Peggy Jaeger's Blog, page 26

#tbt #throwbackthursday 6.13.24

From: 8.17.2020

Title : FML

I’m not going to spell out those initials because most people know what they mean. But I will tell you why I’ve titled this piece this way.

Last week I went to give blood. Since it’s the time of Covid and I no longer am employed as a nurse, I’ve wanted to do SOMETHING to help and giving blood is always a good idea, anyway. During this crisis/pandemic, though, it is more needed than ever since so many people are staying home and the ones who aren’t are not donating.

So. I’ve given blood for years and have never had a problem and didn’t anticipate one on this day. Armed with my Kindle, mask, and water bottle, in I went to the donation center at my appointed time.

I’d already filled out the prescreening questions ( 80 of them!) at home via the online link, so I just needed to have my vital signs taken, my blood tested for donate-ability ( not a real word but you know what I mean!) and then I had to be hooked up to the bloodletting apparatus.

Easy peasy.

In preparation for the blood draw, I always overload on green leafy vegetables for a week beforehand – I eat spinach every day as it is, but the week before I double the amount and add in all kinds of goodies like kale ( ugh!) and pomegranate, all high in vitamin K levels, which enrich the blood.

Well, I must have really overloaded myself this time and gotten my blood good and primed. Why, you ask? Let me ‘esplain.

A typical blood draw takes between 15 and 25 minutes. Mine always average about 25.

This one took 5 minutes.

Seriously.

I filled that bag up as fast as I’d ever done before.

If you’re a medico you know what’s coming based just on that fact.

When the tech came to check on me, she said, “Wow. You’re a fast draw-er.” Then she took a look at my face and before you could say “are you okay,” she had me in Trendelenburg position ( head lowered below heart level, feet elevated at least 12 inches above it) and two other techs doused me with ice cold wet rags on my head and around my neck and wrists.

Yup. I was on my way to passing out big time. How did she know? I can only imagine how pale my skin had gone but I do know I was sweating like a puttana in a confessional. My top was saturated, in fact. Those little black dots that signal something is going on were scattered across my vision and this unbelievable wave of nausea engulfed me so badly that I couldn’t speak. If you’ve ever passed out you know that feeling because it’s like no other. Your hearing starts to echo, your vision tunnels in, the tips of your fingers and toes start to tingle and you can hear your heart beating in your head.

After about 15 minutes of hanging upside like a bat, I was righted once again, the bloodletting apparatus was removed and the tech did everything she had to do to make sure the draw was complete before removing the needle and bandaging me up with the instructions to take it easy for the rest of the afternoon.

Wise words.

The moral of this little confession, kids? Even though I had a not so great experience, donating blood is one thing you can do to make the world a better place. During the horrible time we find ourselves in right now, we all need to feel like we are doing something useful. Donating blood truly does save a life, and if you can save someone’s life, well, I don’t know about you, but that just makes my day.

I can donate blood again in 8 weeks and plan on doing so.

Maybe next time I won’t eat so much kale, though.

Please consider giving the gift of life. to find out more about blood donation, click here: American Red Cross

Until next time, peeps ~ Peg

#wednesdaywisdom 6.12.24

#tuesdaytease 6.11.24

Okay, this one is going way out of my comfort zone because I haven’t even gotten past chapter 3 yet, but since everyone liked RETRIBUTION, I’m doing another 2 FBI books. One isn’t a Tucker/Kella/et al book and one is. The teaser today is from the one that isn’t and it’s (tentatively titled) Children of the Prophet. It’s about a cult, 25 years after a catastrophic event occurs – this Branch Davidians.

Here’s the (tentative) cover:

I’m still structuring the book, but here’s a little of the opening. Premis – mom comes home from work and finds nanny and daughter missing…

“Hey, I’m home and I’ve got chow. Where are you, two?”

There were two glasses on the kitchen counter, small chunks of not-yet-melted ice in the bottoms. The rest of the kitchen was spotless, a testament to MaryElena’s mild cleaning OCD.

Blythe moved from the kitchen to the hallway.

“Joy? MaryElena?”

Her voice echoed through the house.

The afternoon sun was low now, the living room still lit well from the sun filtering through the glass patio doors. They were closed and a quick peek through the glass into the fenced-in backyard showed it empty, the swing set still, the patio furniture in place and unused.

“Where the heck are you two?”

Mild irritation laced her voice.

Methodically, Blythe moved about the house. First, to her nanny’s tiny bedroom off the kitchen, which smelled faintly of roses from the air freshener sitting on top of the small dresser. The bed was made, as always, the hospital corners crisp and tight, the room neat, without a speck of dust.  

Then, on to the den.

Empty. The television was cold when Blythe touched it.

Up the stairs to the second floor. Joy’s bedroom to the right of the staircase was its usual chaos of strewn outfits she’d tried on for the day flung across her bed, her required summer reading books on the floor next to it, and a few dresser drawers partly opened. Her daughter’s habit of pulling clothing items from her closet and drawers and never putting anything back in place was a growing concern to a mother who liked everything Marie Kondo tidy.

The bathrooms next, then to her own bedroom, and the small home office she’d fashioned for herself. All appeared as she’d left them that morning.

“This is ridiculous,” she murmured to the empty rooms. Annoyance pushed the mild irritation to the sidelines. “You could have at least left me a note.”

She tugged her phone from her pocket and pressed her Nanny’s speed dial number again.

Somewhere in the house, the ringtone MaryElena had assigned to her employer pinged, soft and faint.

“What the—”

Blythe followed the sound. Down the stairs to the first level. Through the hallway.

It was louder in the kitchen, but still muffled.

It’s coming from the basement.

A growing sense of unease pushed the previous pique away.

Blythe slowly pulled open the basement door only to have the noise stop abruptly. With a shaky finger, she pressed the speed dial again. Within seconds, the tone started, the sound jingling up the stairs. Blythe reached out a hand and flicked the light switch on the wall to illuminate the darkened room below her.

Cautiously, she took each step down the wooden staircase, gripping the handrail with fingers now visibly trembling. The basement was the one area in the house she’d yet to refinish, promising herself at least twice a year she’d call a contractor and a painter to make the area which ran the length of the house a space where Joy could bring her friends to play and hang out. A finished basement always added to the resale value of a house, too, something Blythe kept in the back of her mind.

Step by step, she slowly descended the wooden stairs, one hand clinging to her phone, the other, the rail. The stairs were as old as the house and needed to be redone along with the basement. They creaked and groaned with each move Blythe took from one to the next. There was no way she could be silent as she descended. At the bottom rung, the ring one cut out again, but not before Blythe ascertained it was coming from the laundry room off to the left of the staircase.

“MaryElena? Joy? You guys down here?”

Silence surrounded her.

“If this is some kind of prank, I’m not amused.”

Willing her feet to move, Blythe cautiously crept towards the laundry room, holding her cell phone out in front of her as if it were a weapon.

“I swear, Joy Charity Engersol, I will ground you until you’re fifty if something jumps out at me.”

Placing one hand on the doorjamb separating the laundry area from the basement proper, Blythe angled her body behind the wall and peeked into the tiny room. Nothing, as she’d feared, flew out at her.

But an odor she was intimately familiar with, did. The metallic, copper-filled stench of fresh blood hit her hard and hot. A swell of nausea pushed at her throat.  At the same time she understood what it was, she saw the cause.

“Oh, sweet Jesus.”

Blythe bent to the fallen form of her nanny. The young girl was on her back, her arms flung out at her sides, her right leg bent at a critical angle. Her neck was sliced from ear to ear, blood from the wound a crimson-colored wave. That told the doctor in Blythe whatever had attacked her had done so very recently. Vacant, brown eyes, the irises beginning to glaze over, stared up at Blythe. MaryEllena’s cell phone was gripped between her fingers.

Even instinctively knowing the girl was dead, Blythe’s training forced her to check for a heartbeat. She pushed two fingers to the girl’s outstretched wrist, waited, and felt nothing.

Blythe bolted upright. Her gaze darted around the small space searching for her daughter.

“Joy?” This time she allowed her voice to scream the name, over and over as she ran around the width of the basement, throwing open the doors to storage closets nestled into two of the faux walls. When they proved empty, she catapulted back up the stairs at a breakneck speed.

“Joy?” The power behind her shriek made the chandelier in the dining room tremble.

Heart banging against her chest Blythe punched in the emergency code on her phone as she continued to move through the rooms, searching, silently praying to find her daughter.

Back in the kitchen, the county dispatcher answered. Blythe dragged in a deep breath and willed herself to calm down.

“Courtney, it’s Blythe Engersol.”

“Hey, Doc. You got an emergency?”

“I need…help. I just got home.” Her fingers started tingling and the fringes of her vision began to blur.

Breathe. In…out.

“My…my Nanny’s been killed. And my daughter’s missing. I can’t find her. Courtney, I can’t find Joy. Please. Please send help. Please.”

The rest of her vision turned hazy, the tingling in her hands shooting up her arms, her grip of the phone beginning to grow slack. It took every ounce of strength she had to hold on to it. With her free hand, she reached out and bolstered herself against the marble countertop.

“Stay with me, Doc. I’m calling the Chief and the deputies now. Are you in the house?”

“Ye…yes. I’m here.”

“Are you alone?”

“I think … I’m not…sure.”

“Listen, Doc. Leave. Go outside and wait for the Chief. Sit on the curb or something, but don’t stay in the house. I’m gonna stay on the line with you, okay? Go. Now. Right now. Go outside and wait.”

“Leave? I…can’t. Joy…Joy’s not… she needs me. She—”

Her vision tunneled, and all she could see was the countertop in front of her.

Oh, please don’t let me faint.

 “I’m…”

“Doc? Doc?”

The light winked out as if she’d extinguished a candle. The last thought Blythe had as she slid to the tiled kitchen floor, the phone bouncing from her hand across the hard surface, was that she needed to find her daughter.

And so it begins….

#mondaymusings 6.10.24

I go when they are published. And if I forget anything by the time the second book is published, I reread a bit fo the book to refresh my memory. Since I read over 100+ books a year, I need to do this for my sanity!!! Lol

#tbT #tbThursday 6.6.24

From 9.13.2027

Title: FACEBOOK…turns out, it’s a good thing.

Yesterday I extolled some of the wisdom Jane Friedman imparted last weekend at Fiction Fest 2017 in her master class. One of the biggest takeaways from the workshop, for me, was how powerful Facebook can be for an author.

When I first began my journey as a published author in 2015 I had the typical Facebook page where I trolled the news feed for posted info on family and friends. It was my then-editor who suggested I make myself a professional FB page for my author career. The thought of now having to manage and keep track of 2 things on FB, not to mention Twitter, Pinterest, my website, my Amazon page,  yada yada yada was a little daunting and a whole lot of nauseating.

But I heeded her advice and did it. The one thing I was adamant about though, was that the professional author page was  going to be for anybody who wanted to follow me as an author. I was going to keep my personal page just that – private. The reason was an easy one for me because I have small children in my family and friends circle and their parents post pictures of them frequently. I didn’t want some wackjob creepy person to see those pictures. There are a lot of undesirables on the Internet, hunting for innocent prey. And I know that sounds dramatic, but have you read the news lately??? Not dramatic at all.. simply proactive.

So. Two pages. Two separate entities. Double the work. More to keep track of. But you know what? it was a good thing. I have waaaaaaay more “friends” on my professional page than my personal one. I don’t post anything on the professional page I wouldn’t want everyone in the cyber world to see, but I’m able to keep private what needs to be kept private on the personal page. One of the good things about Facebook is that you can set up protection and privacy settings on posts.

Jane is a big proponent of reader and follower engagement on her FB page. She uses her page as a tool to interact with readers, answer questions, make announcements, show her blog postings. She feels authors should use the Professional page as their number one tool for marketing and acquiring new followers who then become readers. I always felt that Twitter gave me my biggest bang for engagement, and in reality, I have more twitter followers than I do FB followers (not many more, but a few). One of the drawbacks, Jane says about Twitter, is that it is very much a right here- right now thing. In other words, once you post something you have about 17 minutes or so for people to see it. After that, it gets lost in the quagmire of a hundred billion other tweets and the scroll shoves you waaaaaaay down low. Makes sense. On Facebook, your postings get added to the newsfeed, your followers get notified you’ve posted something, and if you come back to the post a few hours later and simply “like” it, it brings it back up in the current scroll. That’s genius in my mind. Plus, everytime someone likes or comments on your post you get a notification and respond in kind.

Facebook parties are a fabulous marketing tool for new readers and engagement as well. Facebook ads can be a tool to drive people to your page, but be careful. Don’t go crazy and spend more than you think you really need on an ad.

So. Facebook. I will now be using it a great deal more than Twitter. Still love to tweet though!

When I’m not Facebook-ing or Tweeting, you can find me here:Tweet Me//Read Me// Visit Me//Picture Me//Pin Me//Friend Me//Google+Me// Triberr

#Wednesdaywisdom 6.5.24

You all know this is true, don’t you?

#Tuesdaytease 6.4.2024

So, I am currently working on my 2024 addition to the DICKEN HOLIDAY ROMANCE SERIES. My book this year is called A CHEF’S KISS CHRISTMAS. I haven’t done a blurb yet, but the story involves a chef-on-the-run-from-life and a literary agent.

Of course it takes place mostly in Dorrit’s Diner, and the story is sprinkled with many glimpses of Amy and her family. This will be my last Dickens book (don’t cry!) and I wanted to make it a goodie. I like what I’ve got so far, so here’s a little glimpse into the first chapter. The cover reveal is coming in July so stick around by following me if you don’t.

Here ya go… the setup = Amy’s cook Winston has had an accident and can’t work. Amy is in dire straights looking for a chef. Enter…our hero.

“Crap on cracker.” Amy slammed her fists on her almost non-existent hips. “He was my one hope to take over for Winnie. I need a cook, asap. I can’t feed all these people,” she swept her hand across the room, “manage this place and serve at the same time.”

Something in her tone hit Tony deep in his chest. Part exasperated, part worried, and with a little fear thrown in, she sounded much like his Aunt Connie had when his uncle had his first heart attack and was unable to run their business. Tony had stepped up and never once regretted his decision. His aunt had been eternally grateful, and Tony learned a valuable lesson: helping people is its own reward.

That had to be the reason he did what he did next because he hadn’t felt like helping anyone in a long, long time.

Two years, three months, and eight days to be precise.

“Need help?” he asked Amy.

She narrowed her gaze toward him. “What I need is someone who can cook and run my kitchen, so my customers don’t revolt. Can you do that?”

“As a matter of fact, I can.”

Those narrowed eyes now widened.

“I grew up in a diner. Managed it for years.” He wiped his mouth with a napkin, then rose. “I can give you a hand this morning until things settle down if you’d like.”

Amy’s discerning eye raked across his face, probing, measuring.

He knew what she saw: a forty-something guy with hair in need of at least two inches chopped off, six days of lazy stubble on his cheeks and jaw and a body that could use a minimum of ten pounds back of the thirty it’d lost in the past two years. A smile hadn’t met his lips in quite a while and he rarely – if ever- struck up a conversation with anyone.

None of those traits exuded trustworthiness and he figured Amy was wary of him because of it.

“Come with me,” she said after a moment’s reflection.

He chugged the remainder of his coffee and followed her through the dining room.

Just beyond the swing doors, chaos ruled.

The two paramedics who’d responded to the 9-1-1 call were trying to load a screaming gent onto the gurney. The cook may be tiny but he more than made up for the lack of height with the volume of his wails.

To him, Amy said, “Wait here a minute.”

She made her way to the gurney, grasped her cook’s hand, leaned down close and said something that quieted him. Then she placed a kiss on his forehead and told the paramedics to break some speed limits getting to the hospital.

Two of the older waitresses surrounded Amy, speaking at once, and questioning how they were going to continue serving if they didn’t have a cook. Amy shooed them away telling them she was taking care of it.

They didn’t look all that convinced, but nonetheless went back out to the dining room with the instructions she’d given them to tell the customers their orders were going to be a few minutes more.

Then she lit on him.

For some crazy reason, he threw his shoulders back and stood straighter.

“Know your way around a kitchen, do ya?”

“Blindfolded,” he replied, surprising himself with his candor.

That piercing glare shot his way again. She reached into a tabletop drawer and pulled out a hair elastic.

“Board’a health rules.” She handed it to him and he pulled his hair up into a man bun.

“I’m gonna get a few of these orders ready,” she said, washing her hands at the sink. “While I do, make me an omelet.”

Like he knew his way around a kitchen blindfolded, he could make a simple omelet in his sleep.

“Any particular kind?” he asked as he moved to the sink, doffed his jacket, then mimicked her handwashing motions.

Amy popped six pieces of bread into the industrial toaster with one hand while the other poured pancake batter onto the griddle in six perfect little rounds. “Surprise me,” she said over her shoulder.

He nodded, then, spotting an apron on a peg by the office door, donned it, scoping the layout of the griddle and its surroundings as he did.

A sense of anticipation pushed him to pull three eggs from the industrial refrigerator along with a container of shredded cheese. Opening it, he recognized the woodsy aroma of Swiss. Onehanded, he cracked the eggs, whisked them, then tossed them onto the griddle while he poured a handful of the grated cheese on top. While that settled, he pulled bacon from the warmer and crushed two pieces between a pair of paper towels then tossed the crumbles on top of the setting eggs. From the spice rack he pulled nutmeg and salt, added them then topped it all off with a pinch of pepper.

When the eggs set to the point they were no longer runny, muscle memory pushed him to take a spatula and fold one third toward the center, then the opposite side until the omelet was folded to perfection. Sliding the spatula underneath it, he flipped it over. Instinct told him the exact moment to remove it, which he did, placing it on a clean plate.

While he did, Amy had been a study in motion, never once stopping while she cooked then plated orders. The waitresses all lined back into the kitchen when Amy dinged the ready bell, took their orders while tossing him a quizzical eye.

Once they were alone again, Amy turned, dragged in a huge breath, and said, “Show me what ya got.”

He handed her the plated omelet and a fork.

Amy inspected it as if she were a general inspecting her standing-at-attention troops. First, her gaze raked over the perfectly pale yellow mixture. Then she raised the plate to her face, took a whiff, one eyebrow lifting.

Zeroing in on him she said, “Bacon?”

“I didn’t have enough time to slice that ham I saw in the fridge. The bacon’s maple flavored.”

She nodded. “Only kind I use. Something else in here. Something…earthy.”

“A dash of nutmeg.”

Now her brows lifted to her hairline. Without a word, she forked a section and said as she lifted it to her mouth, “Color’s perfect.”

Since he knew it was, he kept silent. The very first thing he’d ever learned to cook had been an omelet. It had taken him almost of month of daily practice to know the precise second to remove it from the heat, when it was the best moment to fold it, how the only number of eggs to use would always be three.

He watched her face and identified exactly when the nutmeg and bacon hit her tastebuds. Her eyes went wide, then to half-closed as the combined spice and pork bits sent a savory river of deliciousness across them.

Amy swallowed then shook her head. “You know how to cook anything else aside from this?”

“Name a dish.”

“How are you with pancakes? Sausages? French toast?”

“Just as good as that.” He ticked his chin toward the plate she held. And since he knew his own worth, added, “Maybe better.”

“You know how to do a breakfast run? It’s not easy. In fact, it’s damn stressful.”

He nodded. “I do.”

“I think I’m gonna give you a chance to prove that.” She put the plate down. “If you’re serious about helping out, that is. For today – now – at least. Just to get me through to lunch.”

He had nowhere to be, nothing pressing him for his time.

And, most surprising of all, he realized he wanted to help.

He nodded. “I can do that.”

Julia pushed through the swing doors and waddled to a stop. “Dining room’s getting loud, Ames. How we doing with orders? Should I put up the closed sign?”

The diner owner looked from her daughter-in-law, then back to him, a corner of her lip tucked between her teeth. Then, “No need. We’re gonna be fine.” She stretched out a hand for the orders in Julia’s hand.

The younger woman didn’t look all that convinced, but handed them over then grabbed a clean coffee carafe from the dishwasher.

After reading through the orders, Amy divided them in half.  Handing them to him she said, “Okay, son. Appreciate the help.”

Without even glancing down at them he nodded.

“My name’s Tony, by the way,” he said.

“I know.” She smiled for the first time since he’d come into the kitchen with her. “This is Dickens, son. There’s not much that goes on or happens that gets passed me, including newcomers, even when they’re close-mouthed. Once we get through breakfast we can have a little chat. For now, Tony-by-the-way, I got customers to feed.”

Small towns, he thought, shaking his head.

He didn’t give it another thought as he started the first order in his hand.

And that’s just the beginning. Thoughts, kids?

#mondaymusing 6.3.24

No-brainer answer for me: I’m living my dream. Full time writer. What about you? I’d be interested in knowing because…I’m nosey like that, lol!

Gearing up for the Summer Sales and Book Events

I wanted to jump on today because Romanticon will be coming up soon and I wanted to remind everyone that I have a BOOK ORDER form for preorders for all my events. I’ll be 4 places in the summer, all listed below.

Now, I can’t bring hundreds of every book I’ve written with me, so it’s waaaaay easier for all of us * you and me!* if you preorder the book you want to get at the events.

Here’s the general link to the order form with all the instructions and books I’ll have available for purchase at the signings.

ORDER FORM

Remember, preordering ensures you get the book you want!!! Be well kids, and I can’t wait to see you at an event! ~ Peg

#throwbackthursday 5.30.24

from 2019…

THE WORK NEVER ENDS…AND I’M HAPPY IT DOESN’T

I am currently editing the final galley copy of the above book for Wild Rose Press. It’s the first in a three book series called A PRIDE OF BROTHERS. For those of you who read my WILL COOK FOR LOVE SERIES, this is the story of Abigail Laine and Rick Bannerman. These two are both alphas and boy do they annoy each other. And by annoy I mean – YOWZA!

As soon as I have a release date and a cover, you’ll see it. Promise!

Until then, only 6 more sleeps until IT’S A TRUST THING releases exclusively in Kindle and KU. Have you reordered your copy yet???

Nell Newbery has trust issues. It’s hard to trust when you’re the daughter of a fallen financial scion who bilked people out of billions. Nell’s done everything in her power to keep away from men who see her as their ticket to fortune and fame. All she wants to do is run her ultra-successful business, HELPFUL HUNKS, in peace.
But it wouldn’t hurt to find a guy who doesn’t know a thing about her father’s felonious past; one she can give her heart to and trust it won’t come back to her battered, bruised, and broken.
Is Charlie Churchill that guy? On the surface he seems perfect, all polished manners and quiet mirth. Nell’s convinced he knows nothing about her, other than she likes superhero movies and views junk food as a food group.
Can she trust him to be what he appears to be? Or is he just pretending?
For Nell, trust is everything in life…and in love.