Ginger Simpson's Blog, page 22

Poodle Quotes

On Sundays I post an assortment of short little snippets, quotes or pictures (as listed on the side-bar of Dishin' It Out).  Today is Poodle Sunday!



Ever consider what pets must think of us?

I mean, here we come back from a grocery store with the most amazing haul - chicken, pork, half a cow. They must think we're the greatest hunters on earth!

Anne Tyler
American Novelist

Sunday Snippet “Gumbo Ya Ya” (Soon to be Released) by Connie Vines

September 2017 is the release date of my anthology, Gumbo Ya Ya, by my publisher BWL Publishing.  And, as always, BWL’s art director, Michelle Houston, has designed a spectacular book cover for  me—with just enough heat to pepper every woman Gumbo!




Here’s a little teaser from, “A Slice of Scandal”, the third story in my Cajun anthology!


“Hey, now, ‘dis key lime pie’s like de one I sever at my restaurant.  Simple to make and good to eat!  Key limes perk up de mouth and makes you happy.”

Producer/Director, Julia Kincaid focused on her monitor and adjusted the mic of her headset. “Camera One, tighten that head shot.”  She watched as the camera feathered over the chef to capture the best angle.  The camera should have loved Chef Franklin.  His height was average, his hair black, short and curly and his skin gook on a polished bronze color under the harsh camera lights, but the camera didn’t like Franklin.  There was something about his eyes; like dark agate, forbidding and expressionless that was difficult to erase.

“Okay.  Now hold it, while Chef Franklin pulls the second pie from the refrigerator.  Follow him back to the island.  Good.”

When the chef stood on his mark, Julia said, “Cue the music.  Okay, Two, scan the audience. Back to Franklin.”

“It’s best to serve ‘dis chilled, a twist of key lime on the top. And, boy-oh, boy, does ‘dis taste goood!”

“Camera Two, pan the audience. . .focus on the pie. . .Camera One, close-up on the chef. . .Hold it.”

Julia heard the studio audience applause.

“Now, pull back. He cuts the pie. . . he puts it on the plate. . .now wait for the whipped cream and . . .okay. . .he’d got the fork. He’s taking a bite.”

The studio audience uttered a collective sigh.

“Let’s call it a day. . .”  Julia said, pulling off her headset and allowing it to dangle around her neck.  “Hey, Hey, what’s he doing, now?” she asked J.D., “This is where he says goodnight.  What’s he doing?”  Snagging the mic that was clipped at her waist she barked, “Someone cue Franklin.  He’s off his mark.”  It was times like this she questioned her sanity at trading a career in Hollywood daytime T.V. for that of the Good Eats Network in Orlando, Florida.  

From her left, she heard J.D. groan.  “Julia, Franklin’s spitting out the pie!  Harvey’s gonna boil all of our carcasses in the stock pot for--”

Julia hopped down from the camera and took off at a full run toward Franklin, the sound of clanging pots and pans crashing to the floor barely registering.

Gone was the applause.  People jumped to their feet.  People screamed.

“He’s on the floor!” J.D. bellowed.

Julia could see that!  Kneeling down beside Franklin, her fingers felt a faint pulse. “J.D. call the medics!  Franklin must be having a heart attack.”  


I hope you enjoyed this little snippet from my next release.
More anthology snippets to come!

Happy Reading,

Connie

A Poodle, a Wedding Anniversary, and a Opossum By Connie Vines

I had an article about the craft of writing written and ready to post.  I decided, instead, to share that post on a later date..

Why?

For those of you who follow my Twitter, Instagram, author Facebook page, or website, you know I often share stories about my little poodle-mix puppy, Chanel.

Please, no groaning from those of you who prefer cats.

Chanel, is lively, friendly, and poodle-like in her powers of reasoning.

She is also serious about her friendships.


Well, before the SoCal winter rains, there was a young opossum who would walk along the block wall several nights a week at 2:00 A.M.  I know this because this is the time I usually finish writing and get ready for bed.  Chanel dance in a circle requesting to step outside.  She would run over to the wall and bark, causing the little white-faced opossum to dart away.

I would pick her up, instructing her to leave “Harvey” alone.  (Yes, I know he is a wild animal and does not possess a name.)  Chanel, however, knows every ‘thing’, be it a person, toy (bouncy-ball, Side-kick, blue bouncy-ball), animal, or ‘food’, has a name.

So, this opossum was dubbed Harvey.

Harvey didn’t return during the rains, or afterwards.  Then, magically, one night a larger, more attractive, and braver “Harvey’ returned.

This time he sat on the wall and waited for Chanel to bark at him.  I’d pick her up, bid “Harvey” good evening.  While the two of them stared at each other for a few moments.  We’d go in and Harvey would leave.

Where does “Harvey” live?  I believe he lives in the yard next door (the owner is a bit of a zealous ‘collector’), or perhaps in the shrubby in a nearby park.  I’m not too sure if he has a family.

It has never gone past the ‘flirting’ stage with Chanel.   And ‘Harvey’ never ventures into our yard when we are about.

Today, all of that changed.

Today was my wedding anniversary.  My husband and I went to local home-style diner for an early dinner.  We bid Chanel bye and promised to bring her home a mini-hamburger patty.  No. Sorry. No riding in the car this time.

When we got back to the car, packed left-overs and doggie meal in hand, my husband voice his concern about something handing from his side bumper.

I bent over to examine it.  While my husband kept saying he would yank the piece of the plant out from the bumper, I objected.

It wasn’t a plant.

It had an odd texture.  It was a pale color.  It was a snake, no. A rat. . .oh, no!

It was the hook of a opossum’s tail.


“Harvey!”

“Harvey?” my husband questioned.

“Yes.  See, that’s Harvey’s tail.”  The tail went limp, they turned back into a hook.

“This could only happen to you.” was my husband’s only response.

“Harvey just wanted to join us for our anniversary dinner.”

My husband stifled a chuckle.  “I doubt that very much.”

“Now at least we know where he sleeps during the day.”

So, we drove home via the city streets, so not to ‘over heat’ Harvey.  When we arrived home, Harvey had pulled his tail back up into the wheel well, waiting for us to leave.

Do you have an interesting anniversary story to share?

Happy Reading,
Connie

P.S.
Yes, Harvey did return several days later to visit an 'concerned' Chanel (she been looking for him every night).

Harvey appeared a little road-weary--not quite as tidy and his face appeared a little dirty, and moving like he had a few sore muscles, but otherwise, his usual Opossum self.

Inspirational Sunday Quote

 Sunday Inspiration Quote:

My Make Believe Worlds by Roseanne Dowell (Replay Day)

I live in a make believe world. Okay, not literally, but vicariously through my characters.  I decide where they live, name their towns, and sometimes I let them live in a real city/town.  I prefer small towns, maybe because I’ve always wanted to live in one. I especially like towns with Victorian houses and apparently so do my characters, because I use them a lot.  I often say I must have lived during the Victorian area, probably as a mean old nanny. I’m sure I wasn’t the lady of the house, and by house I mean mansion. Queen Anne homes are my favorite. I love the round turrets, all the gingerbread, and wrap around porches. It was always my dream to buy one and restore it. Unfortunately that wasn’t to be and I’m past the point of wanting one now. Back to my make believe world. I say I decide where they live, but that's not entirely true. Mostly my characters make that decision.I’d also like to say I choose my characters, but truthfully, they choose me.  Sometimes I even get to name them, but if they don’t like the name, well believe me; they misbehave until I change it. And, yes, that’s happened several times. Just because I like a name doesn’t mean they do. The last time it happened it wasn’t even a main character. She was only in the story for a short time, but boy was she stubborn. She refused to talk to me and anything I wrote was garbage, better known as dreck in the writing world. As some of you know, I write many different of genres, from Women’s Fiction to Romance to Mystery and even Paranormal. Most of my books are a combination of romance and another genre. As a reader, I’ve always favored mystery and romance, so it only made sense to combine them.  Mine are classified as cozy mysteries. I also love ghost stories – not evil mean ghosts though. One such story is Shadows in the Attic and another Time to Love Again.  In Shadows, two ghosts are discovered – yep you guessed it – in an attic. During a renovation, Anna Hughes and her boyfriend uncover a hidden room complete with furniture. Two shadows hover over a trunk, beckoning to Anna.  Of course she's the only one who can see the ghosts.  At least she is until her sexy contractor arrives on the scene.
Fifty-eight year old, Rose Asbury is a recluse in Time to Love Again, not that she care. She just wants to be left alone. Enter the man next door who insists on speaking to her causing feelings she doesn’t want.  Then her sister’s ghost shows up and well….you’ll have to read it to see what happens.
. I’ve always been fascinated by ESP, hence my story Entangled Minds – Rebecca Brennan experiences strange, realistic visions and dreams and she’s determined to find who shares her mind. Her search leads – where else – to a small town filled with Victorian homes filled with interesting people and puts her life in danger.


My character’s range from their mid twenties to middle age and even into their seventies. Yes, seniors need love, too. Geriatric Rebels is a favorite. A humorous story about seventy year old Elsa Logan and seventy-two year old Mike Powell. Their middle of the night escapades  soon turns into a loving relationship and the discovery of deception and fraud. It’s fun working with different characters, and I especially like when they add a bit of humor. I really form an attachment to them. Once a character chooses me, I make a character worksheet to discover everything about them, not just what they look like. I love creating my characters, discovering their careers, anything from housewife, authors, teachers, floral designers and interior designers. Sometimes their careers play a part in the story, sometimes not. The character in my work in progress (WIP in the writer’s world) is from a previous story, Aunt Beatrice Lulu. It’s the third book in the Family Affair Series titled It Is What It Is. Aunt Beatrice Lulu first appeared in All in the Family but not as the main character. Callie Johnson returns to her hometown to take over the police chief’s job. Aunt Beatrice Lulu decides to play matchmaker. What ensues is a string of unsuitable suitors.

Of course that didn’t sit well with her and she insisted on her own story – All’s Well That Ends Well – Known for being a busy body, Beatrice Lulu Eberhardt lives up to her name and then some. Too many things happening for Beatrice Lulu to ignore and she’s bound and determined to figure things out on her own, usually dragging her sister along for the ride. This time, she might have bitten off more than she can chew.So there you have a bit of my make believe worlds. You can find all of my books at Amazon.

Connie's Kitchen by Connie Vines

Happy Sunday!

This Sunday I'd like to share a scone recipe I prepare as a special treat for a family brunch.  Or, I must confess,  for an afternoon accompaniment to a cup of hot tea--just for me :-).  I am not a purest.  I will freeze and rewarm scones in a toaster oven or my upper open/warmer of my stove.  I do not, however, recommend reheating any type of bread in a microwave.



Real English Scones


YIELD
12 scones

2 cups flour, preferably cake flour
4 teaspoons baking powder (not soda)
1⁄2 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons butter, room temp
1 egg, lightly beaten
milk, enough to add up to 3/4 cup with the egg added
1 egg, extra

(If you prefer a sweet scone you may add a bit of sugar to the recipe or dried fruit).

Directions

Heat oven to 400 deg F.

Mix flour, baking powder and salt in a bowl.

Add butter and rub in with fingers until it resembles crumbs.

Beat egg lightly, pour into a measuring cup, and add milk -- you can use buttermilk instead -- to make up 3/4 cup liquid.

Add liquid slowly to dry ingredients while mixing. You should have a soft dough, but not wet or very sticky.

Sprinkle flour on a wooden board or working surface. Turn dough out on that. Pat out lightly with fingers until about 1 1/2 inch flat, or a little less.

Press out rounds about 2 1/2 inches across.

Gather excess dough and repeat process.
Beat extra egg well.

Put the scones on a greased tin, use a pastry brush and brush with the beaten egg.
Bake for about 13 minutes until well risen and golden.

To serve, best use them quickly. Coffee shops keep making up batches, so as to serve them almost hot from the oven.

To eat, break open while hot or warm, and eat with cream and different jams.




Do you have a favorite Scone recipe?Please share.  
Do you have Scone Tales--misadventures in backing, you'd lie to share?
Remember, scones are the perfect snack while reading one of my novels!
Connie

Learning to Lie - by Roseanne Dowell "Replay Day"

From my blog a while back, we know  ideas are all around us - From our workplace to our neighbors. From getting stuck in traffic to grocery shopping and thumbing through magazines to reading the classified, so let’s put it all together.
 You overhear a conversation in a restaurant. The woman is crying. You can’t hear the whole conversation. But, your writer mind begins
to ask questions - Is she breaking up
with her date? Is he breaking up with her?
Or maybe those are happy tears?  It’s not necessary to know the truth. Your writer’s mind starts working and you imagine what you want. You begin to formulate a story about it.  You begin to build a character in your mind. You can see her clearly. Can even hear his/her voice.
You don’t even need to describe the characters in your story as the same description of the people you see. In fact, if it’s someone you know, its better not to.  We don’t want to write about our cranky aunt and have her recognize herself through description.  Change her into the complete opposite of what she looks like. Age her, make her younger, but what ever you do don’t use her description. You should create your own characters. Certainly, I use people I know.  In fact, I have a list of friends and relatives with character traits - make a list of your own.  I add special character traits, like my husband and son have a habit of touching everything on the table and moving it from place to place while you’re having a conversation. (Truthfully, it drives me up a wall and I often grab their hands to stop them – they don’t even realize they're doing it)  But that’s a trait to add, it makes your characters believable. We all have habits. Some people twirl their hair, some chew on nails. Write them down; use them in your stories.
So, back to our original character, maybe this lady has jet black hair.  Your character may have gray hair or blonde. Short, long, straight, curly it doesn’t matter.  What matters is that you create her. Maybe she’s young, old, middle-aged. Again, it doesn’t matter. What matters is to visualize your character in your mind. And make notes!!!  As I said previously I use index cards.  I list the name of my character, age, color of their hair, height, character traits, who in their family they look like (especially if it’s important).
List everything you can to know your character better, even if you aren’t going to use it in the story.  The more you know about your characters the better and more believable they will be. Nothing is worse than reading about a blonde who suddenly has dark hair half way through the story.   And be careful with names too.  I wrote a story using the character’s name, Daniel Stephens.  Half way through I changed it to Stephen Daniels.  Fortunately, I always ask people to read my stories before I submit them and someone caught it.   I also use character work sheets; they include everything from my character’s descriptions to their favorite foods and colors. A lot of the information I never use, but it helps me know my character better. By time I’m done, I feel like she/he’s my best friend (or enemy).
And, of course, the senses, not just what we see, but what we taste, smell, touch, and hear.  These senses help your story come alive.  Take notes on them too. Become observant.  Touch that wood, feel the smooth finish, or the rough texture of a statue.  Listen to the sounds around you. Not the everyday sounds of traffic, although those are important too and sometimes we become so used to them that we don’t notice them.  But out of the ordinary sounds.  Listen to the birds early in the morning or the children playing in a park.
 These sounds and senses help make your story come alive. Use them.
All of these things combined contribute to good story ideas.  Sometimes we come up with an idea from something we touch or smell.  Something soft and smooth or maybe a bakery provokes a memory from the past. Use it.
Maybe it’s a restaurant,  a deli, or even a car dealership.  Take notes on all the places you visit.  Settings are often as important as our characters. Write down these settings, keep a notebook.  If a particular restaurant strikes your fancy, take notes. Who knows you may use it someday.  I wrote a scene in a restaurant we visited on vacation.  It was a quaint little place and I really liked
it, so I jotted down some notes and it didn’t take long for me to use it.  I visited another restaurant with friends and loved the place. It was a typical tearoom type restaurant, definitely for women.  It was also an antique store and quilt shop.  I just used it in a novel.   Even hospitals or doctor’s office, you never know when you’ll have call to use such a setting. Beauty shops and health spas, too.  Take notes every place you visit.
Which brings me to the last point, find a writing buddy!  Someone you can exchange stories with or someone whose judgment you know and trust. Someone you can brainstorm with and toss ideas around. Sometimes we get stuck and just
need to discuss the story. They may give us ideas but just talking about it with someone, sometimes gives you the idea on your own.
I strongly suggest finding someone who writes.  Only a writer can understand your frustration of a blocked mind or enjoy the feeling of an acceptance. And only another writer is honest enough to tell you what's wrong and right with your story. Often times, family and friends are afraid to criticize your work, afraid they’ll hurt your feelings. You want someone honest enough to tell you the strong points in the story as well as the weak points. Trust me, sometimes these critiques  hurt, after all you worked for hours to put these words to paper and you love this story, it’s a part of you.
 I often ask three people to read my stories.  If two of the three comment on the same thing, I know it needs to be changed. If only one comments on it and the others think its fine, then I leave it.  But the end decision is mine to make.  It is my story, after all.
But you want it to be the best you can do.  So DO keep an open mind. If you ask for someone’s opinion, respect it.  You don’t have to take all of their advice.  I once had an editor tell me to cut a whole scene. A scene I felt was critical to the story.  I had several writer friends read the story. After they were done, I asked if they thought I should cut the scene. They all said no, it was too important to the story.  Alas, I didn’t get the story published at that time, but it remained intact, and I’ve submitted it elsewhere and it was accepted.

What Do I Read?

What do I read?  This is the topic for this month's Round Robin discussion.

In my case, the questions should be, "What don't I read?

I read anything and everything within my line of sight.  If you show be a book, magazine article, odds are, I will ask if I can 'see' (meaning hold it so I can see the print).  If it is interesting, I will probably walk away absorbed.  Later, I will return the item.  I will apologize and offer you something  (pen, pencil, bookmark, perhaps a cookie).

However, this is not what Robin had in mind, I assume, when this topic was posted :-).

I never read a novel in the genre I'm currently writing.  This is because I read for enjoyment.  When I am working on a historical novel, I'm researching--therefore working.  This is way I do not read historical fiction during that time frame.

Right now I'm working on a contemporary novel and a fantasy novella.  So, I'll probably re-read Jane Eyre, or some historical time period via the Internet.  Victorian era, is likely or my personal fave, Ancient Egypt.

I enjoy print books and ebooks.  I can't quite get into the audio books.  I do have an old Kindle that does text-to-voice.  It is a robotic sound, but I do not find it distracting.  If I wish for sound effects, I'll turn in a movie or television show.  I do enjoy Podcasts--though this probably doesn't fall under the topic of reading :-).

I did peek at Dr. Bob's post and amended mine.  Dr. Bob doesn't write romance because of the 'romantic myth'.

I plot by the rules of "The Hero's Journey". (Dr. Joseph Campbell).  I can't say I believe in the Cinderella and the happily ever after, in a true sense, either.  What I do like is the 'magical' emotional world of a romance.  The need for emotional fulfillment is what a romance novel offers (though mine often deal with social issues).  When a woman works full-time while raising her family, married or unmarried, she is often emotionally worn-out.  Reading a romance or gentle fantasy novel (unlike an action/suspense/horror novel) will refill her emotional cup (fill and emotional void).  Providing her with the emotional re-charge to face the world the next day/ after a 30-lunch, etc.

Positive thoughts.

Sometimes we need to believe the world is/will be a kinder place, a simpler place, or a place with beautiful book covers (had to toss in my personal pet-peeve), to get us through a rough-spot, or give us a moment of inner piece.

I believe reading fiction provides a recharge.  Life can be so draining, physically and emotionally.

What harm is there in enjoying a happily-ever-after?  After all, you have spent several hours with your new-found friends, and you wish them well.

Happy Reading,

Connie

Please Blog Hop down the list and read what these wonderful authors have to say!


Skye Taylor http://www.skye-writer.com/blogging_by_the_sea
A.J. Maguire  http://ajmaguire.wordpress.com/
Marci Baun  http://www.marcibaun.com/blog/
Anne de Gruchy https://annedegruchy.co.uk/category/blog/
Heather Haven http://heatherhavenstories.com/blog/
Helena Fairfax http://www.helenafairfax.com/blog 
Connie Vines http://mizging.blogspot.com/
Rhobin Courtright http://www.rhobinleecourtright.com
Heather Haven http://heatherhavenstories.com/blog/
Fiona Mcgier http://www.fionamcgier.com/
Dr. Bob http://wp.me/p3Xihq-11v
Kay Sisk http://www.kaysisk.com/blog
Skay Taylor http://www.askyetaylor.com/blogging_by_the_sea/view/542
Rachel Kosinki http://rachaelkosinski.weebly.com/
Anne de gruchy https://annedegruchy.co.uk/category/b...https://annedegruchy.co.uk/category/blog/

"Classic Ginger" Snippets from Culture Shock Ginger Simpson

This week I'm sharing snippets from Culture Shock , my mystery romance that takes place in San Francisco.  Cynthia Freitas moves from the Midwest to the big city, expecting a different lifestyle.  Imagine her shock to find a serial killer loose in her own backyard, and he's killing women that look just like her...or her body when the old wiring in her run-down tenement causes her first kiss with her handsome neighbor to have a jolting outcome.


The sun was setting when they got back to the Cairns. Alex held the door open. “Here we are, back to reality.”

Cynthia stepped inside, but paused at the bottom of the stairwell. “Does reality have to smell so musty? I’d prefer something more pleasant.”
He smiled. “I agree, but the reality I referred to is we both have to work tomorrow, and thatsucks. I wish I’d been born rich instead of handsome.” He flashed a wink.

Did he know how attractive he was? His good looks had drawn the admiring stares of so manywomen during their outing…and they all envied her, little ol’ Cynthia Freitas.
He followed as she climbed the stairs. She paused at the first landing and faced him. “Too badwe can’t have everything we want, but I’d say today was a great ending to the weekend.” She smiled.“Seriously, this was a great afternoon. I really enjoy looking in all the stores, although I can’t believe I didn’t find anything I wanted to buy. Maybe I should see a therapist.”
He shook his head and grinned. “Maybe, but push on, my dear. We have another flight to climb,and dogs are barking.”
At her apartment, Alex took her key and unlocked the door. “I had a great time too. If it wasn’tSunday evening we could have made our time together last a little longer. Maybe we can do this again another time?”
Her excitement bubbled to the surface. “That would be wonderful. Hey, as a matter of fact, mybrother Kevin and his girlfriend, Sara, are coming to visit in a few weeks. They want me, of all people, to show them around the city. Would you be interested in joining us?”
She held her breath hoping he wouldn't decline. She'd like to show Kevin she did have someconfidence in herself. 
"I'd like that very much." He leaned down and brush his lips against hers.
Her heart skipped a beat then resumed its normal pace. She took a quick breath. "That was nice.""Good. I was hoping I wouldn't offend you."
"No offense taken." And no defense either. Her knees turned to jelly. She opened her door, butpaused, hoping for maybe yet another, and longer, kiss.
Instead, he took her hand and held her knuckles to his lips. "Goodnight," he whispered, warmingher hand with his breath. He smiled and walked toward his apartment.
Cynthia went inside her place, closed the door and rested against it. She pondered the emotionsAlex stirred within her. She feared falling for him, too afraid of what might happen if he didn'treciprocate the feelings. Could she handle rejection? She had no idea.
After making sure the door was locked, she went straight to the bedroom. Alex’s reminder aboutthe deadbolt flashed through her mind. She’d buy one tomorrow and ask him to install it. His offer ofhelp provided more opportunity to be with him, and she'd take him over the super any day.
*******************

This is where the excitement really begins.  You can get your copy at Books We Love, using my author's page and clicking the cover you like.  Please take advantage of the BOGO sale going on right now....buy one, get one free.  A great holiday special.

Now hop on over and visit my other Sunday Snippet Pals:

http://connievines.blogspot.com (Connie Vines)
http://yesterrdayrevisitedhere.blogspot.com/ (Juliet Waldron)

http://triciamg.blogspot.com (Tricia McGill)


Don't forget to come back next week for more Sunday Snippets.

"Classic Ginger" Snippets Time Tantrums with Ginger Simpson

This week I'm sharing a snippet from Time Tantrums...my time-travel romance with an historical twist.  In this story, a modern day attorney and a pioneer wife change lives and eras and discover what it's like to walk in another's shoes.

 Let Me know what you think.  You cacn get your own copy via Books We Love.  Just click on my name and you'll be taken to my own page where you'll find all my books.   Take advantage of the BOGO sales.  Buy one, get one free...a great holiday value.

Time Tantrums



David sat beside Taylor’s bed, his heart aching at seeing his beautiful wife swathed in bandages, an IV in her arm, a tube down her throat. The large hospital bed dwarfed her five-foot-eight frame and elevated her head. 
The breathing machine’s swooshing and the heart monitor’s steady beep were the only sounds in the room. 
“Everything will be okay, baby. Just wake up.” He held her hand and offered words of encouragement even though he wasn’t sure she heard him. 
“Mr. Morgan?” The doctor entered with a serious look on his face. 
David rose from the chair, his pulse racing. “Yes, doctor. Have there been any changes since I spoke with you in the recovery room? How is she? Is she going to be all right?” 
“Mr. Morgan, as I told you, we don’t know right now. We did all we can. She suffered a lot of trauma. We’ve taken care of the internal bleeding and removed her spleen, so all we can do now is wait and hope.” He glanced at her chart. 
“Money isn’t an issue, doctor. If you think she needs a specialist—” 
“I assure you, Mr. Morgan, the surgical team consisted of the finest doctors. Now, only time will tell.” The doctor patted David’s shoulder, then turned and left the room. 
Tears welled and David blinked them back. He turned to his wife and took her hand. “Taylor, darling, you can make it. I know you can. I’m going to be right here. Do you hear me? Squeeze my hand if you do.” 
Her fingers curled around his hand. The grip was weak, but she responded. 
“Doctor, doctor!” David yelled. “Come quick. I think she’s waking." 
The doctor rushed back into the room.
David gazed at him, heart filled with hope. “She squeezed my hand. Squeeze it again, Taylor.” 
The physician put a stethoscope to her chest. He raised her bandage and lifted her eyelid. “Mrs. Morgan, if you can hear me, blink your eyes.” 
David watched her closely. She blinked, not once, but twice. 
“That’s good, Mrs. Morgan. You’re doing fine, just fine. You’ve been in an accident and were badly hurt, but you’re going to be okay. Your husband is here.”
David stood and leaned in. “Hello, darling. I’ve been so worried about you, but like the doctor says, you’re going to be fine.” 
He brushed a kiss against her cheek. 
* * * * 
You aren’t Frank! Where’s Frank? Why are you kissing me? I don’t know you. Somebody help... Who was this man? Mariah fluttered her eyes and barely lifted her head off the pillow. The mere movement caused her temple to pound. Her gaze darted around the room. Nothing looked familiar. Why did she feel so sore?  Nothing she saw made sense. Strange machines, dials, sounds, and the room—so white, so pristine. She tried to raise herself, but couldn’t. Where was she? 
Glancing down at the strange tube in her arm, she gasped, then raised her hand and touched her head. Bandaged? God help her. Where was her husband? Her mind formed Frank’s name but her lips failed to speak it as darkness shrouded her. 
* * * * A woman in white stood over Mariah. “Oh, Mrs. Morgan, you’re awake. We’ve been so worried about you. Your husband just went down to the cafeteria for something to eat. He’s been here every day for the past two weeks. You gave us quite a scare.” 
The stranger fluffed Mariah’s pillow and checked the tube in her arm. “Wouldn’t you know you’d wake up the minute he left? Poor fellow, he’s barely had time to change his clothes.” Cafeteria? The word meant nothing. Two weeks? She’d been here for two weeks? And where was here?   She tried to ask, but nothing came out. Vaguely recalling something thick and painful in her mouth, she swallowed. Thank goodness whatever had been there was gone. 
“Don’t try to speak, Mrs. Morgan." The stranger patted her arm. "Your throat is probably pretty raw. We just took the breathing tube out yesterday. You’ll be able to talk soon, but now you just need to rest and get well. Let me give you a little more pain medication.” She fiddled with some sort of bagged liquid hanging above the bed. Her fingers followed the tube down and smoothed the tape holding a needle in Mariah’s arm. “There, that should make you feel a little more comfortable.” 
Breathing tube? Mrs. Morgan? What’s happening? Somebody tell me, please. Confused and frightened, Mariah’s teary eyes focused on the man who walked through the door.
“Ah, Mr. Morgan, your wife is finally awake.” The woman in white greeted him. “She seems pretty alert.” 
“Taylor, sweetheart.” He rushed to the bed. “Thank God, you’re awake. I’ve been so worried about you.” 
Mariah turned her head to the side, avoiding the stranger’s kiss. “I’m not Taylor.” Her words were merely a whisper that no one heard. 
“What are you trying to say, darling?” He bent lower.
“I asked her not to try to speak yet.” The white-clad woman rubbed her own throat. “The breathing tube you know.” 
“Of course." He nodded. "The nurse is right. Don’t talk, sweetie. When you’re healed, we’ll have lots of time to chat. Just rest.” 
Confusion shrouded Mariah. Why did they keep calling her Mrs. Morgan, and mentioning Taylor? Why weren’t they using her own name?  A tear slid down her cheek. She’d rest for now, but when she could speak, she’d insist on knowing where she was and why a strange man considered her his wife. 
The man she knew only as Mr. Morgan stretched his hands over his head then massaged the small of his back. “Now that I know you’re on the mend, I’m going home to shower, shave and change clothes. Your parents are waiting for my call to update them on your condition. I’ll be back tomorrow. You get some rest, baby.” He bent and kissed her forehead. 
Yes, go away. I need to think…and answers...I need some answers. Mariah sensed herself drifting off. Something made her very drowsy. 
* * * * 
The nurse’s poking and prodding rudely awakened Mariah. “Good morning, Mrs. Morgan. I need to check your vitals.”  Sunlight barely filtered through whatever covered the window. Mariah’s head felt like it hovered somewhere above her. She blinked, hoping she was in the middle of a bad dream and about to wake up. 
A strange band squeezed her arm, and she grimaced. The nurse placed a round, flat object against Mariah’s skin, and appeared to listen intently. “Good blood pressure, Mrs. Morgan," she finally said. "How are you feeling?” 
How? Terrified! Mariah heard her own heartbeat. “I’m sore,” was all she could croak out. 
“Of course you’re sore. You were in a terrible car accident.” She jotted something on a board of some sort. 
Mariah's thoughts jumbled, and putting them into words proved impossible. What kind of accident was a car? Where was her family? 
The nurse rounded the bed and revealed the shortness of her skirt. Mariah widened her eyes and bit her lip to keep her mouth from gaping. How inappropriate to show so much leg. 
The woman tucked the covers in at the end of the metal frame. “Do you think you could manage a drink this morning? Perhaps some ginger ale? The doctor left orders for you to have liquids. Once we know you can tolerate drinking, perhaps we can get you a food tray.” 
Mariah was hungry. If she’d been here for two weeks, how had she survived without eating? Just the mere thought of being without food for so long made her stomach growl. “Yes… please.” She forced out the words. 
After the nurse placed a filled glass on Mariah’s tray, she pushed a button on the side of the bed. Mariah rose into a sitting position. Her gaze darted from the mechanism to the nurse, and questions burned in her mind. How had she done that? 
Amidst jumbled thoughts, she maneuvered around the tube in her arm and picked up the glass, anxious to ease the soreness of her throat. As she took a sip, he entered the room. 
“Taylor! Look at you. Sitting up! You must be feeling better.”
The man called David Morgan had combed his blond hair and shaved. He didn’t look nearly as haggard as she recalled. Not quite as tall as her Frank, the shirt he wore revealed the same muscular shoulders.  Mariah considered him good-looking, but his clothes, his shoes... everything about him and this place seemed strange. Everyone dressed and spoke differently. If only someone would explain what was happening. 
“It won’t be long before I can take you home, babe.” David Morgan interrupted her thoughts. “I’ll bet you’ll be happy to be back in your own home and bed.” 
Mariah’s hand trembled. She set her glass down, lay back against her pillow and looked away. Why would she go home with him? She didn’t even know the man. 

Using every bit of mustered strength, she turned her glaring gaze back to him. “I’m not Taylor!” she croaked.

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