Sherry Lewis's Blog, page 16
October 12, 2015
Book of the Week - 10/12/2015
Recently, I discovered that several books from my back list (books I thought long out of print and unavailable) are actually still available in digital format. I couldn't be more excited since some of these books are very dear to my heart.
To celebrate, I'm featuring a "new" book from my back list every week by posting an excerpt from the book and providing links for all the places I've discovered you can find the book.
In case you missed it, last week's featured book was High Mountain Home .
This week I'm celebrating That Woman in Wyoming , published by Harlequin Superromance in 2001 and made available in digital format last year. Click on the book or the title above to read an excerpt.
I loved writing this book and getting to know Max and Reagan. I loved creating the town of Serenity, Wyoming, which appears again in The Christmas Wife.
To celebrate, I'm featuring a "new" book from my back list every week by posting an excerpt from the book and providing links for all the places I've discovered you can find the book.
In case you missed it, last week's featured book was High Mountain Home .
This week I'm celebrating That Woman in Wyoming , published by Harlequin Superromance in 2001 and made available in digital format last year. Click on the book or the title above to read an excerpt.
I loved writing this book and getting to know Max and Reagan. I loved creating the town of Serenity, Wyoming, which appears again in The Christmas Wife.
October 6, 2015
An Excerpt from NO PLACE FOR DEATH
Fred Vickery's fourth foray into the world of murder and mayhem, No Place for Tears, is set for re-release on November 17. I thought I'd celebrate that by offering an excerpt from the third book in the series today.
If you haven't yet met Fred, he's 70-something, a widower, and retired from his job as Buildings and Grounds Supervisor for the school district in his rural Colorado county. Fred has four adult children whom he loves, even if they do make him crazy at times. Fred's a family man through and through, and that's what readers seem to love about him.
So, for your reading enjoyment, Chapter One:
________________________________________
(copyrighted material)
ONE
Pleasantly full
after a great meal, Fred Vickery followed his brother-in-law, Porter Jorgensen,
from the Jorgensens’ kitchen into the living room. In the nearly fifty years
since they’d each married out of T.S. Cooper’ daughters, they’d done this
hundreds of times—a big meal in the kitchen, after which the men were shooed
into the living room where he and Porter saved the world (in theory) while
Phoebe and Harriet chatted and cleared the table.
In the early
years, Fred had often tried to help but Phoebe had always sent him away. He’d
finally given up after she explained it was her only chance to spend time alone
with her sister and that the dishes provided a convenient excuse.
An air conditioner
unit in one window churned out cold air and a fan whirred softly on the other
side of the room, trying to take the edge off the hot August evening. Fred
settled into an easy chair and listened to the clatter of silverware, the rush
of water, and the low murmur of conversation in the kitchen. If he closed his
eyes, he could almost believe nothing had changed. But the kids were all grown
and out on their own now—except Douglas, who’d moved back home in the
spring—and Phoebe was gone. Had been for nearly three years now. Fred had grown
used to living without her—almost. But times like this brought the pain back so
sharply, Fred wondered if he’d ever truly adjust.
The past three
years he’d avoided Phoebe’s family almost entirely—four sisters, all too much
like Phoebe in one way or another, one brother, and too many children among
them all to keep an accurate count. Porter and Harriet lived closest to Fred,
and he’d missed the times they used to spend together. So when Harriet called
last Sunday with this invitation to dinner, he’d convinced himself he’d healed
enough to make it through the evening without trouble.
He’d been wrong.
Stifling a groan,
he patted his stomach and forced a smile. “Harriet sure hasn’t lose her touch
with a meal.”
Porter grinned and
dropped heavily into his easy chair. “Nope, I’ll say that for her. She’s still
one of the best cooks in the county.” His ample frame provided silent proof of
his words. His snow-white hair, once nearly jet-black, testified to how many
years he’d been enjoying Harriet’s efforts in the kitchen.
He picked up the
remote control from the TV tray beside him and almost instantly a picture
popped onto the screen. With a satisfied grunt, he settled back in his chair as
if he’d been watching the blasted thing all evening.
From the kitchen,
a burst of laughter erupted and Fred’s heart twisted. But it wasn’t Phoebe’s
laugh. Tonight, Harriet and Nancy Bigelow, the Jorgensens’ youngest child, had
joined forces and kicked the men out of the kitchen. The laughter drifted away,
then erupted again before facing into muted conversation. Nancy’s voice blended
with Harriet’s like Phoebe’s had. Both voices were soft and melodious. Both a
little husky. Both pleasant and soothing.
Fred leaned his
head against the chair and tried to push away the longing for the life he’d
never get back. He’d had forty-seven years with Phoebe. Many people didn’t get
that much time together. This year they’d have celebrated their golden
anniversary, but no matter how much he longed for the past, he couldn’t bring
Phoebe back. All he had was the here and now. He wanted to make the best of it.
Tonight he’d
shared some pleasant company and had eaten a good meal for the first time in
years. Obviously, Harriet and Phoebe had learned to cook from the same teacher.
His daughter Margaret had cooked that well once, but lately she’d let her fear
of fat grams and cholesterol chase all the taste from her food. The only flavor
he got these days was what he snuck into his own recipes.
Cutting a glance
toward the kitchen he said, “It’s good to see Nancy again. I didn’t expect her
to be here.”
Porter grunted again
and wiped a trickle of sweat from his temple. “We all thought Douglas would
come with you, and she was looking forward to seeing him again.”
“I passed along
the invitation,” Fred said, “but I can’t predict what Douglas will do now any
better than I could when he was a boy.”
Porter nodded, no
doubt remembering the younger Douglas and his tendency to leap from one
interest to another without warning. “Did you say he’s working now?”
Fred’s mouth
tightened into a frown. “He’s still looking.”
With an expression
full of understanding, Porter leaned back in his chair. “If it’s not one thing
it’s another, isn’t it?” He shot a quick glance at the kitchen door. “Nancy’s
been on my mind a lot lately. She comes by more than she ought to, but that
husband if hers spends all his time working, so she’d be alone if she didn’t
spent time with us.”
Fred heard the disapproval
in Porter’s voice and saw it on his face. Fred empathized with his
brother-in-law. He knew how it felt to disapprove of a son-in-law, but Phoebe
hadn’t liked him to voice his opinion of Webb in front of Margaret, and he
figured Harriet would feel the same way about Nancy’s marriage. Besides, Fred
had known Adam Bigelow since childhood. He’d watched the boy grow up as he went
through school, and he’d always kind of liked the kid. For all those reasons,
he tried to keep his voice neutral. “What’s Adam doing now? Does he still have
that government job?”
“He’s a
subcontractor,” Porter said. “Soil and water testing, that sort of thing. What
it amounts to is he plays in the dirt and mud all day.” Porter made a noise at
something on the television and leaned forward slightly. “For hell’s sake—” he
muttered, then dropped back again and shook his head. “So are you and Douglas
coming to the picnic on Labor Day?”
“I don’t know,”
Fred admitted. “Douglas could have found a job and left town by then.”
“The real question
is, what about you?” Porter asked. “We’ve missed having you around.”
Fred appreciated that,
but he didn’t want to make a promise he might not keep. “I don’t know,” he said
again. “There are lots of memories in this house. More than I expected.”
Porter’s chins
waggled as he studied the living room. Maybe he thought he could see the
memories if he looked hard enough. “Well, I suppose there are reminders here,
and I’m sure it’s tough. But you can’t make yourself a hermit forever. Phoebe’s
gone, sure, but that doesn’t mean you’re not part of the family anymore.”
“I know that.”
“You should have
been at Bev’s for the Fourth of July,” Porter went on. “We had quite a party,
and everybody asked about you.”
Phoebe’s eldest
sister, Beverly, had long ago claimed the Fourth of July as her exclusive
bailiwick, but Fred hadn’t joined them at once of her parties since Phoebe
passed on. It just wouldn’t be the same. But he knew the others wouldn’t
understand so he just nodded slowly and said, “Margaret told me.”
Porter chuckled at
some picnic memory and adjusted his shirtfront over his ample stomach. “Viv
brought a date—did Margaret tell you that?”
Vivian, the sister
between Phoebe and Harriet, had divorced her husband more than twenty years
earlier. Every year or so she’d date someone new. Nothing serious had ever
developed with any of her callers, but her descriptions of the dates kept the
family in stitches.
Fred smiled,
realizing that he’d missed hearing Vivien’s stories. “Do I need to run out and
buy a wedding gift?”
Porter snorted in
reply. “No, not yet. She called the next week and said the guy turned out to be
the Date from Hell.” He changed the channel on the television and went back to
ignoring the program. “So what about Labor Day? I’ve got to warn you, Bev said
that if you didn’t show up this year she’d drive down and drag you up here by
the seat of your pants.”
Fred grinned at
the image. Beverly had been a year ahead of Fred in school, so he knew she had
to be at least seventy-four, but he had no trouble picturing her carrying out
her threat. “Labor Day’s still over two weeks away, “Fred said. “I’ll think
about it and let you know.”
In the other room,
water shut off and chairs scraped against the floor. Porter jerked his head in
the direction of the kitchen. “Sounds like they’re coming. You know Harriet’s
not going to let you rest until you give her the answer she wants.”
Before Fred could
respond, footsteps clattered on the hardwood floor and a moment later Harriet
and Nancy burst into the room. Harriet still wore her apron, and she’d left a
kitchen towel draped over one shoulder. She had lighter hair than any of her
sisters, but there was no mistaking which family she came from.
Nancy followed her
mother, carrying a tray loaded with steaming mugs of coffee. She must have been
about thirty, Fred calculated—give or take a year or two. The only girl out of
the Jorgensens’ five children, she had her mother’s light hair, but her eyes
were honey brown, just like Phoebe’s had been. Those eyes, inherited from a
maternal grandmother, had marked the family connection through several
generations.
Harriet beamed at
them and waved Nancy toward the coffee table. “Well, here we are. Anybody want
coffee?”
“It’s not decaf is
it?” Fred asked.
She handed him a
mug and jerked her head toward her husband. “Are you kidding? Porter would
divorce me if I tried to give him decaf.” She perched on the edge of the couch
and let her gaze linger on Fred as he sipped cautiously. “So, did he talk you
into coming for Labor Day?”
Fred smiled and
shook his head. “He asked, but I don’t know—”
Harriet put a hand
on his knee. “Please, Fred? We’ve missed you. Holidays aren’t the same without
you.”
“They’re not the
same without Phoebe,” he said.
He half expected Harriet’s
eyes to grow misty, but in her typical bullheaded way she refused to let the
emotion take hold. “No, they’re not. But we can’t change that, can we? This is
ridiculous, Fred. We live less than thirty miles apart, but we’ve hardly seen
you in the past three years.”
“I’m here
tonight,” he pointed out.
“Yes you are,”
Harriet admitted. “And it’s a good thing, too. I’ve just about reached the end
of my patience with you.”
Nancy grabbed a
mug and wedged herself into a corner of the couch. “Come on, Uncle Fred. Admit it. You’ve missed
us too.”
He had. No denying
it.
As if sensing his
hesitation, Harriet touched his knee again. “Dorothy’s bringing that casserole
you like so much—”
Against his will,
a laugh escaped. “Now you’re fighting dirty.”
Harriet pushed at
his knee and chuckled. “The best way to win you over has always been with food.
Why do you think Phoebe spent one whole summer learning how to bake? We all
thought we’d die in that hot old house before you got around to proposing.”
Porter flicked through
another couple of channels. “You might as well give up, Fred. You don’t stand a
chance. They’ve been plotting against you all summer, planning a menu with all
your favorite dishes and who knows what else.”
Fred laughed, but
before he could reply the front door slammed open and cut off what he’d been
about to say. Nancy’s husband, Adam Bigelow, stood in the doorway, his chest
heaving from exertion or emotion, Fred couldn’t tell which, and a stream of hot
summer air swept into the room with him.
As just about six
feet tall, Adam wasn’t a small man. He had the broad-shouldered build and
weathered complexion of a man who worked outdoors, and now that he’d reached
his early thirties, he had a fine sprinkling of fray in his dark hair and
beard.
Pausing only a
second to get his bearings, Adam stormed into the living room toward Nancy. His
dark eyes glinted and his breathing was ragged.
Nancy’s smile
faded. “Adam? What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”
He jerked his head
toward the door. “I want to talk to you right now. Outside.”
A flicker of
uncertainty crossed Nancy’s face, but she put down the mug she was holding and
stood to face him. “Now? Adam—”
“Right now!” The
angry look he gave her made Fred uneasy.
“For Pete’s sake,
boy—” Porter snarled.
“Don’t get
involved, Porter,” Harriet interrupted. “Let the kids work out whatever it is.”
Nancy looked at
each of her parents and managed a weak smile in Fred direction. “I’m sorry—”
“I said now.” Adam grabbed her arm roughly and
tried to pull her toward the door.
Nancy jerked away
from him. “Let go of me.”
Porter struggled
to his feet and tried to step between them. “Whatever you’re upset about,
there’s no need to get pushy.”
Adam ignored his
father-in-law and grabbed for Nancy again. This time she managed to sidestep
him.
Harriet scrambled
for Porter’s remote and aimed it at the television. But when she turned up the
volume on the first try and changed the channel on her second, she tossed it
aside with a cry of irritation.
“Are you coming
with me?” Adam demanded.
“Not while you’re
acting like this,” Nancy said with a toss of her head. She was trying to look
brave, but Fred could see anxiety in her eyes.
He wondered if he
should leave. He’d recently seen Douglas through a divorce and he didn’t have
the stomach to hear more angry accusations and bitter recriminations. But a
quick glance around the room told him that it wouldn’t be easy to slip out. Harriet
was blocking the door to the kitchen and Adam was standing between him and the
front door. Leaving right now would call more attention to himself than he
wanted so he sat back in his chair and tried to make himself invisible.
When the
television show gave way to a commercial, the volume jumped again. Growling in
frustration, Porter marched toward the set and turned it off manually. “You’re not going anywhere with him, Nancy.
Not until he calms down.” He turned on Adam with an angry scowl. “You have some
nerve barging in to my house like this.”
Fury contorted Adam’s
face. “This isn’t your concern, Porter.”
Harriet fluttered
her hands toward the couch. “Why don’t you sit down, Adam? I’m sure you two can
work out whatever’s wrong.”
Adam laughed
bitterly. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. There’s nothing to work out. I’m talking to an attorney first thing tomorrow.”
It had gone this
far, then. Fred sure hated to see it. He knew how deep the wounds of divorce
could cut.
Harriet cried out
as if Adam had struck her. “What? Oh, Adam, you don’t mean that.” She turned to
Nancy and grabbed her arms. “He didn’t mean it, sweetie.”
Nancy’s eyes
filled with tears and her face crumpled in pain. “Yes he does, Mom.”
“No,” Harriet
insisted. “You’ll see.” She reached a pleading hand toward her son-in-law.
“Maybe you and I should talk about it, Adam.”
Nancy tugged her
backward. “No, Mom. Adam’s right. This is between him and me—”
Adam barked
another angry laugh. “If that were true, we might have a chance. But it’s been
a long time since things were between the two of us, hasn’t it?”
Harriet let go of
Nancy and began to wring her hands. Adam took advantage of that to grab Nancy’s
arm and jerk her toward the door. He must have gripped her too tightly or
pulled too roughly because she cried out in pain.
That’s all it took
for Porter to lose his temper. Red-faced and breathing hard, he lunged toward
Adam. “You hurt her again and I’ll take you apart.”
“Please don’t,
Dad,” Nancy begged, trying in vain to pull away from Adam.
Adam refused to
let go and jerked her toward the door again. “Now, Nancy. I’m not waiting all
night while you milk your parents for sympathy.”
Embarrassed to
witness the argument and concerned for everyone involved, Fred wished they
would stop. That they’d go their separate ways tonight and discuss it later,
when their emotions had cooled. If they let this go on too long, it would be
hard to repair the damage later.
Nancy bit her lip
as if Adam had hurt her again, and Porter’s round face turned even redder. “Let
go of her, you little son of a bitch—”
Adam finally let
go of Nancy, but only so he could get in Porter’s face. “Stay out of this,
Porter, unless you want to hear things you’d rather not know about. Nancy can
tell the whole damned lot of you about it later. . .” His mouth twisted into an
ugly smile. “. . .if she wants to.”
As if she’d
suddenly regained control, Nancy snarled at her husband. “Stop it, Adam. You
want to talk? Fine. We’ll talk. But leave my parents out of this.”
At least she was
willing to talk, Fred thought. Maybe they’d discuss it rationally—whatever it
was—when they were alone.
And they might
have if Porter hadn’t rushed after Nancy shouting, “You’re not going anywhere
with him. Not unless he calms down.”
Adam’s face turned
to stone. He leaned too close to Porter and when he spoke his voice came out
low and frighteningly controlled. “If you had any idea. . .”
“All right, you
want a divorce?” Nancy shouted. “You’ve got it. Just get out of here before you
do any more damage.”
Harriet looked at
Fred as if she thought he should do something, but he stayed put. Much as he
hated watching this scene play out, he had no intention of getting involved.
He’d learned his lesson with his own children. He worked hard not to interfere
in their lives, and he wasn’t about to walk into the middle of his niece’s
troubles. Besides, he was no match for Adam physically and he doubted Adam
would listen if Fred tried to calm him down.
“Before I do more damage?” Adam demanded. He
laughed bitterly. “You’re something else, you know that?”
Nancy turned away
from him and Harriet started to say something, but Porter put one arm around
Harriet’s shoulders and spoke before she could. “You heard her. Get the hell
out.”
Adam’s lip curled.
“That’s the way you handle everything, isn’t it? Can’t even think about telling you the truth about
any of your precious children because you wouldn’t believe the truth if it hit
you in the face. Well they’re not the angels you think they are, Porter.”
As if Adam had
given him an idea, Porter shot out his fist and connected with Adam’s face. Blood
spurted from the boy’s nose and all hell broke loose. Nancy cried out in shock.
Harriet ran toward her husband shouting something, and Adam answered with a
right hook to Porter’s stomach and a quick left to his jaw.
Too late, Porter jerked
to cover himself too late, groaning when Adam’s fist knocked the wind out of
him. Belatedly, Fred realized that maybe remaining neutral was the wrong
decision. He worked his way to his feet, a lot slower than he wanted to. He
still didn’t think he could restrain Adam, but he had to do something before
someone got seriously hurt.
Before he could
cross the room, Nancy threw herself between her father and husband. Harriet
shouted and Adam tried to hit Porter again, but because Nancy had planted
herself between them, he struck her arm and shoulder instead. She cried out and
gripped her arm with her free hand.
Porter pulled
himself upright, still trying to catch his breath. “Call the sheriff, Harriet.”
Harriet said
something Fred couldn’t quite hear, and Nancy sank onto the couch, burying her
face in her hands.
Adam let his gaze
wander over Nancy slowly, and Fred saw bare hatred there. “Congratulations,”
Adam said softly. “You’ve got what you wanted. I don’t ever want to see you
again.”
“Adam, no!”
Harriet cried and tried to grab him.
He shrugged her
off and slammed out the door.
Harriet caught
back a sob and rounded on her husband. “Now look what you’ve done. Go after
him.”
“The hell I will,”
Porter snapped, his angry red face a sharp contrast to his snowy white hair.
“And neither will anyone else.” He dropped heavily into his chair and rubbed
his jaw gingerly. The look on his face left no doubt that he meant what he
said.
Harriet looked
just as angry as her husband. “You’ve ruined everything. The kids could have
worked things out if you hadn’t jumped into the middle of their argument. Did
you hear what he said to her? Did you hear?”
“I heard, and I
say good riddance to bad rubbish.”
Harriet shoved her
hands onto her hips. “You’ve going to have to apologize to him tomorrow, you
know.”
Porter glared at
her. “I’m not apologizing. I’m not a bit sorry for anything I said. Or did.”
Harriet stared at him for one long moment as if
she couldn’t believe her ears. “One of these days, you’re going to go too far,”
she said. And without another word, she walked out of the room.
(copyrighted material)
___________________________________
Want to keep reading? You can buy a copy for your Kindle here or read the book free with your Kindle Unlimited subscription.
If you haven't yet met Fred, he's 70-something, a widower, and retired from his job as Buildings and Grounds Supervisor for the school district in his rural Colorado county. Fred has four adult children whom he loves, even if they do make him crazy at times. Fred's a family man through and through, and that's what readers seem to love about him.
So, for your reading enjoyment, Chapter One:
________________________________________
(copyrighted material)
ONE
Pleasantly full
after a great meal, Fred Vickery followed his brother-in-law, Porter Jorgensen,
from the Jorgensens’ kitchen into the living room. In the nearly fifty years
since they’d each married out of T.S. Cooper’ daughters, they’d done this
hundreds of times—a big meal in the kitchen, after which the men were shooed
into the living room where he and Porter saved the world (in theory) while
Phoebe and Harriet chatted and cleared the table.
In the early
years, Fred had often tried to help but Phoebe had always sent him away. He’d
finally given up after she explained it was her only chance to spend time alone
with her sister and that the dishes provided a convenient excuse.
An air conditioner
unit in one window churned out cold air and a fan whirred softly on the other
side of the room, trying to take the edge off the hot August evening. Fred
settled into an easy chair and listened to the clatter of silverware, the rush
of water, and the low murmur of conversation in the kitchen. If he closed his
eyes, he could almost believe nothing had changed. But the kids were all grown
and out on their own now—except Douglas, who’d moved back home in the
spring—and Phoebe was gone. Had been for nearly three years now. Fred had grown
used to living without her—almost. But times like this brought the pain back so
sharply, Fred wondered if he’d ever truly adjust.
The past three
years he’d avoided Phoebe’s family almost entirely—four sisters, all too much
like Phoebe in one way or another, one brother, and too many children among
them all to keep an accurate count. Porter and Harriet lived closest to Fred,
and he’d missed the times they used to spend together. So when Harriet called
last Sunday with this invitation to dinner, he’d convinced himself he’d healed
enough to make it through the evening without trouble.
He’d been wrong.
Stifling a groan,
he patted his stomach and forced a smile. “Harriet sure hasn’t lose her touch
with a meal.”
Porter grinned and
dropped heavily into his easy chair. “Nope, I’ll say that for her. She’s still
one of the best cooks in the county.” His ample frame provided silent proof of
his words. His snow-white hair, once nearly jet-black, testified to how many
years he’d been enjoying Harriet’s efforts in the kitchen.
He picked up the
remote control from the TV tray beside him and almost instantly a picture
popped onto the screen. With a satisfied grunt, he settled back in his chair as
if he’d been watching the blasted thing all evening.
From the kitchen,
a burst of laughter erupted and Fred’s heart twisted. But it wasn’t Phoebe’s
laugh. Tonight, Harriet and Nancy Bigelow, the Jorgensens’ youngest child, had
joined forces and kicked the men out of the kitchen. The laughter drifted away,
then erupted again before facing into muted conversation. Nancy’s voice blended
with Harriet’s like Phoebe’s had. Both voices were soft and melodious. Both a
little husky. Both pleasant and soothing.
Fred leaned his
head against the chair and tried to push away the longing for the life he’d
never get back. He’d had forty-seven years with Phoebe. Many people didn’t get
that much time together. This year they’d have celebrated their golden
anniversary, but no matter how much he longed for the past, he couldn’t bring
Phoebe back. All he had was the here and now. He wanted to make the best of it.
Tonight he’d
shared some pleasant company and had eaten a good meal for the first time in
years. Obviously, Harriet and Phoebe had learned to cook from the same teacher.
His daughter Margaret had cooked that well once, but lately she’d let her fear
of fat grams and cholesterol chase all the taste from her food. The only flavor
he got these days was what he snuck into his own recipes.
Cutting a glance
toward the kitchen he said, “It’s good to see Nancy again. I didn’t expect her
to be here.”
Porter grunted again
and wiped a trickle of sweat from his temple. “We all thought Douglas would
come with you, and she was looking forward to seeing him again.”
“I passed along
the invitation,” Fred said, “but I can’t predict what Douglas will do now any
better than I could when he was a boy.”
Porter nodded, no
doubt remembering the younger Douglas and his tendency to leap from one
interest to another without warning. “Did you say he’s working now?”
Fred’s mouth
tightened into a frown. “He’s still looking.”
With an expression
full of understanding, Porter leaned back in his chair. “If it’s not one thing
it’s another, isn’t it?” He shot a quick glance at the kitchen door. “Nancy’s
been on my mind a lot lately. She comes by more than she ought to, but that
husband if hers spends all his time working, so she’d be alone if she didn’t
spent time with us.”
Fred heard the disapproval
in Porter’s voice and saw it on his face. Fred empathized with his
brother-in-law. He knew how it felt to disapprove of a son-in-law, but Phoebe
hadn’t liked him to voice his opinion of Webb in front of Margaret, and he
figured Harriet would feel the same way about Nancy’s marriage. Besides, Fred
had known Adam Bigelow since childhood. He’d watched the boy grow up as he went
through school, and he’d always kind of liked the kid. For all those reasons,
he tried to keep his voice neutral. “What’s Adam doing now? Does he still have
that government job?”
“He’s a
subcontractor,” Porter said. “Soil and water testing, that sort of thing. What
it amounts to is he plays in the dirt and mud all day.” Porter made a noise at
something on the television and leaned forward slightly. “For hell’s sake—” he
muttered, then dropped back again and shook his head. “So are you and Douglas
coming to the picnic on Labor Day?”
“I don’t know,”
Fred admitted. “Douglas could have found a job and left town by then.”
“The real question
is, what about you?” Porter asked. “We’ve missed having you around.”
Fred appreciated that,
but he didn’t want to make a promise he might not keep. “I don’t know,” he said
again. “There are lots of memories in this house. More than I expected.”
Porter’s chins
waggled as he studied the living room. Maybe he thought he could see the
memories if he looked hard enough. “Well, I suppose there are reminders here,
and I’m sure it’s tough. But you can’t make yourself a hermit forever. Phoebe’s
gone, sure, but that doesn’t mean you’re not part of the family anymore.”
“I know that.”
“You should have
been at Bev’s for the Fourth of July,” Porter went on. “We had quite a party,
and everybody asked about you.”
Phoebe’s eldest
sister, Beverly, had long ago claimed the Fourth of July as her exclusive
bailiwick, but Fred hadn’t joined them at once of her parties since Phoebe
passed on. It just wouldn’t be the same. But he knew the others wouldn’t
understand so he just nodded slowly and said, “Margaret told me.”
Porter chuckled at
some picnic memory and adjusted his shirtfront over his ample stomach. “Viv
brought a date—did Margaret tell you that?”
Vivian, the sister
between Phoebe and Harriet, had divorced her husband more than twenty years
earlier. Every year or so she’d date someone new. Nothing serious had ever
developed with any of her callers, but her descriptions of the dates kept the
family in stitches.
Fred smiled,
realizing that he’d missed hearing Vivien’s stories. “Do I need to run out and
buy a wedding gift?”
Porter snorted in
reply. “No, not yet. She called the next week and said the guy turned out to be
the Date from Hell.” He changed the channel on the television and went back to
ignoring the program. “So what about Labor Day? I’ve got to warn you, Bev said
that if you didn’t show up this year she’d drive down and drag you up here by
the seat of your pants.”
Fred grinned at
the image. Beverly had been a year ahead of Fred in school, so he knew she had
to be at least seventy-four, but he had no trouble picturing her carrying out
her threat. “Labor Day’s still over two weeks away, “Fred said. “I’ll think
about it and let you know.”
In the other room,
water shut off and chairs scraped against the floor. Porter jerked his head in
the direction of the kitchen. “Sounds like they’re coming. You know Harriet’s
not going to let you rest until you give her the answer she wants.”
Before Fred could
respond, footsteps clattered on the hardwood floor and a moment later Harriet
and Nancy burst into the room. Harriet still wore her apron, and she’d left a
kitchen towel draped over one shoulder. She had lighter hair than any of her
sisters, but there was no mistaking which family she came from.
Nancy followed her
mother, carrying a tray loaded with steaming mugs of coffee. She must have been
about thirty, Fred calculated—give or take a year or two. The only girl out of
the Jorgensens’ five children, she had her mother’s light hair, but her eyes
were honey brown, just like Phoebe’s had been. Those eyes, inherited from a
maternal grandmother, had marked the family connection through several
generations.
Harriet beamed at
them and waved Nancy toward the coffee table. “Well, here we are. Anybody want
coffee?”
“It’s not decaf is
it?” Fred asked.
She handed him a
mug and jerked her head toward her husband. “Are you kidding? Porter would
divorce me if I tried to give him decaf.” She perched on the edge of the couch
and let her gaze linger on Fred as he sipped cautiously. “So, did he talk you
into coming for Labor Day?”
Fred smiled and
shook his head. “He asked, but I don’t know—”
Harriet put a hand
on his knee. “Please, Fred? We’ve missed you. Holidays aren’t the same without
you.”
“They’re not the
same without Phoebe,” he said.
He half expected Harriet’s
eyes to grow misty, but in her typical bullheaded way she refused to let the
emotion take hold. “No, they’re not. But we can’t change that, can we? This is
ridiculous, Fred. We live less than thirty miles apart, but we’ve hardly seen
you in the past three years.”
“I’m here
tonight,” he pointed out.
“Yes you are,”
Harriet admitted. “And it’s a good thing, too. I’ve just about reached the end
of my patience with you.”
Nancy grabbed a
mug and wedged herself into a corner of the couch. “Come on, Uncle Fred. Admit it. You’ve missed
us too.”
He had. No denying
it.
As if sensing his
hesitation, Harriet touched his knee again. “Dorothy’s bringing that casserole
you like so much—”
Against his will,
a laugh escaped. “Now you’re fighting dirty.”
Harriet pushed at
his knee and chuckled. “The best way to win you over has always been with food.
Why do you think Phoebe spent one whole summer learning how to bake? We all
thought we’d die in that hot old house before you got around to proposing.”
Porter flicked through
another couple of channels. “You might as well give up, Fred. You don’t stand a
chance. They’ve been plotting against you all summer, planning a menu with all
your favorite dishes and who knows what else.”
Fred laughed, but
before he could reply the front door slammed open and cut off what he’d been
about to say. Nancy’s husband, Adam Bigelow, stood in the doorway, his chest
heaving from exertion or emotion, Fred couldn’t tell which, and a stream of hot
summer air swept into the room with him.
As just about six
feet tall, Adam wasn’t a small man. He had the broad-shouldered build and
weathered complexion of a man who worked outdoors, and now that he’d reached
his early thirties, he had a fine sprinkling of fray in his dark hair and
beard.
Pausing only a
second to get his bearings, Adam stormed into the living room toward Nancy. His
dark eyes glinted and his breathing was ragged.
Nancy’s smile
faded. “Adam? What are you doing here? What’s wrong?”
He jerked his head
toward the door. “I want to talk to you right now. Outside.”
A flicker of
uncertainty crossed Nancy’s face, but she put down the mug she was holding and
stood to face him. “Now? Adam—”
“Right now!” The
angry look he gave her made Fred uneasy.
“For Pete’s sake,
boy—” Porter snarled.
“Don’t get
involved, Porter,” Harriet interrupted. “Let the kids work out whatever it is.”
Nancy looked at
each of her parents and managed a weak smile in Fred direction. “I’m sorry—”
“I said now.” Adam grabbed her arm roughly and
tried to pull her toward the door.
Nancy jerked away
from him. “Let go of me.”
Porter struggled
to his feet and tried to step between them. “Whatever you’re upset about,
there’s no need to get pushy.”
Adam ignored his
father-in-law and grabbed for Nancy again. This time she managed to sidestep
him.
Harriet scrambled
for Porter’s remote and aimed it at the television. But when she turned up the
volume on the first try and changed the channel on her second, she tossed it
aside with a cry of irritation.
“Are you coming
with me?” Adam demanded.
“Not while you’re
acting like this,” Nancy said with a toss of her head. She was trying to look
brave, but Fred could see anxiety in her eyes.
He wondered if he
should leave. He’d recently seen Douglas through a divorce and he didn’t have
the stomach to hear more angry accusations and bitter recriminations. But a
quick glance around the room told him that it wouldn’t be easy to slip out. Harriet
was blocking the door to the kitchen and Adam was standing between him and the
front door. Leaving right now would call more attention to himself than he
wanted so he sat back in his chair and tried to make himself invisible.
When the
television show gave way to a commercial, the volume jumped again. Growling in
frustration, Porter marched toward the set and turned it off manually. “You’re not going anywhere with him, Nancy.
Not until he calms down.” He turned on Adam with an angry scowl. “You have some
nerve barging in to my house like this.”
Fury contorted Adam’s
face. “This isn’t your concern, Porter.”
Harriet fluttered
her hands toward the couch. “Why don’t you sit down, Adam? I’m sure you two can
work out whatever’s wrong.”
Adam laughed
bitterly. “I don’t know what I’m thinking. There’s nothing to work out. I’m talking to an attorney first thing tomorrow.”
It had gone this
far, then. Fred sure hated to see it. He knew how deep the wounds of divorce
could cut.
Harriet cried out
as if Adam had struck her. “What? Oh, Adam, you don’t mean that.” She turned to
Nancy and grabbed her arms. “He didn’t mean it, sweetie.”
Nancy’s eyes
filled with tears and her face crumpled in pain. “Yes he does, Mom.”
“No,” Harriet
insisted. “You’ll see.” She reached a pleading hand toward her son-in-law.
“Maybe you and I should talk about it, Adam.”
Nancy tugged her
backward. “No, Mom. Adam’s right. This is between him and me—”
Adam barked
another angry laugh. “If that were true, we might have a chance. But it’s been
a long time since things were between the two of us, hasn’t it?”
Harriet let go of
Nancy and began to wring her hands. Adam took advantage of that to grab Nancy’s
arm and jerk her toward the door. He must have gripped her too tightly or
pulled too roughly because she cried out in pain.
That’s all it took
for Porter to lose his temper. Red-faced and breathing hard, he lunged toward
Adam. “You hurt her again and I’ll take you apart.”
“Please don’t,
Dad,” Nancy begged, trying in vain to pull away from Adam.
Adam refused to
let go and jerked her toward the door again. “Now, Nancy. I’m not waiting all
night while you milk your parents for sympathy.”
Embarrassed to
witness the argument and concerned for everyone involved, Fred wished they
would stop. That they’d go their separate ways tonight and discuss it later,
when their emotions had cooled. If they let this go on too long, it would be
hard to repair the damage later.
Nancy bit her lip
as if Adam had hurt her again, and Porter’s round face turned even redder. “Let
go of her, you little son of a bitch—”
Adam finally let
go of Nancy, but only so he could get in Porter’s face. “Stay out of this,
Porter, unless you want to hear things you’d rather not know about. Nancy can
tell the whole damned lot of you about it later. . .” His mouth twisted into an
ugly smile. “. . .if she wants to.”
As if she’d
suddenly regained control, Nancy snarled at her husband. “Stop it, Adam. You
want to talk? Fine. We’ll talk. But leave my parents out of this.”
At least she was
willing to talk, Fred thought. Maybe they’d discuss it rationally—whatever it
was—when they were alone.
And they might
have if Porter hadn’t rushed after Nancy shouting, “You’re not going anywhere
with him. Not unless he calms down.”
Adam’s face turned
to stone. He leaned too close to Porter and when he spoke his voice came out
low and frighteningly controlled. “If you had any idea. . .”
“All right, you
want a divorce?” Nancy shouted. “You’ve got it. Just get out of here before you
do any more damage.”
Harriet looked at
Fred as if she thought he should do something, but he stayed put. Much as he
hated watching this scene play out, he had no intention of getting involved.
He’d learned his lesson with his own children. He worked hard not to interfere
in their lives, and he wasn’t about to walk into the middle of his niece’s
troubles. Besides, he was no match for Adam physically and he doubted Adam
would listen if Fred tried to calm him down.
“Before I do more damage?” Adam demanded. He
laughed bitterly. “You’re something else, you know that?”
Nancy turned away
from him and Harriet started to say something, but Porter put one arm around
Harriet’s shoulders and spoke before she could. “You heard her. Get the hell
out.”
Adam’s lip curled.
“That’s the way you handle everything, isn’t it? Can’t even think about telling you the truth about
any of your precious children because you wouldn’t believe the truth if it hit
you in the face. Well they’re not the angels you think they are, Porter.”
As if Adam had
given him an idea, Porter shot out his fist and connected with Adam’s face. Blood
spurted from the boy’s nose and all hell broke loose. Nancy cried out in shock.
Harriet ran toward her husband shouting something, and Adam answered with a
right hook to Porter’s stomach and a quick left to his jaw.
Too late, Porter jerked
to cover himself too late, groaning when Adam’s fist knocked the wind out of
him. Belatedly, Fred realized that maybe remaining neutral was the wrong
decision. He worked his way to his feet, a lot slower than he wanted to. He
still didn’t think he could restrain Adam, but he had to do something before
someone got seriously hurt.
Before he could
cross the room, Nancy threw herself between her father and husband. Harriet
shouted and Adam tried to hit Porter again, but because Nancy had planted
herself between them, he struck her arm and shoulder instead. She cried out and
gripped her arm with her free hand.
Porter pulled
himself upright, still trying to catch his breath. “Call the sheriff, Harriet.”
Harriet said
something Fred couldn’t quite hear, and Nancy sank onto the couch, burying her
face in her hands.
Adam let his gaze
wander over Nancy slowly, and Fred saw bare hatred there. “Congratulations,”
Adam said softly. “You’ve got what you wanted. I don’t ever want to see you
again.”
“Adam, no!”
Harriet cried and tried to grab him.
He shrugged her
off and slammed out the door.
Harriet caught
back a sob and rounded on her husband. “Now look what you’ve done. Go after
him.”
“The hell I will,”
Porter snapped, his angry red face a sharp contrast to his snowy white hair.
“And neither will anyone else.” He dropped heavily into his chair and rubbed
his jaw gingerly. The look on his face left no doubt that he meant what he
said.
Harriet looked
just as angry as her husband. “You’ve ruined everything. The kids could have
worked things out if you hadn’t jumped into the middle of their argument. Did
you hear what he said to her? Did you hear?”
“I heard, and I
say good riddance to bad rubbish.”
Harriet shoved her
hands onto her hips. “You’ve going to have to apologize to him tomorrow, you
know.”
Porter glared at
her. “I’m not apologizing. I’m not a bit sorry for anything I said. Or did.”
Harriet stared at him for one long moment as if
she couldn’t believe her ears. “One of these days, you’re going to go too far,”
she said. And without another word, she walked out of the room.
(copyrighted material)
___________________________________
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September 29, 2015
Excerpt from A Time to Dream
Hannibal,Missouri 1999
Heart
thudding, head fuzzy, and eyes still blurry from sleep, Shelby Miller tried not
to trip over the hem of her robe as she raced down the grand staircase. She’d
been in the middle of a perfectly lovely dream when someone started pounding on
the door and jerked her mercilessly awake. Whoever it was, she thought as she
stumbled past the landing, they’d better have a good reason for waking her.
Early
morning sunlight spilled down the staircase from the huge window on the landing
and into the foyer through the full-length windows flanking the door. Even this
early—surely not later than seven o’clock—the temperature and the dense
Missouri humidity made her long for central air conditioning.
Clutching
the collar of her robe, she ran her free hand through the curls she could feel
bobbing wildly with every step—the hated curls that had earned her the nickname
“Medusa” as a child. She’d probably scare whoever was so rudely—and insistently—banging
on the door. Well, if she did, it served them right. Maybe it would teach them
a lesson in manners.
Before
she could make it to the bottom of the staircase, the pounding started up
again. “Hold on,” she shouted impatiently. “I’m coming.” Shelby had never been
at her best in the morning, which was one of the reasons she loved her position
at Winterhill. She didn’t have to look perky, dress for success, or even be
coherent before noon if she didn’t want to be.
Slipping
a little as she crossed the polished wood floor, she skidded to a stop in front
of the massive door and yanked it open. Jon Davenport, her dearest friend in
Hannibal—her only real friend
anywhere—stood on the porch, backed by the rising sun, his hand raised to knock
again.
She
let out an annoyed sigh. “What are you doing?”
Jon
lowered his arm quickly and ignored her question. “It’s about time you
answered. Where were you?”
“In
bed. Asleep.” She stepped aside to
let him enter and closed the door behind him. “Why aren’t you at work? And why
are you banging on my door like the world’s coming to an end?”
“You
might think it has ended when I tell you what I just heard on the morning news.”
Jon’s eyes were dark and uncharacteristically solemn, his mouth nothing more
than a thin slash cut into his tanned face.
Shelby
made another vain attempt to tame her curls. “Okay, I’ll bite. What did you
hear?”
“The
news report said that Evan McDonald has put Winterhill up for sale.”
It
took a moment for Jon’s words to sink in completely, but when they did, the
old, familiar anxiety began to pulse through Shelby’s veins. “He’s done what?”
“He’s
listed this house on the market.”
Praying
that she’d heard wrong, Shelby shook her head. “That can’t be right. He can’t
do that.”
“He
can,” Jon said, “and, according to the news, he has.”
“But
why?” Her voice came out sharp, but
she made no effort to soften it as she went on. “I thought he’d decided to
restore Winterhill.”
“Apparently,
he’s decided not to.”
Time
slowed, ice water flowed through her veins, and a steady pounding started
somewhere behind her eyes. Working as caretaker at Winterhill for the past six
months had given her the first security she’d ever known. She’d even started to
believe it would last. She should have known better. “But why didn’t Evan tell
me first?”
“Who
knows?” Jon moved closer and put a hand on her shoulder. The weight of his hand
and the depth of his concern bore down on her.
She
tried to step away from both. She’d spent most of her twenty-eight years on her
own. Jon’s friendship was the first real tie she’d ever had to anyone or
anything, and it still left her slightly off balance.
Jon
didn’t let her escape. “Even when Evan’s mother was alive, he didn’t like this
house, Shelby. And to tell you the truth, everyone at the historical society
was surprised when he hired you instead of selling it after she died.”
She
couldn’t bear the gentleness in his voice. It made the pain worse somehow. She’d
grown to love Winterhill. She’s let herself dream of staying here in Hannibal. Its
history appealed to her and made her long to be a part of it.
She
moved toward the front window, glancing outside and letting her gaze linger on
the crumbling turrets of the neighboring house that was barely visible above
the rows of trees separating the two properties. “What about Summervale?” she
asked softly, turning back to face her friend. “What about the movement to save
the twin houses?”
“There
is no movement,” Jon admitted
reluctantly. “I haven’t been able to whip up much excitement about saving
Summervale. Most people think it’s already too dilapidated to save. And without
Winterhill—” He broke off and shrugged helplessly.
“But
the twin houses are a piece of Hannibal’s history.”
“A
piece nobody’s much interested in,” Jon reminded her.
Shelby
pushed a curl away from her forehead. “Maybe whoever buys Winterhill will be
interested in restoring both houses.”
“I
doubt it,” Jon said, shaking his head slowly. “People are speculating that Evan
will sell this place to some industry or developer.”
Shelby’s
heart twisted painfully. “And they’ll tear it down. And Summervale will follow.”
“Probably.”
Tears
stung her eyes, but she refused to give in to them. Crying had never solved a
problem for her, not even once in her life. “I won’t let that happen,” she
said, lifting her chin.
A
shadow flitted behind his eyes. “You can’t stop it, Shel. The only real selling
point we’ve ever had in trying to save the houses was that they’re less than
two miles apart, built by the same man within only a few years of each other,
and virtually identical in every respect.”
“Yes.
Exactly!” She in front of the window, ignoring the pity she saw on his face,
fighting her sudden flash of resentment. “And the mystery, of course.”
“There’s
no mystery.” Jon’s voice sharpened slightly as it always did when she raised
the subject. “Summervale belonged to a crazy woman who lived as a recluse most
of her life—”
“Yes,
and Winterhill belonged to the husband and children who lived within spitting
distance of her and never saw her.” Shelby let the fear building inside her
come out as anger. “And nobody knows why. You can’t tell me that’s not
fascinating stuff.”
“It’s
not fascinating stuff,” Jon said, his voice slightly more gentle. “Not fascinating
enough to convince anyone to shell out the fortune it would take to restore
Summervale. Not enough to save Winterhill.” The pity in his eyes deepened. “Nobody
cares, Shelby.”
“I care.” Desperation made the pounding
in her head worse. If she couldn’t even convince Jon to fight for the houses,
how could she convince anyone else? She waved a jerky hand toward the window
and Summervale and tried again. “There was no hint of insanity before Agatha
married Zacharias.”
“So,
her husband drove her crazy,” Jon said with a lazy shrug. “The point is—”
“The
point is,” Shelby interrupted,
growing angrier and more hurt by the minute, “if we could find out what
happened to her, maybe we could generate public interest in the houses.”
“We’ve
tried to find out what happened,” Jon reminded her, “over and over again. Zacharias’s
papers hardly mention Agatha at all, and we can’t find any of her letters or
journals.”
“That
doesn’t mean they don’t exist. There has to be some record somewhere. Some
explanation for why Agatha turned her back on her children.”
Jon’s
eyes roamed her face, searching, probing, and making her distinctly
uncomfortable. “Is that why you’re so
obsessed with the Logans?”
“I’m
not obsessed,” Shelby insisted. “I’m interested. There’s a difference.”
“Aw,
Shelby.” Jon touched her shoulder again. “Finding out why some woman—a woman
who’s been dead for more than a hundred years—turned her back on her children
isn’t going to explain why your mother abandoned you.”
Shelby
jerked away and wished she’d kept that part of her past secret from him, as she
had from everyone else. “My mother didn’t
abandon me. She put me up for adoption. The fact that nobody ever wanted to
adopt me wasn’t her fault.”
Pity
filled his entire expression now. “Why do you stick up for your mother, Shel?”
“I’m
not sticking up for her,” Shelby said quickly. She hated thinking anyone felt
sorry for her. She might not have any idea who her mother was. She might have
bounced from one foster home to another as a child. She might even have moved
from one city to the next as an adult, but that didn’t mean anybody had to feel
sorry for her. Many people had difficult childhoods. It happened, and she’d
long ago adjusted to the hard parts of her own life.
She
forced a laugh and tried to change the subject. “We’re not talking about me,”
she said firmly. “We’re talking about the twin houses.” She put some distance
between herself and Jon again, trailing her fingers across the gleaming wood of
the bannister. “If Agatha hadn’t died so young. Or if Zacharias had stayed in
Hannibal. . . If they’d stayed together,
there’d probably still be Logans living in both of these houses, and they
wouldn’t be in danger now.”
“Maybe,”
Jon said without conviction. “But Agatha did die, and Zacharias didn’t stay. And
the houses have brought bad luck to every family who’s tried to live in them
since.”
“That’s
nothing but superstition.”
“Maybe.”
Jon glanced at a scowling portrait of Zacharias hanging on the wall of the
landing. “But wishing things had turned out differently won’t change anything.”
“I
know that.” And she did. Only too well. She dropped onto one of the steps and
stretched out her legs in front of her. “I’m not delusional, but I can’t stand
by and let these houses be destroyed, Jon. I just can’t.”
Jon
sat beside her, his shoulder barely grazing hers. “What do you have in mind?”
“Nothing,
unfortunately. Not yet, anyway.”
Jon
put a hand over hers and rested his cheek on the top of her head. “If I thought
you had a chance, I’d help you in whatever way I could. You know that, right?”
She nodded uncertainly and he let out a sigh that spoke of tested patience. “Why
don’t I ask around and see if I can find you another job somewhere?”
Shelby
fought the urge to draw away. “I don’t want another job. I want to save the
twin houses.”
“I
know. And I wish I knew of a way for you to do that. But I just don’t want you
to get your hopes up. You can’t rewrite history.”
“Well,
I wish I could,” she muttered as a wave of futility crashed over her.
Maybe
she should know better than to get her hopes up. Maybe she should have learned
her lesson after watching her dreams vaporize one by one over the years. But
everything had seemed so different here in Hannibal, and the longer she stayed,
the more she loved it.
She
took a deep breath and tried to pull herself together. But she couldn’t face
losing another home and having to start all over again. After the last time,
she’d vowed it wouldn’t happen again. And that was a promise she intended to
keep—no matter what it took.
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September 22, 2015
Does the Race Really Go to the Swiftest?
In a world where the race goes to the swiftest, do you ever feel as if you're lagging behind? Struggling just to stay in the pack, never mind moving into the lead? Do you feel as if you're peddling as fast as you can and getting nowhere? Don't worry. You are not alone.
With all the advice out there, it's easy to get overwhelmed. It always has been, but now, with all the social media and the quick exchange of information from hundreds of thousands of people (dare I say millions) all at once, all the time, it's both better that it's ever been before and, somehow, worse.
Back a billion years ago, right after I sold my first book and became eligible to join the Published Author Network (PAN) of Romance Writers of America (RWA), I received a booklet containing advice about what to do after my first sale. The problem was, the booklet didn't arrive until just a few weeks before my first book was set to hit the shelves, and most of the advice was stuff I should have done weeks and months before. I remember staring at that booklet and feeling completely conflicted. I was exhilarated because I qualified to have the thing in the first place and but I also felt overwhelmed and a bit hopeless because it seemed to me that the advice had arrived too late to do me any good.
Yesterday, as I scrolled through the thousands of posts, tweets, and pictures and tweets, I found myself feeling much the same thing. I was exhilarated because, after years of living with an undiagnosed illness and the utter debilitating fatigue that came with it, I'm finally starting to feel well enough to make an effort to get my career back on track. But I'm also overwhelmed by the sheer volume of advice that's out there and feeling a little hopeless because in my weaker moments, it feels like too little, too late.
Part of my current issue, is that the publishing world has changed so much from when I first signed up for the race. Back then, it was all about getting your work in front of an agent and/or editor and what the Big 6 publishing houses wanted. Now, with the advent of independent publishing, there's so much more to learn it's mind-boggling.
That's okay. Really it is. Because while I have thoroughly enjoyed a 20+ year career working with a couple of the Big 6 publishing houses, and will continue as long as it's mutually beneficial, I'm also really excited by the freedom that going independent offers to authors. But going independent means that there are five or six other full-time jobs I need to take on to produce and promote my books in addition to the writing itself, which we all know is a more-than-full-time job.
And much of the "advice" available today doesn't come across as advice at all. It's demanding. It's delivered in the form of orders and rules. It's black-and-white, no questions asked dictates: 10 Things You Must Never Do or 25 Things You Must Do Immediately! because current wisdom says we must be bold, authoritative, and confident and we must never show weakness. (Oh what I wouldn't give for a touch of honest vulnerability!)Much of this bold, authoritative, confident advice is worth listening to and considering, and even trying. But some of it doesn't make any sense at all (at least not to me). Some of it is counter-intuitive (why should it matter to my tweeting schedule how many people are following me on Twitter? Isn't the real factor that affects how many times my tweet will appear in their feed based on how many people they follow?) And a lot of it is conflicting: Don't use social media to promote your book is immediately followed by Always use social media to promote your book.
So maybe in this overloaded, overwhelming world some of the old rules should still apply:
Be open.
By all means, listen.
Consider.
Especially if you're not exactly where you want to be in your career, be willing to try new things.
Then keep what works
And discard the rest.
And write the best book you can
Ultimately, I'm not convinced that the race goes to the swiftest. I think the race really goes to s/he who doesn't give up.
September 15, 2015
Release Day! A Time to Dream
It's up! It's here! It's ready to download.
I'm really excited to share this book with you again after all this time. It was a lot of fun to write, and the characters still have a special place in my heart. It was fun for me to reconnect with Zacharias, Agatha and Shelby. I hope you enjoy visiting them again or meeting them for the first time.
Click here to buy your copy. Also available on Kindle Unlimited.
I'm really excited to share this book with you again after all this time. It was a lot of fun to write, and the characters still have a special place in my heart. It was fun for me to reconnect with Zacharias, Agatha and Shelby. I hope you enjoy visiting them again or meeting them for the first time.
Originally published by Jove Time Passages in 1999, A Time to Dream remains a reader favorite.
Hannibal, Missouri, 1999 -- While trying to save two historic houses from an uncertain fate, caretaker Shelby Winters is whisked back in time--and into the body of Zacharias Logan's estranged wife...
Hannibal, Missouri, 1871 -- Becoming Agatha Logan is no walk in the park for Shelby. Agatha has secrets she hasn't shared with anyone and her marriage to Zacharias is all but over.
Shelby is undeniably attracted to Zacharias, but he has secrets too. Even in the past, Shelby doesn't know why Zacharias built two identical houses or why his marriage to Agatha is in trouble. If she is to preserve the houses, she must mend the marriage and get back home before she loses her head--and her heart--completely...
Click here to buy your copy. Also available on Kindle Unlimited.
September 9, 2015
Have Coffee with Fred
Click here to order "No Place for Death."http://amzn.to/1Mvej9W
here to order "No Place Like Home"http://amzn.to/1tZDLIe
and here to order "No Place for Secrets"http://amzn.to/1frFlex
Click here to order "No Place for Death."http://amzn.t...
Click here to order "No Place for Death."http://amzn.to/1Mvej9W
here to order "No Place Like Home"http://amzn.to/1tZDLIe
and here to order "No Place for Secrets"http://amzn.to/1frFlex
September 2, 2015
Announcing This Month's Release!
I'm getting ready to re-release A Time to Dream later this month and I'm pretty stoked. It was originally released by Jove Time Passages in 1999 as a paperback original, and it remains a reader favorite. As I went through the manuscript to make sure it was ready for a new life and tweak a line or two, I was really thrilled to discover how much I still love the story.My designer is hard at work on the new cover, and I hope to have a cover reveal ready for you in the next few days.
Meanwhile, Zacharias and Shelby (Agatha) are two of my favorites in a long list of characters that I've spent time with in the past 20 years. It was great fun hanging out with the two of them, remembering all the twists and turns in their relationship and meeting their friends and family again. Yes I know they're fictional, but they're real to me. I hope they become real to you.
Set in Hannibal, Missouri, on the banks of the Mississippi River, A Time to Dream is first and foremost a love story about the longing to belong and the power of forgiveness--and who doesn't need that at some point in their lives?
Stay tuned for more details!
___________________________________
Sherry Lewis grew up in Montana and Utah, but
now lives on Florida's Gulf Coast. For the past 20 years, she has spent her
days writing. Her backlist includes the Fred Vickery mystery series, set in the
Colorado Rockies and featuring the 70-something protagonist who won the hearts
of her readers, along with several contemporary and time-travel romance
novels.
No Place for Death, book
#3 in the Fred Vickery series, is available
in Kindle format now! A Time to Dream (Time Travel #1) will
be available soon. Sherry loves
to hear from readers. Connect with her online:
Website | Facebook | Facebook Page | Twitter
photo credit: 112. Bowlegged: Third Floor the Inn at Cape May via photopin (license)
photo credit: Mississippi Palisades State Park via photopin (license)
August 24, 2015
Mapping it Out
Back when I first started writing the Fred Vickery series, I decided I needed to create a map so I could keep the town straight in my head. I didn't figure out that I needed the map at all until I'd written the whole first book and started on the second. Then, suddenly, I realized that I couldn't remember where the Frame-Up was in relation to the Bluebird Cafe, or how far Lacey's General Store was from the sheriff's office.
Getting myself on track took some doing, but within a couple of days I had a lovely hand-drawn (in pencil) map on a piece of grid paper. I kept it beside my computer and it served me well for six books -- although at one point around book #5, I lost the map for a little while (no, I never made a copy) and sent myself into a panic.
I learned my lesson from that experience, and now painstakingly (and slowly) create my maps in Excel at the beginning of a project so I can keep it current as I add new locations. It's not easy and it takes forever -- much longer than drawing a square and penciling in the name of a family or a store -- but it's also not quite so easy to lose.
Having the map is really important, especially when I'm working with a real location, which I'm doing in my current WIP. It has taken me all afternoon, but I finally have a map of about half the town of West Yellowstone, color-coded so I can see at a glance what's what. (And because color-coding things just makes me happy.)
Unfortunately, it's only half the town, and I realized late this afternoon that I must add a gazillion columns on the left-hand side of my in order to fit in the rest of the town on the map -- but hey! That's okay. Tomorrow is another day.
Getting myself on track took some doing, but within a couple of days I had a lovely hand-drawn (in pencil) map on a piece of grid paper. I kept it beside my computer and it served me well for six books -- although at one point around book #5, I lost the map for a little while (no, I never made a copy) and sent myself into a panic.
I learned my lesson from that experience, and now painstakingly (and slowly) create my maps in Excel at the beginning of a project so I can keep it current as I add new locations. It's not easy and it takes forever -- much longer than drawing a square and penciling in the name of a family or a store -- but it's also not quite so easy to lose.Having the map is really important, especially when I'm working with a real location, which I'm doing in my current WIP. It has taken me all afternoon, but I finally have a map of about half the town of West Yellowstone, color-coded so I can see at a glance what's what. (And because color-coding things just makes me happy.)
Unfortunately, it's only half the town, and I realized late this afternoon that I must add a gazillion columns on the left-hand side of my in order to fit in the rest of the town on the map -- but hey! That's okay. Tomorrow is another day.
August 17, 2015
No Place for Death
Available now for your Kindle --
Book #3 in the Fred Vickery Mystery series
Originally released in paperback by Berkley Prime Crime in 1996, this book is now available for your Kindle.
Click here to order your copy
After seventy-three years, change doesn't sit well with Fred Vickery. So he's not about to give up coffee and diner food, no matter what his daughter and his doctor say. Because Fred knows that the secret to staying young is staying happy. As log as there's a mystery to be solved, Cutler, Colorado is heaven on earth.
NO PLACE FOR DEATH
Fred hasn't seen much of his in-laws since the death of his wife. But family loyalty prevails when his late wife's niece is accused of murdering her husband. Though rumors of infidelity point to Nancy's guilt, Fred knows that more is going on here than a relationship turned sour. He's determined to uncover the truth, even though the whole town of Cutler--his family included--has joined forces to keep him from getting involved in the case
Book #3 in the Fred Vickery Mystery series
Originally released in paperback by Berkley Prime Crime in 1996, this book is now available for your Kindle.
Click here to order your copy
After seventy-three years, change doesn't sit well with Fred Vickery. So he's not about to give up coffee and diner food, no matter what his daughter and his doctor say. Because Fred knows that the secret to staying young is staying happy. As log as there's a mystery to be solved, Cutler, Colorado is heaven on earth.
NO PLACE FOR DEATH
Fred hasn't seen much of his in-laws since the death of his wife. But family loyalty prevails when his late wife's niece is accused of murdering her husband. Though rumors of infidelity point to Nancy's guilt, Fred knows that more is going on here than a relationship turned sour. He's determined to uncover the truth, even though the whole town of Cutler--his family included--has joined forces to keep him from getting involved in the case
