It is often said, “Absolute power, corrupts absolutely.”

Many desire wealth, and wealth is helpful as we build a country, company, or church, but wealth without discipline can bring tremendous arrogance, and pain.

Many work, study, and prepare to be the most talented in their field, but what they are so gifted in, can also push their egos over the edge, resulting in ego-driven leadership . . . versus servant leadership.

Many seek knowledge and wisdom; however, those with tremendous intelligence and natural wisdom can make very wrong decisions, because they “think” they can trust their every choice. Could this be why, “Not many wise men. . . are called” (1 Cor. 1:26, KJV)

All of us desire experiences and gifts that help us improve and achieve our goals. But the truth remains, “Circumstances do not make the man; they reveal him to himself.”

Success has to do with being faithful, with being obedient to God, and with doing the right thing.


“Let not steadfast love and faithfulness forsake you. . . So you will find favor and good success in the sight of God and man.” (Prov. 3:3-4, ESV)


Success might be the greatest challenge that you could experience. While there is nothing wrong with being successful, there needs to be a constant awareness that the gift of success can be the very thing that will cause harm to our lives. The blessing of perception can easily become the curse of deception.


The Most Talented Man in His Day


During his day, Solomon was wealthier and wiser than any other king on earth. As a young leader, he desperately desired discernment to govern the people of Israel. He understood the importance of making right decisions and asked God to give him a unique ability to distinguish between right and wrong.

God answered his prayers and gave him a wise and discerning heart. The Bible tells us that, “there will never have been anyone like you, nor will there ever be” (1 Kings 3:12). God also gave him great wealth, honor, and respect. There was no equal among the kings on the earth.


“God gave Solomon wisdom and very great insight, and a breadth of understanding as measureless as the sand on the seashore. Solomon’s wisdom was greater than the wisdom of all the men of the East, and greater than all the wisdom of Egypt . . . Men of all nations came to listen to Solomon’s wisdom, sent by all the kings of the world, who had heard of his wisdom.” (1 Kings 4:29-34).


It took Solomon 20 years to build the temple (his palace), to dedicate the temple, and to bring the “ark” into it. He was obedient and precise, and demonstrated leadership at a level that was amazing to those who observed his life. What talent, and sense of timing and correctness this young leader demonstrated.

But something happened to him during his time of incredible success. His mind began to change. All of us can experience boredom. We can begin to wonder what it would be like to explore other options. He permitted himself to think about things that he knew were not pleasing to God.

Subtly, slowly, he became someone who craved earthly pleasures more than the things that pleased the Lord. Solomon became a very different man from when he began his days as Israel’s leader. His heart changed, his decisions became foggy and complicated, and his life was full of compromise.

God spoke to Solomon again. “Since this is your attitude and you have not kept my covenant and my decrees, which I commanded you, I will most certainly tear the kingdom away from you,” (1 Kings 11:11).

The Creator who gave him more success than any other human, took it away.

What had Solomon done to deserve that?

”King Solomon . . . loved many foreign women . . . As Solomon grew old, his wives turned his heart after other gods” (1 Kings 11:1-4).

He became disobedient, stubborn, and arrogant, and his heart changed.

The wisest, most respected, and greatest man of his time began making many wrong choices. He lost much of what he had gained . . . including God’s respect.

Why?

Wrong thinking, complacency and pride about what he knew and in what he owned. His success became his enemy.

We must remember this: God will not permit His Kingdom, either in the heart or in the world, to be led by the world’s (carnal) principles.

Solomon once wrote “There is a way that seems right to man, but in the end it leads to death”…”a prudent man gives thoughts to his steps.”…” Evil men will bow down in the presence of the good, and the wicked at the gates of the righteous” (Prov. 14:12-19).

If only Solomon had listened to his own words, thought about what he was doing, and simply trusted God, he could have avoided all kinds of heartache and pain in his life. After many years of incredible favor and fame, he did exactly what God told him not to do. He knew the rules—understood why he was blessed, but decided that he would do it his own way, anyway.

He reached his goal and acquired all that he went after, but it cost him dearly. He went through years of discouragement, disillusionment, and confusion. He could have enjoyed even more if he had kept his focus on obedience to God.

Solomon’s downfall during the height of his success should be a warning to those who choose to misrepresent facts, to deceive others, and to take matters into their own hands. Spiritual success and God’s blessings only come by righteous means, not by manipulation or disregard for God’s principles.

The story of Solomon is not unusual. The headlines frequently remind us of leaders who fall…respected people, who we once looked up to, make decisions that shock us.

Why?

Power, influence, money, physical attractiveness, wisdom, and winning can quickly become an ego trip. We begin believing our own press releases and trusting people’s flattery, and we feel like “little gods.”

O.J Simpson’s book, If I Did It, reveals the hypothetical scenario of if and how he could have murdered his ex-wife, Nicole Brown Simpson, and her friend Ronald Goldman. The decision to write such a book is not only an insult to our common sense, but reminds us of the human potential to do wrong and to be motivated by personal greed.

Michael Vick, the star quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons, shocked the owner of the team, as well as peers and sports fans around the world, when it was revealed that he had been involved in dog fighting and possibly racketeering. Why did he do it? What was he thinking? How long had he been involved in that underground activity? Certainly he didn’t need the money. The adrenaline in his blood when he led his team to victory was the same adrenaline that rushed through his veins when he saw one dog maul and kill another.

The Bible and history give us all the evidence we need to be aware that all of us can make some very wrong decisions. Isaiah said, “each of us has turned to his own way” (Isa. 53:6).

What can we do?

When we are successful, we must not rely on success, but trust in the God who has given us our gifts.

Remain humble, honest, and hungry.

Know that for some reason we have been given a sacred trust. Don’t depend on titles, influence, money, or position.

Trust the Creator daily and know that whether we have much or little, His love for us will never change. He is not impressed with our wealth, education, or power. He is impressed by our sincere trust of Him.

Human reason is one of the most admired idols of the intellectual world. Heresies such as situation ethics, reasoning about when life begins (or is to end), or even the existence of a personal God are begun in the thoughts of people we often admire as the brilliant thinkers of the day. With pride at the very core of our nature, man would like nothing more than to be his own god. Find a teaching that encourages the wonderful abilities of a person in his own eyes, and he will be a glutton at its table.


“Success comes from within, not without.” – Bill Purdin


When God grants success, He intends for it to be used for His advantage. Our success can be the tool that will help people individually or collectively. It can also be used for wrong motives or behavior, and for selfishness.

God created us to be successful, but what is His definition of success? Is it power? Is it all about what you own or how much money you have? Is it about education, politics, or being the CEO of a Fortune 500 company?

These are common definitions of value and worth. But, it is deeper than that. While God desires all of us to be successful, we need to understand not only His definition of success, but also where it comes from . . . and we must hold it gently.


Success Equals God’s Favor


Looks can be dangerous.

Others can observe our lives or look at what we own, where we live, where we work, or what we drive and think that we are not successful. The appearance of success (or failure) can be a tricky deception.

The experience of Joseph recorded in Genesis 39 could be interpreted as a nightmare.

He was reduced to the stature of a slave by his jealous brothers. They thought he was trying to manipulate them into thinking he was superior because he told them about a wonderful dream God had given him. They began to resent him, and that resentment grew to a point where they wanted him to die. Since one of the brothers desired to help Joseph and not to kill him, they decided to sell him to a caravan of people going to Egypt. When he arrived, he was put on the auction block and sold into a life of slavery.

The person who bought Joseph had a wife who wanted to have an affair with him and falsely accused him of attempted rape. It was assumed that Joseph was guilty and he was put into prison.

If we could have been there to watch that scenario unfold, we would likely have thought that God’s hand was against Joseph, that he had a right to feel victimized. His life appeared to be in utter chaos.

But, the opposite was true. God knew exactly where Joseph was and what he was going through. Four times in Genesis 39 the Bible tells us that, “the Lord was with Joseph” (2, 3, 21, 23). Because Joseph honored God in all that he went through, God honored him.

Joseph was eventually considered a successful young leader. But, because of circumstances, overnight he appeared to be a failure. Then, after many years of trial and hardship, he became successful again. Because he refused to become bitter in life and refused to blame his brothers for his difficulties, God blessed him. Joseph literally saved tens of thousands of lives and was recognized as a gifted and wise leader. He had received the respect of the most influential people in the land.

Back and forth . . . success, failure, and then success again.

During his roller-coaster life, Joseph maintained one characteristic: he trusted God no matter what. Whether he was a leader, a prisoner, or a person of tremendous power, he remained faithful and relied on the knowledge that God was with him.

Joseph didn’t rely on a position, a title, financial affluence, or people’s opinions to assure him that he was successful. He just knew that no matter what, God was with him. The position didn’t make the man, regardless of the circumstances, the man didn’t change.

Adversity can be a greater blessing than affluence. Pressure, challenges, and difficulties can be the hands that mold us to be better people and better leaders. Hardship can be a greater gift than a life without pain or rejection. The very thing that most people desire and strive for – success – can be the greatest challenge they will ever face.

If you have what you feel is success in your life, understand that your blessings, gifts, and talents come from God. He has given you talents and favor for a purpose. Use them wisely.


“Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding;

In all your ways acknowledge him, and he will make your paths straight.

Do not be wise in your own eyes; fear the Lord and shun evil.” (Prov. 3:5-7)


Many people define success in different ways than God does. What we own, how much money we make, or how much we have invested could mislead us into thinking that we are on top of our game in life. For this reason, the Bible instructs us:

“Command those who are rich in this present world not to be arrogant, nor to put their hope in wealth, which is so uncertain, but to put their hope in God, who richly provides us with everything for our enjoyment. Command them to do good, to be rich in good deeds, and to be generous and willing to share. In this way they will lay up treasure for themselves as a firm foundation for the coming age, so that they may take hold of the life that is truly life” (1 Tim. 6:17-19).

There are masses of unhappy people who have incredible wealth. Money, possessions, titles, and financial security does not define success. There is nothing wrong with any of these, but when we have them we need to remind ourselves that they could be temporary and certainly will not be something we can take with us when we leave this life.

God’s favor, His blessings, and the success He brings are all because He is pleased with how we have chosen to live our lives and to make our decisions.


”If the Lord delights in a man’s way, he makes his steps firm.” (Ps. 37:23)

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.

Giveaway! How Not to Look Old by Charla Krupp

Forget getting older gracefully--This is the beauty and style bible every woman has been waiting for! Here is the first-ever cheat sheet of to-dos and fast fixes that pay-off big time--all from Charla and her friends, the best hair pros, makeup artists, designers, dermatologists, cosmetic dentists and personal shoppers in the biz. Packed with eye-opening details on hair color, brows, lipstick, wrinkle-erasers, jeans, shapewear, jewelry, heels, and more, the book speaks to every woman: from low maintenance types who don't want to spend a fortune or tons of time on her looks to high maintenance women who believe in looking fabulous at any price. There's also too-old vs. just-right before and after photos, celebrity examples of good and bad style, shopping lists of Charla's brilliant buys in fashion and beauty products, coveted addresses of "Where the top beauty pros go," fun sidebars--and more.

Known to national audiences from her ten years on NBC's Today show, style expert Charla Krupp dishes out her secrets in this "ultimate" to-do list for looking hip and fabulous -- no matter what your age.

My Review:
From hair color and style, to length and color of nails, to flossing and whitening teeth, to counting bling when you dress, this book bluntly covers every topic of interest to woman fighting aging.  Products are evaluated and you'll be left with no doubt as to which is the right one for you.

If you would like to read a chapter excerpt, click here.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The generous folks at Hachette Book Group are allowing me to host this book giveaway for five (5) copies!

• Winners are restricted to the US and Canada. No PO Box mailing addresses, please.
• Leave your email address in code in your comment (Please do not ask me to look it up! It's the only thing I ask of you.) Example of email in code: you[at]yourmail[dot]com
  
• I'll close the comments at 6 PM EST June 12th and pick the winners. I will contact the winners via email to get their mailing information. The winners will have three days to respond. If I do not hear from a winner within three days, I will select another winner(s).
• If you're interested, just say so in a comment with that all-important email address in code.

Giveaway! The G-Free Diet by Elisabeth Hasselbeck

For years, Elisabeth Hasselbeck couldn't figure out what was making her sick. She asked doctors and consulted nutritionists, but no one seemed to have any answers. It wasn't until spending time in the Australian Outback, living off the land on the grueling Survivor TV show, that, ironically, her symptoms vanished. Returning home, she pinpointed the food that made her sick -- gluten, the binding element in wheat. By simply eliminating it from her diet, she was able to enjoy a completely normal, healthy life. But that wasn't all. Hasselbeck discovered the myriad benefits that anyone can enjoy from a gluten-free diet: from weight loss and increased energy to even the alleviation of the conditions of autism.

In this all-inclusive book, Hasselbeck shares her hard-earned wisdom on living life without gluten and loving it. She gives you everything you need to know to start living a gluten-free life, from defining gluten - where to find it, how to read food labels - to targeting gluten-free products, creating G-Free shopping lists, sharing recipes, and managing G-Free living with family and friends.

My Review:
Written in an easy-to-read style, this book no doubt will be a great help to many who have frequent stomach pains and other strange symptoms. It could be an inherited predisposition to certain foods, and trigger a condition known as Celiac disease. Celiac disease is an autoimmune disease.  In addition, there's a link of gluten to autism.

I've heard about the evils of gluten, but I've never investigated it. I was surprised to discover how pervasive it is in everyday food--even some vinegars!

Included are recipes, along with tips on organizing a kitchen, shopping, parties, and restaurants. This will prove to be a handy reference tool.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The generous folks at Hachette Book Group are allowing me to host this book giveaway for five (5) copies!

• Winners are restricted to the US and Canada. No PO Box mailing addresses, please.
• Leave your email address in code in your comment (Please do not ask me to look it up! It's the only thing I ask of you.) Example of email in code: you[at]yourmail[dot]com
  
• I'll close the comments at 6 PM EST June 11th and pick the winners. I will contact the winners via email to get their mailing information. The winners will have three days to respond. If I do not hear from a winner within three days, I will select another winner(s).
• If you're interested, just say so in a comment with that all-important email address in code.

Jillian Dare: A Novel by Melanie M. Jeschke

Jillian Dare leaves her Shenandoah Valley foster home behind and strikes out on her own as a nanny at a large country estate in northern Virginia. She is delighted with the beauty of her new home, the affection of her young charge Cadence Remington, and the opportunity for frequent travel to the Remington castle in England.

She is less certain about her feelings for her handsome but moody employer, Ethan. In spite of herself, Jillian realizes she is falling for her boss. 

But how can a humble girl ever hope to win a wealthy man of the world? And what dark secrets from the past is he hiding? 

This contemporary story, inspired by the well-loved classic Jane Eyre, will capture readers' hearts.

My Review:
Fans of Charlotte Bronte will love this romance suspense story. Set in Virginia and England, the reader will experience how the wealthy live. Jillian's life has been a struggle, and now she has the opportunity to live the good life while caring for a loving child. Someone sinister, however, wants to throw a wrench into those plans and dreams.

I read this one cover to cover in one day; it is an enjoyable read.

If you would like to read chapter one, click here.

If you would like to buy a copy, click here.

Lucy's Perfect Summer by Nancy Rue

A Lucy Novel

New management at the radio station threatens to let Lucy’s father go, claiming his blindness is holding the station back. That may mean a move for Lucy and her dad.

In order to help her father, Lucy has to let him go for a while and that means leaning on God to help her make the sacrifice.

My Review:
This pre-teen (Ages: 9-12) book involves the game of soccer and making right choices. The protagonist is Lucy, a motherless girl with a super father who needs to go to a six-week school for the blind. To do this, Aunt Karen is coming in to be the adult in the house--a decision Lucy doesn't like.

Rianna, the antagonist, employs dirty tricks to win which makes cheating and "flopping" topics of soccer camp. Add to that all the drama a group of girls can produce, and the reader has a good read. Soccer fans will especially like this book.

And now, the first chapter:

Why My Life Is Just About Perfect

School is out for the summer!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Lucy would have made more exclamation points, but Lollipop, her pot-bellied kitty, was watching from the windowsill above the bed, her black head bobbing with each stroke and dot. She’d be pouncing in a second.

Lucy protected the Book of Lists with her other arm and wrote…

2. Aunt Karen is taking her vacation to some island so she won’t be coming HERE for a while. YES!!

3. We have a soccer game in two weeks, thanks to Coach Auggy. A for-REAL game, with a whole other team, not just our team split up, which is always lame since we only have 8 players to begin with. I cannot WAIT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Lollipop twitched an ear.

“Forget about it,” Lucy said to her. She’d only just discovered the joy of making exclamation points from Veronica. Veronica was a girly-girl, but she did have her good points. Lucy snickered. “Good points, Lolli. Get it?”

Lollipop apparently did not, or else she didn’t care. She tucked her paws under her on the tile sill and blinked her eyes into a nap. Lucy slipped a few more exclamation marks in before she continued.

I get to hang out with J.J. and Dusty and Veronica and Mora any time I want, not just at lunch or soccer practice or church. Okay, so I already got to hang out with them a lot before summer, but now it’s like ANY time, and that’s perfect. Except we’re still stuck with Januarie. If she weren’t J.J.’s little sister we could just ditch her, but she needs a good influence. We’re a good influence. Well, maybe not Mora so much.
Lucy glanced at her bedroom door to make sure it was all the way shut. The Book of Lists was private and everybody else in the house—Dad and Inez the housekeeper nanny and her granddaughter Mora—knew to keep their noses out of it. Still, she always had to decide whether it was worth risking discovery to write down what she really, really thought.

“What do you say about it, Lolli?” she said.

There was an answering purr, though Lucy was pretty sure that was more about Lollipop dreaming of getting the other three cats’ food before they did than it was about agreeing with her. She went for it anyway.

Januarie still thinks Mora is the next best thing to Hannah Montana. Even though Mora got her in way a lot of trouble not that long ago she would probably give a whole bag of gummy bears just to have Mora paint her toenails. And that’s saying a lot. Januarie loves gummy bears. And Snickers bars. And those chocolate soccer balls Claudia sells down at the candy and flower shop. Which reminds me—

5. We can go buy candy in the middle of the day, or have breakfast at Pasco’s café or take picnics to OUR soccer field, because, guess what? It’s SUMMER !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Something black whipped across the page, and Lucy’s pen flew into space, landing with a smack against the blue-and-yellow toy chest. Knocking down the ruler Lucy always kept there to hold it open, in case Lollipop needed to jump in and hide, the lid slapped shut, and Lolli sprang into an upside down-U before she leaped after it and skidded across the top with her claws bared. She glared indignantly at Lucy.

“You did it, Simplehead,” Lucy said. “Wait! I’ll open it for you.” But before she could even scramble off the bed, Lolli dove under it. A squalling fight ensued with Artemis Hamm, who had obviously been sleeping beneath the mattress.

“Break it up, you two!” Lucy said. But she didn’t dare stick her hand under there. One of them would eventually come out with a mouth full of the other one’s fur and it would be over.

“What’s going on in there?” said a voice on the other side of the door.

Lucy stuck the Book of Lists under her pillow. It was Dad, who couldn’t see anyway, but she always felt better having her secrets well hidden when other people were in the room.

“Come on in—if you dare,” Lucy said.

She heard Dad’s sandpapery chuckle before he stuck his face in. She cocked her head at him, her ponytail sliding over her ear. “What happened to your hair?”

He ran a hand over salt-and-pepper fuzz as he edged into the room. “I just got my summer ‘doo down at the Casa Bonita. Is it that bad?”

“No. It’s actually kinda cool.”

“What do I look like?”

“Like—did you ever see one of those movies about the Navy SEAL team? You know…before?”

“Yeah.”

“You look like one of those guys.”

“Is that good?”

“That’s way good.”

Dad smiled the smile that made a room fill up with sunlight. She could have told him he looked like a rock star and he wouldn’t have known whether she was telling the truth or not. But she liked for the smiles to be real, and she did think her dad was handsome. Even with eyes that sometimes darted around like they didn’t know where to land.

He made his way to the rocking chair and eased into it. It would be hard for anybody who didn’t know to tell he was blind when he moved around in their house, as long as Lucy kept things exactly where they were supposed to be. She leaned over and picked up her soccer ball, just escaping a black-and-brown paw that shot from the hem of the bedspread.

“Keep your fight to yourselves,” Lucy said.

“What’s that about?”

“Exclamation points! It’s a long story.”

“Do I want to hear it?”

“No,” Lucy said. Not only because she didn’t want to tell it, but because she could see in the sharp way Dad’s chin looked that he hadn’t come in just to chat about cat fights. She hugged her soccer ball.

“Okay, what?” she said. “Is something wrong? Something’s wrong, huh?”

“Did I say that?”

“Aunt Karen’s coming, isn’t she? Man! I thought she was going out in the ocean someplace and we were going to have a peaceful summer.” She dumped the ball on the floor on the other side of the bed.

Dad’s smile flickered back in. “What makes you think I was going to talk about Aunt Karen?”

“Because she’s, like, almost always the reason you look all serious and heavy.”

“You get to be more like your mother every day, Champ. You read me like a book.”

“Then I’m right.” There went her perfect summer. She was going to have to redo that list.

“But you’re in the wrong chapter this time,” Dad said. “I’m serious, but it isn’t about Aunt Karen. Last I heard, she was headed for St. Thomas.”

“He’s going to need to be a saint to put up with her.”

Dad chuckled. “St. Thomas is an island, Luc’.”

“Oh.” She was doing better in school now that Coach Auggy was her teacher, but they hadn’t done that much geography this year.

“I just want to put this out there before Inez gets here.”

His voice was somber again, but Lucy relaxed against her pillows. If this wasn’t about Aunt Karen coming here wanting to take Lucy home with her for the summer, how bad could it be?

“So, you know Inez will be coming for all day, five days a week.”

“Right and that’s cool. We get along good now.” Lucy felt generous. “I don’t even mind Mora that much any more.”

“Good, because I’ve asked her if she’d be okay with Mr. Auggy also coming in to do a little home-schooling with you.”

Lucy shot up like one of her own freaked-out kitties.

“School?” she said. “In the summer?”

Dad winced like her voice was hurting his ears. “Just for a few hours a day, and not on Fridays.”

“Dad, hello! This is summer time. I have a TON of work to do to get ready for the soccer games if I want anybody from the Olympic Development Program to even look at me. School work?” She hit her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Why?”

“You’ve improved a hundred per cent since Mr. Auggy started teaching your class—”

“Yeah, so why are you punishing me by making me do more work? I don’t get it.”

She wished she could make exclamation points with her voice.

“You’ll get it if you let me finish.”

Dad’s voice had no punctuation marks at all, except a period, which meant, ‘Hush up before you get yourself in trouble.’ Lucy gnawed at her lower lip. She was glad for once that he couldn’t see the look on her face.

“You ended the school year in good shape, but Champ, you were behind before that. That means you’re still going to start middle school a few steps back.”

“I’ll catch up, Dad, I promise! I’ll study, like, ten hours a day when school starts again and I’ll do all my homework.”

Dad closed his eyes and got still. That meant he was waiting for her to be done so he could go on with what he was going to say as if she hadn’t said a word. She was in pointless territory. It made her want to crawl under the bed and start up the cat fight again. It seemed to work for them when they were frustrated.

“Your middle school teachers are going to expect your skills to be seventh-grade level,” Dad said. “Right now, Mr. Auggy says they’re about mid-sixth, which is great considering what they were in January.”

If she had been Mora, she would have been rolling her eyes by now. What was the point in telling her how wonderful she was when she was going to have to do what she didn’t want to do anyway?

“So here’s the deal,” Dad said.

Lucy sighed. “It’s only a deal if both people agree to it, Dad.”

“You haven’t even heard it yet.”

She stifled a “whatever,” which was sure to get her grounded for a least a week of her already dwindling summer.

“You’ll work with Mr. Auggy until you get your reading up to seventh-grade level. That could take all summer, or it could take a couple of weeks. That’s up to you.”

Lucy looked at him sharply. “What if I get it there in three days?”

“Then you’re done. We’ll check it periodically, of course, to make sure it stays there.”

“It will,” Lucy said. But she hoped her outside voice sounded more sure than the one that was screaming inside her brain: You can’t do this! What are you thinking?

There weren’t enough exclamation points in the world to end that sentence.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.

Face of Betrayal: A Triple Threat Novel by Lis Wiehl with April Henry

Fox News legal correspondent and former Federal Prosecutor Lis Wiehl has created a suspense novel that's as timely as tomorrow's headlines.

While home on Christmas break, a seventeen-year-old Senate page takes her dog out for a walk and never returns. Reporter Cassidy Shaw is the first to break the story. The resulting media firestorm quickly ensnares Federal Prosecutor Allison Pierce and FBI Special Agent Nicole Hedges. The three unique women are life-long friends who call themselves The Triple Threat--a nickname derived from their favorite dessert and their uncanny ability to crack cases via their three positions of power.

Though authorities think Katie might have been kidnapped or run away, those theories shatter when Nicole uncovers Katie's blog. They reveal a girl troubled by a mysterious relationship with an older man. Possibly a U.S. Senator.

As the three women race against time to find Katie alive, their increasing emotional involvement brings out their own inner demons and external enemies. There are many faces of betrayal, but they must find one face in a crowd of growing suspects before they become the next victims.



My Review:
Three friends who met in college and team up to form the Triple Threat Club, and solve a crime in this fast paced suspense novel. There's Cassidy, a TV reporter, who covers crime, Nicole, a police officer, who fights crime, and Allison, an attorney who prosecutes criminals.

There's an understory as one of the friends is threatened and another understory of domestic abuse, giving the reader three stories in one book. Although I guessed the bad guy's identity, I was still surprised at the end. Good read! Reading group guide at the conclusion, along with an interview with the author by Bill O'Reilly.

Submit your recipe for Triple Threat Chocolate Cake contest.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.

A Voyage Beyond Reason: An Epic of Survival Based on the Original Journals of Benjamin Wade by Tom Gauthier

He Dared to Dream an Impossible Dream. He risked Body and Soul to make it Real.

In 1996, twenty-four-year-old Benjamin Wade sets out on a solo voyage in a tiny sea kayak. His goal lies 6,000 miles away--and deep within his own soul.

The chance discovery of his journals, buried on a Colombian cliff above the sea, uncovers a mystery which took many years to finally solve. His journals tell of misery and elation, of triumph and failure, of insight and insanity.

Does the man make the journey, or does the journey make the man?

Follow the tiny kayak, and follow the mind of a young man set on a goal that no amount of torture can dissuade him from reaching, on a journey that brings him face to face with himself.

My Review:
Using a found journal of Benjamin Wade as an outline, the author has written an interesting tale, whereby he allows the reader to look over Wade's shoulder as he travels the adventure of a lifetime. Interspersed are actual words from the journal in italics. This easy-to-read book keeps the reader's attention during Wade's risky kayak trip from California to South America. 

Some of the terrors Wade faces are shark-infested waters, crooked Mexican police officers, machete-wielding strangers, a hurricane and a gang of druggies.

If you like action and adventure, this is one for you. Contains profanity.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.

Ruby Unscripted by Cindy Martinusen

Sometimes the best moments in a girl's life are the unscripted ones.

Ruby Madden moves to an affluent town in Marin County, California, believing her dreams are coming true, but her hometown life is drawing her back. Her not-so-secret crush finally likes her. Her older brother decides to stay behind with their newly remarried father. And her best friend gets a boyfriend who's all wrong for her.

And Ruby's new life isn't as easy as she envisioned. Marin High School is a place for the rich and famous with their BMWs, chic clothes, and liberal beliefs-a place where she clearly doesn't belong. Even with her new job at the Underground Coffeehouse & Cinema, she is unsure of how to act and feels insecure about who she is.

When she tries out for an amateur film group, the puzzle pieces finally begin to fit. And who is this mysterious guy who's messing with her heart?

My Review:
I enjoyed this teen Christian fiction novel. Ruby, the protagonist, tries to adjust to her new life. Her parents have divorced and married others. Ruby finds herself in a new locale, attending a new school and quite out of place.  The tug she feels pulling her back toward "home" and friends she's known since kindergarten reads true.

Her ever-present cell phone is an interesting character. The author uses it as a device to move the story along. The plot easily keeps the reader's attention. Most teen girls will like this one. Reading group guide included.

And now, the first chapter:

“Now he likes me?” I say aloud as I drop my phone to my lap and my heart does a strange little tuck and roll within my chest.

My ten-year-old brother, Mac, gives me a strange look from the seat beside me. With the top down in my aunt’s convertible, he can’t hear my words that are cast into the air to dance with the wind.

The orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge loom toward us, with the darkening blue of sky and water filling the spaces between. Aunt Jenna is driving, with Mom talking beside her.

So it’s finally true.

Nick likes me.

I think I’m happy. Everyone will expect me to be happy. It’s not been a secret that I’ve liked him for . . . well, ever. Or at least for a few months.

And yet I have a very good reason for being completely annoyed about this.

The text stating Nick’s indirect admission of love, or at least “like,” arrives as we’re leaving an afternoon in San Francisco behind. But we aren’t driving the four hours home to Cottonwood. We’re driving toward our new life in Marin County.

Everyone at school knew that Nick liked me for a long time. His friends and my friends knew it. I knew it. But Nick apparently didn’t know his own feelings. Why can’t guys just trust others on these things?

I pick up my phone and reply to Kate’s text.


ME: Is Nick still standing there?

KATE: No. I think it freaked him out to wait for your response. The guys went to play Alien Hunter III before the movie starts. So what do you think? Patience paid off.

ME: I’m trying not to think that guys are really as dumb as most of us say they are.

KATE: Huh?

ME: Really now. I mean NOW. He says this on the day I move away?

KATE: Well you’ll be home most every weekend so it’s not that bad.

ME: But think about it. What made him decide today?

KATE: Who cares? He finally figured out he can’t live without you.


The car cruises along the bridge, and I stare up at the massive orange beams over our heads. Then I catch sight of a sailboat as it dips and bows on the evening waters of San Francisco Bay.

My brother is shout-talking to my mom and aunt. And with one earbud pulled out, I catch bits of the discussion being tossed around the car as the wind twists my hair into knots. The topic is “If you had one wish, what would you wish for?”

What poetic irony. Five minutes ago I would’ve wished that Nick would like me . . . and like some psychic genie working even before I wished it, the text arrived from Kate: “Nick said . . .”

So Nick likes me after I move four hours and a world away.

He likes me the day after I say good-bye to him and all my friends in Cottonwood.

I scroll back through my saved texts to find what he sent me after we said good-bye.

NICK: I wish you weren’t moving.

NICK: Next time you’re up visiting your dad let’s hang out.

NICK: How often will you be back?

NICK: So you don’t have a date for prom?

Men. I mean seriously.

So it’s like this. I’m moving to one of the coolest areas of California—Marin County. I’m going to live in this cool, quirky cottage that my aunt Betty gave us after she headed off on an extended Mediterranean honeymoon with the man, now her husband, she found online.

Since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to live near San Francisco. Aunt Betty’s house was one of my favorite places. Kate and I plan to attend college down here. So now I get to live my dream sooner than expected.

Mac taps my arm, but I watch the little sailboat lean toward the open Pacific and wonder at its journey ahead, far or near, some California marina or faraway exotic isle.

My brother taps on my arm persistently. “Ruby-Ruby Red.”

I really dislike it when he calls me that. Then he reaches for my earbud, and I push his hand away.

“What?” I ask loudly, wiping strands of hair from my face. The sun falls easily into the cradle of the sea. It’s eventide—that time between sunset and darkness, a peaceful time of wind and bridges and dreams except for one annoying brother and an incoming text that could disrupt the excitement of a dream coming true.

“What do you wish for?” Mac asks earnestly.

My phone vibrates again, and I nearly say, “Don’t bug me, and don’t call me Ruby-Ruby Red,” but Mac’s sweet pink cheeks and expectant eyes stop me. I rub his hair and tickle him until he cries for mercy.

He laughs and twists away from my fingers, then asks me again what I wish for.

“Wait a minute,” I say, and he nods like he understands.


KATE: He said he’s been miserable since he said good-bye last night.

ME: So why didn’t he like me before?

KATE: He says he always did, he just kept it to himself.

ME: Or he kept it FROM himself.


Everyone said Nick said I was hot, that I was intelligent, that he’d never met a girl like me—which can be taken as good or bad. Everyone told him to ask me out, but he just didn’t. No explanation,

no other girlfriend, just nothing. For months. Until today.


KATE: He’s never had a girlfriend, give the guy a break. I always thought he’d be the bridge guy! Maybe he will be!

I rest the phone in my hands at that. Nick has been the main character in my bridge daydream—only Kate knows that secret dream of mine.

We’ve crossed the bridge into Marin County with signs for Sausalito, Corte Madera, San Rafael. The names of my new home, and yet I’m still between the old and the new.

“What are you smiling for?” my brother asks.

“Nothing,” I say and give him the mind-your-own-business look.

Mac stretches forward in his seat belt toward the front seat, and I’m tempted to tell him to sit down. But for once I don’t boss him around. He’s so happy about this wishing talk, with his wide dimpled smile and cheeks rosy from the wind. His cheeks remind me of when I loved kissing them—back when we were much younger.

“Remember, no infinity wishes. That’s cheating,” Mac shout says to Mom and Aunt Jenna, but he glances at me to see if I’m listening.

“This is really hard,” Aunt Jenna yells back. She points out the window to a line of cyclists riding along a narrow road parallel to the highway. “I bet those guys wish for a big gust of wind to come up behind them.”

Mac laughs, watching the cyclists strain up an incline.

Now they’ll probably start “creating wishes” for everyone they see.

I bet that car wishes it were as cool as that Corvette.

I think the people in that car wish they had a fire extinguisher for that cigarette . . .

Mom and her sister often make up stories about strangers while sitting outside Peet’s Coffee or, well, just about anywhere people watching is an option.

My phone vibrates in my hand, and then immediately again.


KATE: Hello?? No comment on Nick being your mysterious bridge guy?

ME: Nope

JEFFERS: So beautiful, are you there yet?

ME TO KATE: I just got a text from Jeffers.

KATE: LOL He’s sitting beside me and saw me talking to you.

JEFFERS: When can we come party in Marin?

ME TO JEFFERS: Almost there. Ten minutes I think. Uh party?

JEFFERS: Yeah, party! How could you leave us, I mean what could be better than us? You’ll be too cool for gocarts and mini golf after a month w/ the rich and sophisticated.

ME: I hate mini golf.

JEFFERS: See? One day and already too good for mini golf.

KATE: You’re having us all down for a party?

ME: Uh, no

JEFFERS: Kate’s yelling at me. Thx a lot. But bye beautiful, previews are on with little cell phone on the screen saying to turn you off.

ME TO JEFFERS AND KATE: K have fun. TTYL.

KATE: Write you after. Bye!

It’s a significant moment, this.

One of the most significant in my fifteen years.

Not the “wish discussion” between Mac, Mom, and Aunt Jenna; not the text messaging back and forth; not the music playing in one of my ears; not even Nick liking me.

The significance comes in crossing bridges. Not the bridge in my dream, but the ones that take me into Marin. The many bridges that brought my family here with my dad still in Cottonwood, and my older brother, Carson, driving soon behind us. And though we can turn around and drive back to the small

town I’ve always lived in, I wonder if, once you cross so many bridges, you can ever really go back.

The music in my one ear and the voices of my family in the other make a dramatic backdrop for this moment—one that will shape the rest of my life.

I feel a sense of wonder, but also of fear. It’s beautiful, this time of long evening shadows. The sky in the west where the sun has fallen turns from a subtle to defined sunset of red and orange.

The hills of Marin County rise to the nighttime with their myriad dots of light. The salty breeze is cool coming off the Pacific.

“What’s your wish?”

I jump as Mac shouts at me, leaning to get his face close to mine. I nearly throw my phone out the open rooftop.

“Mac! Mom!”

“Mac, leave your sister alone. She needs time to think,”

Mom calls back with a worried glance in my direction. She was more worried than I was about this move to Marin . . .well, until I said all the good-byes this week and especially now. I realize it’s the last remnant of what is, taking us from the past and what has been to the new place, the new life, and the what will be.

“Do you know what I wish?” Mac says in a loud whisper that only I can hear.

The innocent expression on his face soothes my annoyance.

He motions for me to lean close.

“I wish I was six again.”

“Why?”

“Promise you won’t tell Mom or Austin or Dad and Tiffany, ’cause I don’t want to hurt their feelings . . .” He waits for me to agree. “I wish I was six ’cause Mom and Dad were married then. But then that would make Austin and Tiffany go away, and I don’t really want them to go away, but I sort of wish Mom and Dad were married still.”

I nod and glance up toward Mom, who is staring out toward the bay. “Yeah, I know, Mac. But it’ll be all right.”

“So what do you wish for?” he asks again.

We’re almost there now, and I still have no singular wish. How do you make such a choice when your whole life is upended—for the good and the bad? I wonder if San Francisco Bay is like one giant wishing well, and in the coming years I can toss as many pennies as I want into the blue waters and have all the wishes I need.

I hope so. And maybe wishing that the bay would become one giant well breaks Mac’s rule about infinity wishes. But regardless, this is what I wish my wish to be.

It was my choice to move to Marin with Mom. But now I wonder if these bridges are taking me where I should be going. Or if they’re taking me far, far away.

“I wish for infinity wishes!” I say and kiss Mac on the cheek before he protests. “No one can put rules on wishes.”

And this is what I truly want to believe.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.

Giveaway! Right on the Money: Financial Advice for Tough Times by Pat Robertson

You know that Pat Robertson is a world-famous televangelist, but did you know that he's also an expert in financial matters? In his weekly broadcast segment, "Money Monday," Dr. Robertson answers viewers' questions about all things financial. His deep knowledge of finance, based on sound economic - and Biblical - principles, has made him a "go to" resource for hundreds of thousands of CBN viewers.

Now he has written a book that is accessible to everyone and provides answers people desperately need in today's tough times. Among the topics he addresses are how to:

• Create a healthy financial plan
  
• Devise spending strategies tohelp you live within your budget
  
• Identify areas where your money can grow
  
• Build a nestegg
  
• Maximize your tax savings
  
• Cut costs
  
• Diminish your debt
  
• Invest wisely
  
• Make prudent financial decisions
  
• Plan for the future
  
• Enjoy peace of mind and God's financial protection
  

This book also includes a financial glossary, worksheets, and a special section of the most frequently asked questions and answers about keeping what you have and growing your personal net worth.

My Review:
Written in an easy-to-read style, this tool would be useful to anyone concerned about money. From how to create a budget, to improving your credit score and funding your retirement, the author answers questions in a straight forward manner. 

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The generous folks at Hachette Book Group are allowing me to host this book giveaway for five (5) copies!

• Winners are restricted to the US and Canada. No PO Box mailing addresses, please.
• Leave your email address in code in your comment (Please do not ask me to look it up! It's the only thing I ask of you.) Example of email in code: you[at]yourmail[dot]com
  
• I'll close the comments at 6 PM EST June 10th and pick the winners. I will contact the winners via email to get their mailing information. The winners will have three days to respond. If I do not hear from a winner within three days, I will select another winner(s).
• If you're interested, just say so in a comment with that all-important email address in code.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The generous folks at Hachette Book Group are allowing me to host this book giveaway for five (5) copies!

• Winners are restricted to the US and Canada. No PO Box mailing addresses, please.
• Leave your email address in code in your comment (Please do not ask me to look it up! It's the only thing I ask of you.) Example of email in code: you[at]yourmail[dot]com
  
• I'll close the comments at 6 PM EST June 15th and pick the winners. I will contact the winners via email to get their mailing information. The winners will have three days to respond. If I do not hear from a winner within three days, I will select another winner(s).
• If you're interested, just say so in a comment with that all-important email address in code.

Time to Laugh

Blood Bayou by Karen Young

To Save a Victim, Camille St. James May Have to Become One Herself.

Seven years ago, tragedy ended the troubled marriage of Camille and Jack Vermillion. Now, as head of the Truth Project, her life safe and orderly, she focuses her lawyerly skills on freeing wrongly incarcerated individuals on death row.

Jack paid a bitter price for his mistakes. No longer a high-powered corporate attorney, he's now pastor of a small church in Blood Bayou. Unsure of her own beliefs, Camille is highly skeptical of the conversion of this man she hasn't seen in seven years.

Then tragedy strikes again. Jack's sister is murdered, apparently by a prisoner Camille has set free. To prove his innocence, Camille must return to Blood Bayou. But that means facing the hostility of the town -- and Jack.

And as She Works to Find the Real Killer, Someone Is Determined to Stop Her...by Any Means.

My Review:
I enjoyed this suspense novel set in Louisiana. It includes romance mixed in with murder, an attorney and a pastor who were married and bitterly divorced. The theme of redemption and forgiveness runs rings true in this work of Christian fiction.

The two main characters are believable, and the plot moves at a steady pace. After spotting the killer, the reader will hold her breath as the characters continued to interact with him.

And now, the first chapter:

PROLOGUE

Luanne Richard opened the door to her killer wearing a smile and little else. With a drink in one hand and invitation and mischief dancing in her eyes, she sensed no danger. After several martinis, her instinct for danger was hazy at best.

She’d been lounging on the patio in her bikini when the doorbell rang. It had occurred to her that a cover-up might be the proper thing, but she wasn’t much into doing the proper thing. Never had been. It got really boring trying to live life properly. Now, glancing through the peephole, she saw he was alone and thought it might be fun to tease him a little. No one

around, as far as she could tell. So she let him in, closed the door, and turned to face him.

That is when she saw the knife.

She sobered instantly. And when he raised it and lunged, aiming for her throat, she recoiled on instinct alone, tossed her drink at his face and somehow—miraculously—managed to

evade that first vicious slash. While he cursed and blinked gin from his eyes, she turned and ran on bare feet.

She raced through the huge house wondering frantically how to escape. She cursed her carelessness in leaving the gate open when she drove home from the club. It came to her that

she stood no chance while inside, so she flew through the living room and made for the den and beyond—the patio. She prayed the door was open, that she’d failed to close it when she got up

and came back in.

Please, oh, please . . .

Halfway there, she took a quick look over her shoulder and screamed. He was close and gaining. He would be on her if she didn’t do something. As she streaked past a very expensive Chinese vase, she gave it a push to tip it over, thinking to trip him. He stumbled but didn’t go down. He picked it up, tossed it aside, and laughed. Laughed!

This couldn’t be real. This kind of craziness happened in nightmares to other people, not to her. Hadn’t she had enough grief in her life? Hadn’t she tried her best to fight the demons that tormented her? Hadn’t she often resisted temptation? Was she to be damned for the times she didn’t?

I’m sorry, God. I’m sorry. I’m sorry . . .

No! She wasn’t going to let this happen. She had a lot of life to live yet. She would change. She had changed. Nobody understood how hard it was for her to keep to the straight and narrow. She kept to the path. Almost always.

Once out on the lawn, she realized she couldn’t make it to the front. It was too far away. He’d overtake her before she got halfway there. And there was no time to punch in the security

code to open the gate. She was trapped. Mad with fear, she ducked around lush landscaping, making for the walk that led to the pier and boathouse. She veered to avoid the cherub fountain and stumbled, twisting her ankle painfully. She flung out a hand for balance only to have it slashed on the lethal thorns of a pyracantha. Sobbing now, she dashed through a grove of wax myrtles, wincing at the slap and sting of limbs before finally reaching the pier jutting over the bayou. It was her only chance.

She looked again over her shoulder. He’d slowed, knowing she had no place else to run. The knife blade glinted brightly in the sun. She whimpered, trying to think. Blood dripped from

the gash on her hand and her ankle throbbed. Scalding tears ran down her cheeks. What to do?

“Gotcha now, Luanne,” he taunted. “The boathouse or the bayou, babe. What’s it gonna be?”

Not the bayou. Never the bayou.

She had a fear of Blood Bayou. It had almost claimed her once. None of the romantic legends spun about it held any charm for her. The water was too dark, too still, too deep, too alive with slimy things, predatory things. The bayou was death.

She was out of breath and in pain when she remembered the telephone in the boathouse only a few feet away. Checking behind her, she saw that he was still coming, but moving almost

leisurely, as if enjoying the chase, savoring her fear. Anticipating the kill?

The thought made her leap onto the pier. Hot from the August sun, the wooden planks burned the soles of her bare feet. Below the pier, black water slapped against the pilings, disorienting her. Don’t look down! Eyes straight ahead, she finally reached the boathouse door, grabbing at the latch, fingers clawing. Panic and blood from her wounded hand made her clumsy,

all thumbs, as she worked at the strange fastener. But at last she got it, wrenched it open.

Inside it was dark and dank and, like the bayou, smelled of rotting vegetation and decaying fish. But it was sanctuary and she scrambled inside, slammed the door shut, and set the bolt. It would not keep him out for long, but it offered a few precious seconds. Her eyes struggled with the dark. It was her only chance. But one thing nagged: Why was he giving her this chance? No time to worry about that. She flew to the wall-mounted phone, grabbed the receiver, and punched in 911.

He was at the boathouse now, rattling the door. Terror leaped in her chest. With her heart in her throat, she strained to hear the ring connecting her to 911. But nothing. In a panic, she jiggled the button up and down. Listened for a dial tone. Nothing. She frantically pressed the button up and down again. And again nothing. She gave an anguished cry and slammed the receiver against the wall. The phone line was dead!

She screamed at the thunderous crash. He kicked the door open. It slammed against the wall, shaking the boathouse to its foundation. As she watched, petrified, he took an unhurried step inside, filling the doorway. With the sun behind him, he loomed as large as a truck. He paused, no doubt to let his eyes adjust to the dark interior. He took his time. Then he began to move slowly toward her. “I’ve got you now, sugar,” he taunted, his smile grotesque.

Incoherent with terror, all she saw was the knife. She scrambled backward, desperate to get out of his reach. But he kept coming. With a bump, she backed against the sleek hull of a

boat. Trapped! Below was bottomless, black water. Sobbing, she looked at him piteously. She was going to die. The bayou was going to claim her after all.

If you'd like to buy a copy, click below.

Giveaway! The Moment Between by Nicole Baart

It is us against the world, Abigail thought. You and me. . . . Sisters.

Abigail Bennett was completely in control of her life until tragedy pushed her to the brink of something she’d never experienced: obsession. Now, she’s given up everything she’s ever worked for to chase down the object of that obsession. His name is Tyler Kamp. As Abigail follows him across the border into Canada to a beautiful winery in British Columbia, her journey is awash in memories of family and childhood, especially those of her younger sister, Hailey. Dangerously beautiful yet indefinably needy, Hailey seemed to take all the risks Abigail avoided. Until now. But even as Abigail races into her future, her past continues to pull her back. Only when she is brought to the edge of her obsession will she be able to come to terms with the tragedy that ignited it.

A breathtaking story about the emotional risks of relationships, it explores the cost of regret, the desire for revenge, and the redemptive power of forgiveness.

My Review:
Talk about impaired family living! Two sisters, one with a mental illness, plus a dysfunctional family equals a suicide and one sister on a quest to confront the guilty party. Abigail, firstborn, expert at pushing painful things down deep, appears to flourish on the outside. Hailey, the baby, stunningly beautiful, controls her world and its inhabitants by temper tantrums. Melody, definitely not Mom of the year, hides away when problems arise, and Lou, twisted in his love for one of his daughters, withholds love from the other.

The story is told in the third person voice of Abigail, with flashbacks to her childhood. The day she finds her sister dead from self-infliction wounds is interspersed throughout and printed in italics. Descriptive, flowery writing comprises half of the novel, and I wish it were reduced. The dialogue is excellent.

Many references are made to Catholicism and the beliefs of Catholics.

And now, the first chapter:

~ I ~

Abigail Bennett was the definition of unexpected. She was one year on the wrong side of the knife blade that was thirty, but if she turned up at your restaurant and ordered a glass of wine, even high-heeled and clad in a black sheath, you’d card her every time. Petite and narrow-waisted, with a pixie flip of hair the exact color of coffee beans, Abigail could easily pass for sixteen in a pair of ripped jeans and an Abercrombie T-shirt.

Not that she liked looking younger than her age. In fact, most of the time Abigail hated the constant reminders that no matter what she did or where she went, she would not be taken seriously. This explained the harsh line of bobby pins that held her wayward hair out of her face as if the severity of it could add years. It also explained the almost-dowdy clothes, the earth-toned makeup, and the hard, thin line of a mouth that could have been very beautiful.

Once people got past the fact that she wasn’t a teenager, Abigail looked very much like the ideal kindergarten teacher. Her stature and dress were the opposite of intimidating, yet there was a spark in her dark eyes as if from time to time a match was struck behind the velvety chocolate of her corneas. These eyes could freeze hell over with a well-timed look, a piercing arrow of unmistakable meaning. But there was also the hint of tenderness in Abigail that translated into quiet strength when paired with the sharp edges that were inevitably unveiled before anyone had a chance to form a false opinion of her. But then again, maybe it was all a facade. She didn’t let people get close enough to find out.

In reality, Abigail was not a kindergarten teacher, nor could she remember a phase in her life when she ever wanted to be one. She was an accountant. Numbers were stable, unchanging, and best of all, incapable of being mysterious or of forcing people to act and think and feel in ways that they would not normally act and think and feel. Numbers were predictable; people were not. And because Abigail trusted the reliability of her chosen field, she was good at her job, meticulous and capable of holding the smallest detail in her mind for as long as it was useful.

During tax season Abigail worked more hours than anyone else at her firm, and that was saying a lot. It was why she was made a partner after only five years with the company and why she occupied one of two corner offices, the one with a view of the swampy man-made pond that graced the complex of professional stucco buildings on Key Point Drive. Johnson, McNally & Bennett was a Rosa Beach institution, and though Blake Johnson and Colton McNally could claim most of the honor behind their prestigious position in the community, Abigail knew she filled an important and indispensable role. Southern Florida had its share of widows and divorcées, and for some not-so-surprising reasons they preferred to have a woman handle their money. Abigail was happy to oblige. It kept her busy and the firm in business.

Keeping busy was what Abigail did best. When she wasn’t working, which averaged sixty hours a week, she was either running or reheating days-old Chinese takeout in a dented wok. Both activities were little more than a personal experiment; they were representative of the only two things in Abigail’s life that she really, deep down hoped to accomplish someday: run a marathon and learn to cook.

The marathon was a goal that she had already partly achieved. On the day of her twenty-ninth birthday, she ran a half marathon in Miami. Abigail could have easily completed it, and in fact, the finish line was in sight only two blocks ahead when she realized it was enough to know that she could do it. Crossing the finish line would have meant that she ran for someone else, that she ran for the glory, the recognition.

So Abigail had slowed down a little and then a bit more until someone thrust a cup of water in her hand and yelled, “You’re almost there!” She smiled her thanks, sipped the water, and folded herself into the crowd while all eyes were watching the other runners throw their arms into the air for the last few triumphant yards.

The cooking, on the other hand, was little more than a pipe dream. Abigail’s greatest accomplishment was adding a diced chicken breast and some soy sauce to leftover chicken chow mein. It was too salty. But propped on her counter in an antique, wrought-iron bookstand was a Williams-Sonoma cookbook with full-color photographs and extensive instructions on how to cook homemade delicacies like potato gnocchi with wild mushroom sauce and baked clams with pine nuts and basil. Every morning, while she waited for the last few drops of coffee to drip into her Gevalia carafe, Abigail would thumb through the glossy pages of the cookbook and imagine what it would be like to make a wine reduction sauce as the sound of laughter filled her apartment. Someday, she told herself.

And though there were many somedays in Abigail’s life, she tried not to let the particulars of her existence get her down too much. It didn’t matter that she didn’t have a boyfriend. It didn’t matter that every day plodded on with the same pitfalls and small successes. It didn’t matter that her apartment was quiet but for the hum of her empty stainless steel refrigerator. It was the life that Abigail had chosen, and she was a grim optimist, resigned to the path she was on—she was getting exactly what she had always wanted. So what if it was tilted heavily toward work, personal discipline, solitude? So what if it left little room for the things other people craved? So what if her cupboards were as bare of exotic ingredients as her apartment was bare of cheerful company?

But sometimes, alone in her apartment with the shades drawn tight, Abigail would stand in front of the full-length mirror on the back of her bathroom door and relax enough to admire what she saw. Tousling her wet hair and practicing a self-conscious smile that showed her teeth—her impossibly white, perfectly straight teeth that were a genetic legacy instead of the result of extensive dental work—Abigail could almost pretend that she was ten years younger and that the world was unfurling itself before her.

For those moments in the steam and warmth, dark ringlets of hair curling around her temples as if she were some Grecian empress, Abigail wished much more for herself than what she had. She wished that she could rewind the clock and find Abby, the girl she used to be, perched on the cusp of her life instead of entrenched in the middle of it with no apparent way out.

Every once in a while, she could gather the courage to admit that it would be a very different life if she had it to do all over again.

***

When Abigail first came to Johnson & McNally, she had a chance at a different life.

It was no secret around the office that Colton McNally had a thing for the new accountant. He was twelve years older than Abigail and divorced, and that seemed somehow estimable according to Abigail’s less-than-high expectations. It wasn’t that she would settle for just anyone, but she also didn’t enter into much of anything with a long list of prerequisites.

In truth, Abigail found Colton very attractive. She thought his salt-and-pepper hair was distinguished—even though she suspected it came from the hands of a very talented colorist as he wasn’t quite forty—and she liked the way his tailored suits fell across the straight line of his shoulders. Best of all, he was nothing like the immature, self-absorbed boys Abigail had dated in college. They had nearly turned her off of men altogether. So when Colton turned his attention toward her, Abigail let him flirt. For a while, she even stopped wearing the stern bobby pins so that her dark curls framed her rather nicely arched forehead.

And yet Abigail wasn’t naive. She knew that her employer loved her because of the photo. It would have been too much to ask for Colton to love her, or at least think he did, because of herself. But while she probably should have been reticent of attention resulting from such a faint and improbable notion, Abigail accepted—almost expected—the source of Colton’s desire.

The photograph in question hung neatly squared and centered on a fabric-covered board adorning the west wall in the reception room. It was a concession to the more traditional bulletin board, replete with employee photographs that were intended to look candid but often looked overposed.

Abigail knew of the board, she even shot glances at it whenever she could to detect updates and changes, but she was not aware upon settling into her position that tradition dictated a spot for her photo front and center ASAP.

It was her third day of work, and Abigail was immersed in balancing infinitesimal details and worlds away from the air-conditioned office she inhabited when Colton startled her with a quiet “Ahem.”

Her head was bowed, and her forearms rested on endless pages that sprouted like an unruly crop of paper weeds across her generous desk. Abigail blinked and raised her eyes, just her eyes, in time to be blinded by the flash of Colton’s expensive Canon. He laughed and snapped a few more pictures for which she cleared off her desk, sat up straight, and smiled, thin-lipped and toothy and even coy, trying them all in the hopes that one would be right.

But the next day, Abigail was surprised to see that the photo gracing the quasi bulletin board was the first of the batch. She knew she was looking at herself because seeing the small, hunched form over the crowded desk was a sort of déjà vu—she had been there before. If not for that, Abigail would have never believed that the woman staring back at her was her own reflection. The woman in the photograph had luminous—there was simply no other word for them—luminous black eyes of the starry-sky variety: endless and opalescent and dark like a time before the genesis. Like the event horizon of identical black holes—no way out, but no matter, for who would ever want to leave? Beneath the twin universes of those eyes, her lips were slightly parted, pink and full and evocative of bruised raspberries. Her skin glowed faintly (fluorescent light reflecting off all that white paper?), and her shadowy curls were framing and soft. The woman was lovely.

But what unnerved Abigail the most was that Colton had caught her at a moment between. A rare, uncovered moment between expressions: a moment of evaporation before the advent of her surprise became the dutiful smile that spread across her face in the split second after the shutter snapped. This woman was a living mystery.

Abigail wished she knew her.

***

One day, a few months after she started at the firm, Abigail went into Colton’s office to ask him a question about the tax return of a dual citizen living out of country. It was a legitimate question, but Blake’s office was closer than Colton’s, and her admirer acknowledged that fact the second Abigail rapped her knuckles on the doorframe. She realized almost too late that her presence would be read as an invitation, and sure enough, a smile unfolded across Colton’s face like a flag pulled taut in a billowing wind.

“Come in, Abigail! Why don’t you close the door behind you? There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

Abigail did as she was told and crossed the plush, carpeted floor of Colton’s office with her heart stuck fast in her throat.

“But first—” Colton set aside what he had been working on—“what can I do for you?”

Passing him the papers, Abigail lowered herself to balance on the arm of one of the leather chairs facing the wide, black walnut desk. But Colton raised an eyebrow at her, motioned that she should cross behind the desk to stand beside him.

They had flirted before, secret half smiles conveyed across crowded rooms and careful conversations littered with possibilities. And it seemed that the unmistakable chemistry between Colton and Abigail was a favorite topic around the watercooler, boasting far more people in favor of a match than against it. It was impossible for Abigail not to get caught up in it a little. But she also couldn’t help being cautious, and suddenly, with the door closed and Colton looking far more handsome than she remembered from only the day before, she knew that he was a man who wouldn’t play games for long.

Colton waved her over again and Abigail moved slowly, explaining about the nonresident and his recent payout from a life insurance death benefit. She had just gotten to the part where he intended to give enough of it away to slip below the line of taxable income when Colton grabbed her wrist and, in one smooth movement, pulled her forward until her face was inches from his. He studied her, still smiling, then kissed her full on the mouth as if he had been intending to do so for a long time.

It wasn’t that Abigail didn’t want to kiss him back. Actually quite the opposite. It wasn’t even that she was stunned by the inappropriateness of such a gesture. Instead, it was a Tic Tac that ruined everything, a burning little grain of peppermint that she inhaled when Colton’s lips touched hers.

She drew back, pulling out of Colton’s embrace and coughing violently until tears collected at the corners of her eyes. Abigail struggled for a moment, choking mutely as she watched Colton bolt out of his chair and grab her upper arms. When the breath mint was dislodged from her throat and she could feel it hot and peppery on her tongue, she knew it was a very small thing that would be significant in ways that might cause her years of lament.

“I’m sorry,” Abigail murmured, utterly mortified for one of the first times she could remember. “I . . .” She couldn’t continue.

Colton stared at her, concern and disbelief gathering foglike across his forehead. At first, Abigail thought he might fold her into his arms, that the almost-pitiable comedy of what had just happened would become the sort of story they laughed about months down the road when they told people the tale of how they came together. But then Colton laughed, rubbing his hands up and down her arms. The moment shattered and fell away, disappearing in a shimmer of doubt that made Abigail wonder if she had merely dreamed it.

“As long as you’re okay,” he boomed. And then he sat back down and pretended nothing had happened. He never mentioned it again and neither did she.

Eighteen months later, Colton married Marguerite, the receptionist who was hired at the same time as Abigail. Marguerite was a few years younger than Abigail, but she looked much older due to a succession of bad dye jobs and what appeared to be a lifetime of sun damage spotting her skin. Colton seemed happy; from what little Abigail could discern of her boss’s marriage, he genuinely longed for companionship and Marguerite’s horselike laugh didn’t turn him off so much that he considered her a poor match.

Although it was against her nature, shortly after the happy couple’s beach wedding, Abigail went through a brief stage where she fixated on what might have been. The entire office had once been invited to Colton’s sprawling house only a block off the ocean, and Abigail could almost picture herself the mistress of his columned colonial. What sort of a woman would she be if she were Mrs. McNally? What would she look like offering guests a second martini and lounging in some bright sari that she had bought on their honeymoon in Belize?

It was a nice scenario, but Abigail wasn’t one to waste too much energy on regret, and she abandoned such nonsense the same way she set aside every other impossible dream: she placed it firmly out of her mind. A few years later when Blake and Colton approached her about being a partner, she was even able to congratulate herself that her business card would read Johnson, McNally & Bennett instead of Johnson, McNally & McNally. She convinced herself that it was much more satisfying this way.

For his part, after their less than romantic encounter in his office, Colton was nothing but a gentleman to Abigail. He treated her with the same respect, the same quiet yet somehow condescending pride of a father figure. Abigail was reduced from a possible lover to the discarded role of a dependable daughter. It was a character she was rather good at playing.

***

Lou Bennett was a father when he could have been a grandfather.

He met Melody Van Bemmel at Chevy’s Café a week after he turned forty-five. It was nearly a blizzard outside, and she blew into the warm restaurant off-balance and trembling as if she were a leaf driven by the vicious wind. When the door slammed behind her, Melody gasped, stomped her booted feet, and flung the hood of her parka back. She smiled shyly, looking around as if her entrance had been staged, as if she were taking her place beneath the spotlight and now that she was front and center she had forgotten her lines.

Everyone in the café glanced up at her for the blink of an eye and then turned back to their coffees and specials of the day without a second thought. Everyone except Lou. He had fallen in love the moment Melody raised her hands to turn back her hood. They were little hands swimming in a pair of men’s work gloves that were so big on her fingers they nearly slid off. Lou imagined they were his gloves. He wished they were.

And just as quickly as he longed for her, Lou hated himself for it. She was a child. Her eyes were too clear, her skin too bright for her to even look twice at a man whose own skin was as deeply lined as those etchings he had seen on display in the American National Bank. But when she caught his eye, when her lips pulled up slightly just for him, Lou knew there was nothing that could be done about it. He was hers, even if she never acknowledged his existence. Even if he loved her in secret until the day he died.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to. Melody came to Lou in the most natural, ordinary way: she brushed against the edge of his life and found herself inexorably pulled in. He didn’t even know he was drowning until he felt himself reach for her and cling for dear life.

They were married less than a year later, and though Melody was not as young as Lou had imagined, when she walked down the aisle in a confection of white, a little shiver crept up Lou’s spine because she did not look twenty-five. Twenty years, he thought in the second before the preacher asked him if he would have her and hold her until “death do you part.”

Lou said, “I do” without hesitation, but somewhere in the back of his mind he faltered. There was a nagging suspicion, an accusatory guilt that made him wonder if he had made her the happiest woman alive like she claimed or if he had involuntarily ruined her life.

It took Melody almost six years to get pregnant, though they tried to make a baby on their wedding night. She saw doctors and gynecologists and fertility specialists, but no one could tell her why her womb would not swell with a child. For a while, Lou entertained the possibility of joining her at one of her appointments, but those sorts of things made him unbearably uncomfortable. He avoided the conversation he knew Melody wanted to have the same way that he avoided the drawer where she kept her neat pile of lace-trimmed underwear.

When Lou was fifty-one, Melody’s cheeks took on a greenish hue in the early morning, and the waist that he so loved to encompass in his enormous hands began to expand. She wouldn’t admit it at first—maybe she was scared to hope—but Lou knew almost immediately. Something about Melody had changed, the scent of her skin or the complexity of the air around her when she entered a room. Maybe both. Either way, Lou was relieved. It wasn’t him, it had never been him, and now she would be happy. They would be a family.

Lou didn’t think much about the baby until the doctor handed him a tiny, tightly wrapped bundle with a pink cap sliding down over her lashless eyes. They were two little commas, those eyes, a break amidst all the words that comprised his many years of life, though certainly not a beginning or even an end. Lou stared at her and realized that he had planned on having a son.

“Abigail Rose,” Melody called weakly from the bed. She smiled at him with all the energy she could muster, and her eyes were dancing with tears. “Rose for my mother and Abigail because it’s the most beautiful name I’ve ever heard. I think we’ll call her Abby.”

What was there to say? It was a fine name, and Lou hadn’t wasted a single thought on another. “Pretty,” he said finally and brushed his lips tentatively across the soft forehead because it seemed like the right thing to do.


Taken from The Moment Between by Nicole Baart. Copyright ©2009 by Nicole Baart. Used with permission from Tyndale House Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved.

If you would like to purchase a copy, click below:



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am willing to give away my ARC (Advanced Reader Copy) copy of this book. ARC is an uncorrected proof, meaning there may be a few typos here and there. Once you read it, you cannot resell it (like on eBay) because it is illegal to resell ARCs.

• Winners are restricted to the US and Canada. No PO Box mailing addresses, please.
• Leave your email address in code in your comment (This is the biggest mistake entrants make. They forget to leave their email address! Please do not ask me to look it up. This is the only thing I ask you to do.)
• I'll close the comments at 6 PM EST July 31st and pick the winner. I will contact the winner via email to get mailing information. There will be three days to respond. If I do not hear from her within three days, I will select another winner(s).
• If you're interested, just say so in a comment with that all-important email address in code.
  Example of email in code: yourname AT hotmail DOT com.

Giveaway! Bobbi Brown Living Beauty by Bobbi Brown with Marie Clare Katigbak

Bobbi Brown began the trend toward natural-looking cosmetics with a simple philosophy: Women want to look and feel like themselves, only prettier and more confident. Today, top editors at elite fashion magazines--including In Style, Vogue, Allure, and Harpers Bazaar--revere her, and celebrities and millions of regular women throughout the world swear by her beauty advice.

Now Bobbi Brown has written THE book redefining beauty for women over 40. In this refreshing look at beauty and aging, Bobbi offers specific makeup tricks for a stunning face--showing how makeup can solve most of the flaws that many women go under the knife to fix. In fact, the right makeup can create an even skin tone, lift the cheeks, plump a smile...even take years off any woman's face. The key is to use makeup to enhance each woman's best features and showcase her natural beauty.

With step-by-step makeup instructions and quotes from beautiful women like Marcia Gay Harden, Vera Wang, Susan Sarandon, and Lorraine Bracco, Bobbi Browns natural, celebratory approach to aging will enlighten and inspire women everywhere.

My Review:
The best way I can describe this heavy volume is to list the chapter titles:
The Living Beauty Philosophy
Role Models, Skin Savers
The Makeup Face-lift
Your Crowning Glory
Instant Update, Menopause
The Real Fountain of Youth
Head-to-toe Makeovers
Beautiful Inside and Out
Create Your New Ideal

That's a comprehensive list, and this is a book that every woman interested in aging gracefully would appreciate owning. The author states, "It's not about looking younger, it's about looking as great as you can look for your age" (21).

Stunning glossy full-page color photographs of celebrities and products by Henry Leutwyler accompany step-by-step tips.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.



~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The generous folks at Hachette Book Group are allowing me to host this book giveaway for five (5) copies!

• Winners are restricted to the US and Canada. No PO Box mailing addresses, please.
• Leave your email address in code in your comment (Please do not ask me to look it up! It's the only thing I ask of you.) Example of email in code: you[at]yourmail[dot]com
  
• I'll close the comments at 6 PM EST May 19th and pick the winners. I will contact the winners via email to get their mailing information. The winners will have three days to respond. If I do not hear from a winner within three days, I will select another winner(s).
• If you're interested, just say so in a comment with that all-important email address in code.

Always Watching (Rayne Tour series, Book 1) by Brandilyn and Amberly Collins

This daughter of a rock star has it all—until murder crashes her world.

The exciting and suspenseful Rayne Tour series features sixteen-year-old Shaley O’Connor, on tour with her mother’s popular band. Shaley lives in a whirlwind of backstage secrets, hotels, and limos. With beauty and fame of her own, Shaley wants for nothing … except the one thing she can’t have.

During a concert, sixteen-year-old Shaley O’Connor stumbles upon the body of a friend backstage. Is Tom Hutchens’ death connected to her?

Frightening messages arrive. Paparazzi stalk Shaley. Her private nightmare is displayed for all to see. Where is God at a time like this?

As the clock runs out, Shaley must find Tom’s killer—before he strikes again.

My Review:
Bestselling author Brandilyn Collins teams up with her daughter to produce this suspenseful whodunit series. Written in first person narrative from the perspective of Shaley, a sixteen-year-old, this teen story keeps the readers interest. The killer's thoughts, written in third person and interspersed throughout the story, have a chilling effect.

A typical teen, Shaley's BFF, Brittany, has an intuitive ability to know the future. Unfortunately, this reader does not have that ability. The novel is well written. The characters are believable, but the story stops just in time for the next book to begin. I understand that this is a series, but I feel gipped when left with a cliff-hanger.

And now, the first chapter:

FRIDAY

PROLOGUE

It’s not my fault I have to kill.

He’d been watching since the tour began. Eyes straight ahead, keeping cool, like he wasn’t even paying attention. But he noticed everything. Even got a sense for what was happening behind his back. His past life had taught him how to do that—out of necessity. When it was something bad, he felt a vibration in the air, pulling up the hair on his arms. And he’d know. He’d just know.

Sometimes he acted behind the scenes. Nothing that would be noticed. Just ended up in a certain place at a certain time—a presence that kept the wrong thing from happening. Other times he’d say what needed to be heard. Real casual, not sounding like a threat at all. No, he was just talking, shooting the breeze about some previous experience. But beneath the words there’d be a point: don’t cross me or mine.

Sometimes people were too dumb to get it. He’d give them every chance, trying to be the nice guy. Trying to do it the easy way. But no. Those kind of people had stubborn minds and black hearts. Couldn’t be trusted. They were headed for a fall and about to take some good people with them. His people.

That’s what it had come to now.

“Hey, can I see you a sec before you go?” He motioned, and the one who must die came, humming.

Humming.

Like a lamb to slaughter.


CHAPTER 1


The screams of twenty thousand people sizzled in my ears.

“Rayne, you reign! Rayne, you reign! Rayne, you reign! …”

At the sold-out HP Pavilion in San Jose, California the crowd chanted and clapped and stomped for my mom’s group, Rayne—named after her—to do one more song as they left the stage. As usual I stood backstage with Tom Hutchens, my mom’s twenty-five-year-old hair dresser and makeup artist, and my closest friend on tour. Tom was short and slim, with thick black hair and an intense-looking face that didn’t match his crazy personality at all.

Tom feigned the pucker of a hip-hop artist and splayed his fingers in front of his red T-shirt. “Yo, she reign, they go insane!” He had to shout at me, his Vans-clad feet dancing. Tom always wore these wild-looking sneakers with blue, white, and red checks and a red racing stripe on the sides. “Ain’t nothin’ plain about rockin’ Rayne!”

I punched him in the arm, laughing. His silly rap rhymes were getting worse by the day.

Blonde hair bouncing, Mom came flying down the steps on the way to her private dressing room for the two-minute break. Sweat shone on her forehead as she passed by. She flashed her red-lipped grin at me and raised a palm. We high-fived as she sped past.

“They love us, Shaley!”

“’Course, Mom, they always do!”

The rest of the rock group—Kim, Morrey, Rich and Stan—descended more slowly, their faces showing fatigue. None of them had the energy of my mother after a concert. Tom and I gave them a quick thumbs-up before scurrying after Mom.

As we hit the dressing room with Rayne O’Connor’s name on the door, I checked my watch. 10:45. Yay! Almost time to head to the airport and pick up my best friend, Brittany. I hadn’t seen her since Rayne started touring three months ago, and I couldn’t wait to be with her again. This was Rayne’s third tour, and I always found it hard to leave all my school friends behind.

Without Tom to keep me laughing, touring would be terribly lonely.

I closed the dressing room door, shutting out some of the noise.

“Whoo.” Mom crossed to the left side of the room and plopped into the makeup chair facing a long, brightly lit mirror. To her right sat a wooden armoire full of her clothing. She always changed outfits during intermission. Along the back wall were the blue sofa and matching armchairs specified by contract for her dressing area in every arena. Opposite the makeup counter was the table loaded with catered food, also specified by contract—bowls of fruit, sandwiches, pasta salad, cheese cubes, chips, and M&Ms for me.

Mom studied herself in the mirror with her large crystal blue eyes. “Okay, Tom, do your magic.” She guzzled a drink from a water bottle on the counter.

Like she needed any magic. With her high cheekbones, oval face, and full lips, Mom was drop-dead gorgeous.

Tom winked at me as he snatched up a tissue. Sticking his scrawny neck out, he scrutinized Mom with animation, eyes narrowed and his mouth a rounded O. “Hm. Hmm.”

He sighed, stood back and spread his hands as if to say nothing to be done here, you’re perfect.

Mom rolled her eyes at me. I shrugged. As if I could control Tom’s antics.

“All right, lover boy.” Mom took another swig of water. “Get to it, I’ve got one minute left.”

“Yo, big Mama.”

Mom swatted his hand. “Would you stop calling me that? I don’t know why I put up with you.” Her mouth curved.

Tom leaned in to blot her face with the tissue. “’Cause I make you look bodacious, that’s why.” Expertly he retouched her blusher and lipstick, fluffed her hair.

Out in the arena the crowd’s yells and applause was growing louder. I smiled and squeezed Mom’s shoulder. Every concert the fans went wild, but it never got old for me. Night after night their adoration set pride for my mom welling in my chest.

Five years ago when I was eleven and Mom was twenty-eight, Rayne was barely hanging on. Mom and the band played little concerts here and there, working night and day to get noticed. I remember how hard she tried back then. A great lyric writer with a distinct, throaty-edged voice, she deserved to make it big. Then the song Far and Near hit the radio and after that—a rocket launch.

Tom stood back and surveyed Mom, his head cocked to one side. “Not bad. Not bad a-tall.”

“Rayne, you reign! Rayne, you reign!” The crowd was going crazy out there.

Mom tossed her hair back, looked at herself from side to side. “Great.” She sprang from the chair. “Gotta go.” She hurried toward the door.

I moved out of her way. “Mom, don’t forget we’re going to pick up Brittany in ten minutes. We’re leaving a little early because Tom wants to stop by a drugstore.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Mom pulled up short, one hand on the door knob. She looked to Tom. “Somebody else doing your clean-up?”

He glanced at me. “Got it taken care of.”

Disappointment pulled at my mouth. Mom knew how I’d counted the days until Brittany’s and my junior year of high school ended—just yesterday. My tutor had flown home this morning, and now Brittany was coming for two weeks. Mom was paying all her expenses—for that I was so grateful. But Mom could get so wrapped up in her work. Sometimes I just needed her to remember me.

Mom looked my way—and caught my expression. She smiled too wide, as if to make up for her distraction. “I’m so glad Brittany’s coming, Shaley. We’ll show her a great time.”

I nodded.

“Mick’s going with you, right?”

“Yeah.”

Mick Rader had been my mom’s main personal bodyguard for the past three years. The other two, Bruce Stolz and Wendell Bennington, would guard her on her way to the hotel tonight while Mick was with me.

“Okay, good. You’ll be safe.” Mom smiled as she opened the door. The crowd’s screams rushed in. “See you at the hotel.”

She blew me a kiss and disappeared.

The yelling suddenly frayed my nerves. I pushed the door shut and leaned against it.

Tom shot me his sad clown look, his lips turned down and eyebrows pulled into a V. He always read my mind so well.

I couldn’t help but smile. “It’s okay.”

His expression whisked away. Tom struck his hip-hop pose. “Got a new one for ya.”

“Oh, yeah?” I knew he’d create the lyrics as he went along, just to get me laughing again.

Tom’s feet started their shuffle-dance. “Let’s go for a ride down the avenue. Top down, wind-blown, my VW. The talk of the town in all we do. Shaley O’Connor puttin’ on the view—”

He froze, mouth open, frowning hard. Then jerked back into dancing. “Can’t think of another line, can you?”

I giggled. “Great, Tom, as fabulous as all your others.”

He bowed. “Thank ya, thank yaaa.”

Pulling up straight, he glanced at the wall clock. “Yikes, I gotta take care of some things before the limo comes. Meet you at the back exit?”

“Okay.”

As the door closed behind him, I crossed the room to check myself in the mirror. Excitement pulsed through my veins. Almost time to see Brittany! I chose a neutral lipstick and leaned toward the glass to apply it. Thanks to Tom I’d learned a lot of makeup tricks, and my face needed little retouching. Finished with the lipstick, I ran a brush through my long brown hair. Tom had recently layered it and feathered the bangs. I liked the look.

Despite the difference in hair color, many people said I looked like my mother. I considered that a high compliment.

I stood back and turned side to side. Not bad. My new designer jeans fit well and the blue top matched my eyes. Brittany would love the outfit. I grinned at myself, then glanced at the clock. Almost time for the limo to arrive.

In the arena the crowd roared. Rayne was taking the stage. The first of two encore songs started—the band’s new hit Do it Up Right.

For a few minutes I paced the room impatiently, munching M&Ms. Rayne launched into their final song of the night.

Two hard knocks sounded on the door—Mick’s signal. He stuck his square-shaped head inside. Mick is in his forties, ex-military. A thick neck and muscles out to here. Nobody messes with Mick. “Shaley, you ready?”

“Yes! Is the limo waiting?”

“Yeah.” His deep-set brown eyes swept the room. “Where’s Tom?”

“He said he had to take care of a few things. He’ll meet us at the door.” I crossed to the couch to pick up my purse.

“Okay. I’m going to stop in the bathroom, then I’ll see you there.” He gave me his squinty-eyed stare. “Don’t step outside of the building without me.”

I flicked a look at the ceiling. “Yeah, yeah.” Mick was so protective. It’s not like I’d be in any danger walking out that door. As with all arenas where Rayne sang, the HP Pavilion had a special entrance for performers, guarded by their own local security. And that whole section of the parking lot was roped off and guarded. No chance for any fans or paparazzi to sneak in.

Mick jabbed a finger at me for emphasis, then left.

Tingling with anticipation, I scurried out the door, intent on checking the other dressing rooms for Tom. No time to wait, let’s go, let’s go! Having been at the arena since four o’clock when sound checks began, I’d already learned the layout of the backstage area. There were eight dressing rooms—Mom’s the biggest.

I hurried down the wide hall, mouthing “hi” to people I passed. The sound and light crew were still working, but the backline crew—the guys who maintain all the instruments and switch them out during performances—were done now. Set carpenters, the managers, and all the people who tore down the stage also milled around until the concert ended.

First I went to the back exit and peeked outside. Tom wasn’t there.

I returned all the way up the hall, figuring I’d work my way back down.

For the first time I noticed all the dressing room doors were closed. Strange. If Tom had gone into one to pack up something, he’d have left the door open as a courtesy. Those assigned rooms were personal space to members of the band and Rayne’s production manager, Ross Blanke.

I peeked in the one next to Mom’s.

Empty.

Shoving my purse handles higher up my shoulder, I went to the third.

Empty again.

The fourth.

No Tom.

This wasn’t right. Tom was never late. Where was he?

Mick approached, signaling me with a roll of his finger—let’s get moving.

I nodded. “He wasn’t in the bathroom?”

Mick shook his head.

Together we walked to the fifth dressing room. Mick poked his head inside.

Empty.

I ran down to look in the sixth. No Tom.

I banged the door shut and looked around. What was going on? If he didn’t show up soon we wouldn’t have time to go out of our way to a drugstore. The airport was minutes away from the arena. We didn’t want Brittany waiting around by herself after dark.

“You take the next one.” Mick strode past me. “I’ll look in the one on the end.”

The seventh dressing room had been allocated as Ross’s office. At every venue he needed a private area for calling people, dealing with last-minute problems and basically seeing that everything in the contract was honored. I couldn’t remember seeing Ross in the hall. He might be inside, and I didn’t dare just barge in. The production manager’s office was off-limits to everyone unless invited.

I knocked, waited. Knocked harder.

No answer.

I opened the door.

Like Mom, Ross ordered the same room set-up each time. For him that included an oversized desk with black leather chair. On the desk he would stack his papers and folders, carefully position his laptop. A fax machine had to be on his left, a telephone with multiple lines on his right. Looking at Ross—a short, fat man with scraggly hair to his shoulders—you’d never guess what a neat freak he is.

And always on the wall—a large round clock.

As I stepped into the room, my eyes grazed that clock. 10:55. Brittany’s plane would be landing soon.

On the floor beside the desk I glimpsed a splash of color.

Something twisted inside my stomach, almost as if my subconscious mind had already registered the sight. Time seemed to slow.

Clutching the door handle, I turned my head toward the color.

A foot. On the floor sticking out from behind the desk. Wearing a Vans with blue, white and red checks, and a red racing strip. The foot lay on its side, toes pointed away from me, heel dug awkwardly into the carpet.

Deathly still.














CHAPTER 2




I stared across the room at the foot. The back of my neck prickled.

Run, my mind shouted. Run and check on Tom! But my feet rooted to the carpet, my fingers digging into the doorpost.

Onstage, the music stopped. Wild clapping and cheering rose from the arena.

The noise jerked me out of my zombie state. I lowered my purse from my shoulder. Set it on the floor. Holding my breath, I crept forward.

As I edged around the side of the desk, Tom’s jeaned leg came into view.

It wasn’t moving.

My legs stopped.

“T-Tom?” My voice cracked into a whisper.

No answer.

So what? He couldn’t have heard me above the crowd.

I took another step. Now I could see his second leg, drawn up and bent at the knee. Tom was lying on his side. I moved again and saw an arm flung out, fingers half-curled toward the palm.

I leapt forward until his head came into sight. Tom’s second arm lay crumpled against the carpet, his face partially turned into the short sleeve of his red T-shirt. His one visible eye was open, staring at the wall.

Air gushed out of my mouth. He was tricking me.

“You rotten thing!” I pushed at his leg with my toe. “How—”

No change. Just that wide-eyed stare.

All the relief that had spilled out of me reversed back down my throat. My windpipe closed until I could hardly breathe. I sank to my knees beside his chest.

“Tom?” I leaned down to look into both his eyes.

The other one was gone.

I mean gone. Just a black, bloody, gaping hole.

For the longest second of my life, all I could do was stare. It pulled at me, that hole. Like it wanted me to tumble inside it, a horror-film version of Alice in Wonderland.

Faintness gripped me. I swooned toward Tom’s ravaged face, my nose almost touching where his eye used to be …

At the last possible moment, my muscles jerked me back.

I shoved to my feet and screamed.














CHAPTER 3




My shrieks bounced off the walls during the crowd’s final shouts. In the same second all noise died away.

Silence rang in my ears.

I turned and ran.

Mick materialized in the doorway as I hurtled into it. I rammed into his rock-solid chest. With another scream I bounced off and collapsed on the carpet.

“What--?” Mick bent over me. I looked up, mouth flopping open. No sound came. I pointed a shaking finger toward Tom. Mick’s head jerked up.

Horror crossed his face.

He jumped over me and ran to Tom, his hand reaching for the gun clipped to his belt.

Mick bent down and disappeared behind the desk. I couldn’t get up. I couldn’t do anything.

Voices of band members mingled in the hall, commenting on the performance. How strange the words sounded. So naïve. So unknowing.

Heavy footsteps approached. Ross rounded the corner and almost stepped on me.

“Ahhh!” I rolled away from him.

Mick raised up from behind the desk. Ross froze at the look on his face. “What’s going on?”

“Tom’s dead.” Mick’s voice was tight.

“What?”

“Somebody shot him.”

Ross blinked rapidly, then leapt around me to see for himself.

Mick reached for the phone on the desk. “I’m calling 911.”

I stared at the ceiling, mind going numb. My limbs felt like water. Tom was dead. Dead. My heart couldn’t grasp it. I’d just been with him. How could he be gone?

“Oh.” The word choked from Ross’s throat. He backed away from Tom.

“Yes,” Mick said into the phone. “I need to report a homicide. Hang on a minute.” He shoved the phone into Ross’s hand. “You talk to them. I need to get Bruce and Wendell. We’ll round up the band members, make sure they’re safe.”

Mom. Could whoever did this to Tom want to hurt her?

Mick ran past me, gun in hand. “Shaley, stay here.”

I barely heard him. Panic pushed me onto weak knees. I had to find my mother!

Somehow I crawled out the door. “Mom. Mommmm!”

Every person in the hallway jerked around.

Mick spun back to me. “Shaley, stay there!” He swung toward the others. “Everyone, against the wall and don’t move. Wendell, Bruce, where are you?”

People melted back, calling questions, their voices buzzing like a thousand bees in my head.

“Where’s my mom!”

Bruce ran out of the men’s bathroom, hand automatically going for his weapon. “What?” At six-foot-six, he has powerful, long legs and arms. I could see his head about everyone else’s.

Wendell burst from the stage area. “Here!”

“Shaley?” Mom’s sharpened voice filtered from up the hallway. “What’s happening?” She came toward me, eyes wide.

“Rayne, stay where you are!” Mick shouted.

Mom picked up speed. Her head whipped back and forth, gawking at everyone pressed against the walls. She started to run. “Shaley, are you all right?

I teetered to my feet. “Tom’s dead, Mom, he’s dead!”

Gasps rose from dozens of throats. Mom didn’t even slow. Mick grabbed her arm, but she yanked away. As if in a dream—a nightmare—I watched her tear-blurred form hurtle toward me. Mick, Bruce and Wendell spread their feet, guns raised, eyes darting back and forth, searching the hall for danger.

I flung myself forward, sobbing.

After an eternity Mom reached me. I collapsed into her arms, screaming Tom’s name.

If you would like to buy a copy, click below.

According to Their Deeds by Paul Robertson

A Deadly Game of Justice Versus Mercy

Charles Beale lives outside the shadow of Washington, D.C. Politics and power matter only when a client crosses the Potomac to visit his Alexandria Rare Books shop. But that all changes when a former client--a man deeply connected in the Justice Department--is found murdered after a break-in gone bad. 

When Charles reclaims at auction the books he'd once sold, he quickly discovers he's bought more trouble than he could have ever imagined. Inside one volume are secrets. A collection of sins that, if revealed, could destroy reputations, careers--even lives.

 Charles soon learns he isn't the only who knows. Going to the police means ruining a multitude of lives. But staying silent puts a target on his shop, his wife--and himself. Charles must decide: Should one mistake really cost you everything? 

My Review:
This lighthearted mystery contains a married couple who speak to one another in a manner reminiscent of The Thin Man. Charles and Dorothy Beale obviously care deeply about each other and share an interesting partnership as they manage their old and rare bookshop. Their conversations are a study of a couple at play.

This is not the usual fast paced mystery. Rather, it demands a careful read. In between each chapter is a discussion between the Charles, the protagonist and the Derek, the deceased. This makes for an unique change of pace, as it adds to the plot.

There are many allusions to literature. I loved the word play whenever Alice, the bookstore clerk, answers Charles' question, "Was anything sold?" with a title of a book. Charles then comments with an allusion referencing that book. This reinforces or foretells what has just taken place or what will soon take place in the plot.

I love the characters; I loved the dialogue. This novel would be a good choice for a book club as it begs discussion.

If you would like to read the first chapter, click here.

f you would like to buy a copy, click here.

Faith 'n Fiction Saturday - Too Edgy?

My friend Amy is the host for Faith 'n Fiction Saturday. She poses the questions and we try to answer them. If you're interested, check it out here.

Today's topic is: Christian fiction is generally known for being clean and non-offensive, but lately there's been a lot of chatter about edgy Christian fiction and the need for Christian fiction to be more realistic. Christian fiction has certainly changed and contains a lot more edge than it used to. This makes some readers uncomfortable, and I was wondering what your line is? What would push the envelope too far for a Christian fiction novel for you? Language? Sex? Violence? Main characters who never believe in Jesus?

If you came across something that offended you in a Christian fiction book, how would you handle it?

My Response:
Of all of the categories that would make me uncomfortable, only two go over the line. Profanity has no place in Christian fiction. When I read Stephen Baldwin's The Death and Life of Gabriel Phillips, I was negatively surprised at the profanity. Even the Lord's name is taken in vain. I don't understand how that book can be defined as Christian fiction.

Adult themes can be a bit hairy in a Christian fiction work, but good taste can reign supreme. Sex can be written into a novel without a play-by-play account.

If any character--even the protagonist-- refuses Christ, that does not bother me; in fact, it is quite realistic.

I happen to like edgy Christian fiction; I like that realistic topics are found in good plots. I feel that a good writer ought to be able to handle it and write to honor Christ.

The House in Grosvenor Square by Linore Rose Burkard

Readers who loved the author’s first book, Before the Season Ends, will delight in this charming sequel set in Regency London.

As Ariana Forsythe plans her wedding to Philip Mornay, she must adjust to the realization that she is soon to become the wife of an extremely wealthy man. She wonders if it’s wrong to rejoice that her future husband is rich. But she promises herself to use her new position to do what she can to aid the numerous street waifs she sees all too often in London.

During a tour of her future home—the house in Grosvenor Square—Ariana makes plans to redecorate according to her tastes. But when Philip arrives home later, he is informed that an expensive silver candlestick and a miniature portrait of George III have gone missing. Moreover, each time Ariana visits the house, accompanied by a friend or relation, another item disappears.

Shortly thereafter Ariana is abducted as she leaves a performance at Covent Garden Theatre, leaving Philip to unravel the pieces of the mystery. Where has his future bride been taken, and by whom? For what reason? How does Ariana’s faith play a role?

Finally, after the safe return of his intended, how does Philip—a man of intense discrimination in his tastes—find the many alterations in his house? And what on earth is behind the sudden influx of bills from every charity in London, all thanking him profusely for his uncommon generosity? Will he have second thoughts about his future bride?

Readers will find romance, intrigue, humor, and inspiration in this new book of spirited romance for the Jane Austen soul.

My Review:
Oh the problems of the days before the invention of the telephone! Servants had to scurry, carrying notes in this Regency England romance novel. Like a comedy of errors, the characters in this tale sometimes go round and round trying to get in touch with one another! I found myself chuckling as I read.

More humor is found in the dialogue. Propriety is all-important. Imagine days before marrying, calling your beloved Mr. or Miss and staying apart so as to be able to control your emotions--worrying that there might be a scandal if you are caught embracing.

The characters are richly written in three dimension. Ariana Forsythe stumbles from one misadventure to the next, barely escaping harm, while Philip Mornay dashes about to her rescue. Even the despecible villian, Mr. Whiddington, is so well written that I wish him well. I admire the way Ariana begins to pray when threatened with danger, which seems to be quite often, and it's interesting to watch Philip's acquaintances realize he's a different man now that he's found Christ. Even Whiddington pays attention when talk turns to things of God.

I did not read the first novel in this series, Before the Season Ends, but since this is a stand-alone novel, I had no problems catching on. The plot moves along nicely. Discussions questions and a glossary are included.

And now, the first chapter:

Mayfair, London

1813

Inexplicable. There was no other word for Mr. Mornay's behaviour to her that morning, and Ariana Forsythe could think of naught else unless it changed. Soon.

She looked at him challengingly, where he sat across from her in his expensive, plush black coach. Faultlessly handsome, Phillip Mornay was dressed stylishly in a twin-tailed frock coat, buff pantaloons and polished black boots. His beautifully tied cravat puffed lightly out from an embroidered white waistcoat, and his dark hair and famously handsome features were framed by a top hat. Everything he wore looked new, his clothing always did; and yet he might have worn it a dozen times, so comfortable did he appear in his attire.

But he had barely looked at Ariana for more than a fleeting second since he had come for her

this morning, and it was beginning to grate on her nerves. She had to think of something to say.


“Tomorrow is the day I shall see the full of your house, is it not?” She had been in Mr. Mornay's house in Grosvenor Square before, but this time she and Aunt Bentley were to get a tour, top to bottom, so she would feel more at home after the wedding. She and Mr. Mornay were betrothed to be married in two weeks.

The dark eyes flicked at her, and she felt a fleeting twinge of satisfaction.

“It is.”

She wanted to hold his attention, and began a smile, but he looked away, abruptly. What could be wrong? Mr. Mornay often studied her when they were together; she was so used to finding the dark-eyed warm gaze upon her, in fact, that she felt somewhat abandoned to be deprived of it, now. Had she done something to displease him? When he usually attended to her so deeply as though he could read into her soul?

They were on their way to the London Orphan Society, in Mr. Mornay's upholstered coach-and-four, with its fashionable high-steppers and liveried footmen on back, to attend a special service at the Society's Chapel. A lady was giving a dramatic reading from Scripture; a most celebrated dramatic reading. Ariana and Mr. Mornay had received invitations for the event, with encouragement to invite anyone of their acquaintance. Thus, there were also four other occupants in the carriage this morning, and seating was snug.

On either side of Ariana was a relation. Her younger sister, Beatrice, just turned twelve, was to her left, and her aunt and chaperon for the season, Mrs. Agatha Bentley, sat on her right. The ladies faced the gentlemen sitting across from them; first, Mr. Peter O'Brien, a future cleric, at Beatrice's particular request; then Ariana's future husband, Mr. Mornay, silent and unapproachable, and finally, the agreeable Mr. Pellham, her aunt's betrothed. (She and her aunt were betrothed at the same time. A most fort