Camy Tang's Blog, page 150
June 19, 2011
Excerpt - FOREVER AFTER by Deborah Raney
Forever Afterby
Deborah Raney
A fire killed his best friend and his lifelong dream of being a firefighter. The same fire killed her husband and hopes for a family. Can new dreams replace old?
Lucas Vermontez was a proud firefighter like his father. Now, not only has he lost his father and his best friend, Zach, in the fire at the Grove Street homeless shelter, but the devoted rookie can no longer do the work he loves after being crippled in the tragic event. When friendship with his buddy's beautiful widow turns into more, he wonders, what could he possibly offer Jenna? Jenna Morgan is trying to grieve her husband's death like a proper widow, but the truth is, she never really loved Zach. His death feels more like a relief to her. But that relief is short-lived when she loses her home and the financial support of her in-laws. Now the secrets of her past threaten to destroy her future.
Can the two forget the painful past and discover new reasons to live and love?
Forever After is the second book in Deborah Raney's Hanover Falls Novels series from Howard/Simon & Schuster. The first novel in the series, Almost Forever, won the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence and a HOLT Medallion Award of Merit.
DEBORAH RANEY's first novel, A Vow to Cherish, inspired the World Wide Pictures film of the same title and launched her writing career after 20 happy years as a stay-at-home mom. Her books have won numerous awards including the RITA, National Readers Choice Award, HOLT Medallion, the Carol Award, and have twice been Christy Award finalists. Deb also serves on the Advisory Board of the 2500-member American Christian Fiction Writers. Her 20th novel released this month from Howard/Simon & Schuster. She and her husband, Ken Raney, enjoy tending wildflowers and native grasses in the Kansas prairie garden in their large back yard. They also love traveling together to conferences, and to visit four children and three little grandsons who all live much too far away.
Browse Inside : Forever After
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Ebook:
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June 18, 2011
What I'm bringing to the ACFW Conference
Darnit, I set this to post but it turned itself into a draft instead and didn't post! So I'm posting it late.
Captain's Log, Stardate 06.16.2011
The highlight of my year is always the ACFW conference in September. It's my favorite conference for so many reasons, some of which are:
the friends I get to see there
the industry professionals I get to meet
the workshops
the nice hotel (I am SO not a "roughing it" girl. I need room service.)
I'm terrible at forgetting what to bring every year, so once again I'm pulling out my list. And I also thought it might be a useful list for other people who might be going to conference, too (not just the ACFW conference, but any writer's conference).
So here goes, in no particular order:
1) business cards and/or bookmarks. For me, bookmarks are usually easier.
2) A one-sheet of my latest proposal. Dineen Miller did a great blog series on One-Sheets: http://www.acfw.com/blog/?p=137, http://www.acfw.com/blog/?p=170, http://www.acfw.com/blog/?p=203, http://www.acfw.com/blog/?p=248, and examples here: http://www.dineenmiller.com/DineenMiller/D.G.Graphics.html
3) My pitch for my latest proposal. The one-sheet has my pitch on it so I don't have to stress about memorizing it, although I'll usually just talk about my story rather than reading the pitch because most editors/agents don't like it if you read it. However, they will prefer you read it rather than go on for ten minutes about it. Be ready to give the gist of it in 30 seconds.
4) My camera because I always try to take lots of pictures!!! This can also be helpful if I take a picture with an editor or an agent so I'll better remember what they look like, because now that I'm in pre-menopause, my memory is just mush.
5) $1 bills to tip the maids (a dollar on your pillow every morning, not just your last morning, because you could have different maids every day), cab drivers, porters, etc. Not tipping is just rude, in my opinion.
6) Clothes. Everybody is different, so pick what you feel comfortable in. I dislike tight clothes, but I also dislike baggy things, so I'll go for cute tops that are form-skimming but also made from fabrics that won't crease as easily. I bring both jeans and nice slacks depending on what I'm doing—if I'm teaching or meeting an editor or agent, I wear the slacks. If I'm hanging out with friends, I wear jeans. I also pack layers (see below). Bottom line: DON'T LOOK LIKE A SLOB BUT BE COMFORTABLE. Mindy Obenhaus had a good blog post here on raiding your closet for conference.
7) Light jacket and/or sweater. Actually, in years past I've been packing a lace shawl instead since I can cram that sucker into a bag and not worry about it getting wrinkled, but when I'm cold in those air-conditioned rooms, I can whip it out and put it around my shoulders. The nice thing about conference is that it's always in a hotel so you don't have to worry about weather except when going outside.
8) Comfortable shoes. I don't always take my own advice here because I love cute shoes! But I always have at least one pair of comfortable but nice shoes that I could wear when walking from workshop to workshop, which matches my slacks.
9) Workout clothes/shoes. The nice thing about ACFW conferences is that it's always in a hotel with a good gym to work out in, and usually the hotels have pools, too. I tend to avoid the gym in the morning because that's when it's most busy, so sometimes I'll go in the afternoon instead when there's less people.
10) SCENT FREE LOTION. The Conference is SCENT FREE since a lot of people (including our CEO, Colleen Coble) are allergic to perfumes, so I always bring Nutrogena fragrance free hand lotion.
11) An extra, empty duffel bag or suitcase because I always end up buying books and then trying to stuff them into my overstuffed suitcase to carry them home.
12) My knitting! If you're a knitter or crocheter, bring your project along! I knit while listening to workshops or the keynote speaker.
13) Snacks. Do you really want to pay $7 for a granola bar at the hotel gift shop? Also, keep your blood sugar steady since you'll be doing a lot, going places, interacting with people, and using more energy than you think you will.
14) Computer. I usually bring my laptop simply because I typically need to do work while at the conference. Since I'm the Genesis coordinator, I almost always need my files or to get online to check my email address. Other people use their computer to take notes in classes. However, if you don't think you'll need to do any of that stuff, feel free to not bring your computer. Some people will bring their iPad or Alphasmart for notetaking. I use my Alphasmart Neo since it's built like a tank, takes up less space in my conference tote bag, and doesn't need to be plugged in.
If you're bringing your computer for notetaking in workshops, remember that the rooms don't always have enough outlets, so consider bringing a multi-outlet surge protector if you can fit it in your computer bag.
You don't need to bring a notebook for notetaking because ACFW will give you a nice notebook with your conference totebag.
15) Cell phone. This is invaluable for me when I'm meeting someone (a friend, not an editor appointment) because who wants to waste precious minutes searching throughout a huge first floor lobby/meeting room area for someone?
16) Pajamas. I actually need to list this because I have forgotten my PJs on more than one occasion.
17) Charge cords for your cell phone, computer, etc. I also bring charge cords for my Nook ebook reader, my iPod, and my Bluetooth headset.
18) Books to read. Yes, I fully confess I get jittery and psychotic if I don't have a book to read when I'm on the plane or waiting or whatever. I always bring my Nook ebook reader with me so I have hundreds of books at my fingertips.
19) Bible. I use Olive Tree on my iPad (which is FANTASTIC!!!). I also have an NIV Bible on my Nook, so I never forget my Bible when I'm going places, since I always bring my Nook, plus it doesn't take up as much space in my luggage as my regular Bible. If you have a pocket Bible, you may want to consider bringing that so it'll take up less space.
20) Miscellaneous stuff:
makeup
contact lens solution
hair stuff (the hotel has a blow drier)
jewelry
vitamins/medications
safety pins
nail care kit (if you have nails that can chip or break at the worst possible times)
Bandaids
So did I miss anything? Anything you'd add to the list?
Captain's Log, Stardate 06.16.2011
The highlight of my year is always the ACFW conference in September. It's my favorite conference for so many reasons, some of which are:
the friends I get to see there
the industry professionals I get to meet
the workshops
the nice hotel (I am SO not a "roughing it" girl. I need room service.)
I'm terrible at forgetting what to bring every year, so once again I'm pulling out my list. And I also thought it might be a useful list for other people who might be going to conference, too (not just the ACFW conference, but any writer's conference).
So here goes, in no particular order:
1) business cards and/or bookmarks. For me, bookmarks are usually easier.
2) A one-sheet of my latest proposal. Dineen Miller did a great blog series on One-Sheets: http://www.acfw.com/blog/?p=137, http://www.acfw.com/blog/?p=170, http://www.acfw.com/blog/?p=203, http://www.acfw.com/blog/?p=248, and examples here: http://www.dineenmiller.com/DineenMiller/D.G.Graphics.html
3) My pitch for my latest proposal. The one-sheet has my pitch on it so I don't have to stress about memorizing it, although I'll usually just talk about my story rather than reading the pitch because most editors/agents don't like it if you read it. However, they will prefer you read it rather than go on for ten minutes about it. Be ready to give the gist of it in 30 seconds.
4) My camera because I always try to take lots of pictures!!! This can also be helpful if I take a picture with an editor or an agent so I'll better remember what they look like, because now that I'm in pre-menopause, my memory is just mush.
5) $1 bills to tip the maids (a dollar on your pillow every morning, not just your last morning, because you could have different maids every day), cab drivers, porters, etc. Not tipping is just rude, in my opinion.
6) Clothes. Everybody is different, so pick what you feel comfortable in. I dislike tight clothes, but I also dislike baggy things, so I'll go for cute tops that are form-skimming but also made from fabrics that won't crease as easily. I bring both jeans and nice slacks depending on what I'm doing—if I'm teaching or meeting an editor or agent, I wear the slacks. If I'm hanging out with friends, I wear jeans. I also pack layers (see below). Bottom line: DON'T LOOK LIKE A SLOB BUT BE COMFORTABLE. Mindy Obenhaus had a good blog post here on raiding your closet for conference.
7) Light jacket and/or sweater. Actually, in years past I've been packing a lace shawl instead since I can cram that sucker into a bag and not worry about it getting wrinkled, but when I'm cold in those air-conditioned rooms, I can whip it out and put it around my shoulders. The nice thing about conference is that it's always in a hotel so you don't have to worry about weather except when going outside.
8) Comfortable shoes. I don't always take my own advice here because I love cute shoes! But I always have at least one pair of comfortable but nice shoes that I could wear when walking from workshop to workshop, which matches my slacks.
9) Workout clothes/shoes. The nice thing about ACFW conferences is that it's always in a hotel with a good gym to work out in, and usually the hotels have pools, too. I tend to avoid the gym in the morning because that's when it's most busy, so sometimes I'll go in the afternoon instead when there's less people.
10) SCENT FREE LOTION. The Conference is SCENT FREE since a lot of people (including our CEO, Colleen Coble) are allergic to perfumes, so I always bring Nutrogena fragrance free hand lotion.
11) An extra, empty duffel bag or suitcase because I always end up buying books and then trying to stuff them into my overstuffed suitcase to carry them home.
12) My knitting! If you're a knitter or crocheter, bring your project along! I knit while listening to workshops or the keynote speaker.
13) Snacks. Do you really want to pay $7 for a granola bar at the hotel gift shop? Also, keep your blood sugar steady since you'll be doing a lot, going places, interacting with people, and using more energy than you think you will.
14) Computer. I usually bring my laptop simply because I typically need to do work while at the conference. Since I'm the Genesis coordinator, I almost always need my files or to get online to check my email address. Other people use their computer to take notes in classes. However, if you don't think you'll need to do any of that stuff, feel free to not bring your computer. Some people will bring their iPad or Alphasmart for notetaking. I use my Alphasmart Neo since it's built like a tank, takes up less space in my conference tote bag, and doesn't need to be plugged in.
If you're bringing your computer for notetaking in workshops, remember that the rooms don't always have enough outlets, so consider bringing a multi-outlet surge protector if you can fit it in your computer bag.
You don't need to bring a notebook for notetaking because ACFW will give you a nice notebook with your conference totebag.
15) Cell phone. This is invaluable for me when I'm meeting someone (a friend, not an editor appointment) because who wants to waste precious minutes searching throughout a huge first floor lobby/meeting room area for someone?
16) Pajamas. I actually need to list this because I have forgotten my PJs on more than one occasion.
17) Charge cords for your cell phone, computer, etc. I also bring charge cords for my Nook ebook reader, my iPod, and my Bluetooth headset.
18) Books to read. Yes, I fully confess I get jittery and psychotic if I don't have a book to read when I'm on the plane or waiting or whatever. I always bring my Nook ebook reader with me so I have hundreds of books at my fingertips.
19) Bible. I use Olive Tree on my iPad (which is FANTASTIC!!!). I also have an NIV Bible on my Nook, so I never forget my Bible when I'm going places, since I always bring my Nook, plus it doesn't take up as much space in my luggage as my regular Bible. If you have a pocket Bible, you may want to consider bringing that so it'll take up less space.
20) Miscellaneous stuff:
makeup
contact lens solution
hair stuff (the hotel has a blow drier)
jewelry
vitamins/medications
safety pins
nail care kit (if you have nails that can chip or break at the worst possible times)
Bandaids
So did I miss anything? Anything you'd add to the list?
June 17, 2011
Excerpt - Protecting Her Own by Margaret Daley
Protecting Her Own
by
Margaret Daley
Nothing short of her dad's stroke could bring professional bodyguard Cara Madison back to Virginia. But her homecoming turns explosive with a pipe-bomb package addressed to her father. Cara knows two things for sure. First, someone's after either her father or her…or both. And second, this job is too big to handle on her own. Unexpected help comes from agent Connor Fitzgerald. Years ago she'd walked away from him…and love. Now, despite their unresolved feelings, they must join forces—and settle their scarred past—to survive.
Excerpt of chapter one:
"I thought that was taken care of." Cara Madison gripped her cell to her ear so tightly her hand ached as she hurried toward the foyer of her childhood home to answer the door. Exhaustion clung to her as though woven into every fiber of her being.
The bell chimed again.
"No, the State Department still has some questions," Kyra Morgan, her employer at Guardians, Inc., said.
"Hold it a sec. Someone's at the door."
She peered through the peephole, noting a deliveryman with a package and clipboard, dressed in a blue ball cap, blue shorts and white T-shirt. Probably another birthday present from one of Dad's friends. She thrust open the door and cradled the cell against her shoulder to keep it in place.
"So I have to make a trip into Washington, D.C., to see Mr. Richards at the State Department?" Cara asked her boss while she scribbled her name on the sheet of paper then took the box.
Stepping back into the house, Cara shut the door with a nudge of her hip and carried the package to the round table in the center of the dining room to put it with the multitude of others—all presents from people around the world whom her father knew.
"Cara, I'm sorry you need to go at this time. I know that last assignment was rough and now with bringing your dad home from the rehabilitation center, you don't need this complication. Mr. Richards assured me it's just a debriefing about the riots occurring in Nzadi."
She wished she could say that wasn't her fault, but what she did had set the protests off. Guilt swamped her. In protecting her client, a revered humanitarian in Nzadi was killed instead. "Don't worry. I'm tough. I'll survive. I'll call the man and set up an appointment after I get Dad home and settled."
For a few seconds she studied the plain brown box from Global Magazine with C. Madison on the label before peeling back the top flap on the carton. The sound of the tape ripping the cardboard reverberated in the stillness, exposing the top of a gift wrapped in black paper. Black? True, her father was turning sixty tomorrow, but wasn't black wrapping a little too macabre after he suffered a stroke eight weeks ago?
"I'm sure it's only a formality." Her boss's assurance drew Cara's thoughts away from the gift. "My impression from the State Department was you won't have to go back to answer any more questions from the Nzadi government."
The word Nzadi shivered down her length, leaving a track of chills even though it was summer. "I'll call you after I talk to Mr. Richards. Bye." Cara clicked off and stared down at the open box that nestled the new present, wrapped in black paper. Black like people wore to funerals. Black as the dress of the beloved lady who had been killed in the café. Cara shivered again. She wanted to forget Nzadi, but she didn't think she ever would.
The image of the beautiful woman, bleeding out on the floor of the café, nudged those last days in the African country to the foreground. She'd managed to push the trophy wife she was protecting out of the way of the assassin's bullet, only to have it lodge in the woman across from them. Again she heard the angry shouts from the crowd as she'd been driven to the Nzadian airport. The people's grief over the death of Obioma Dia had evolved into fury at Cara and the woman she'd been assigned to protect.
A shrill whistle pierced the air.
Shaking the image and the shouts from her mind, she glanced toward the kitchen. The water she was heating for her tea. The noise insisted on her immediate attention and grated her frazzled nerves. But the sound was a welcome reprieve from the thoughts never far away.
She quickly headed toward the kitchen and a soothing cup of tea along with a moment to rest and think about her father's situation—the reason she was in Clear Branch. She craved peace after the past couple of hectic days—after her last disastrous bodyguard assignment in a country that fell apart around her. Nzadi was still suffering the worst unrest in decades.
Just inside the kitchen she pocketed her phone, wishing she could silence it like she could the teakettle's racket. But her cell was her lifeline, especially when she was on a job. And now also because her dad's homecoming celebration was cancelled because of a reaction to a new medication that made the doctor decide at the last minute to keep him a few more days. She'd planned a small birthday party for tomorrow and would need to finish calling his friends to tell them she'd have to postpone the festivity.
As steam shot out of the spout on the white pot, she snatched it off the burner and set it on a cool spot on the stove. Finally the loud, annoying sound quieted. She turned toward the cabinet behind her to get a mug.
Blissful silence—no angry people in Nzadi yelling words that still curdled her blood, no rehabilitation center—
A boom rocked the foundation beneath her feet. She flew back and slammed against the edge of the counter so hard the air rushed from her lungs. Her momentum then spun her to the side, her hip clipping the corner. Her head swung back against the freezer handle then forward. Darkness swirled before her eyes as bits of wood and plaster rained down upon her, stinging her skin. Her ears rang, drowning out any sound except the thundering of her heartbeat vying for dominance.
She fumbled at her waist for the gun she wore on the job. Nothing. An urgency hammered her. Then scanning her surroundings, she realized it was on her nightstand in her bedroom. She looked toward what used to be the door from the dining room, trying to clear the haze in her mind. To figure out what to do.
Assess the situation.
Part of the wall was gone and gray smoke bellowed through the opening, carrying dust, wood chips and black bits. The wrapping paper? The stench of black powder assaulted her nostrils. She coughed, squinting to see through the ominous cloud invading every corner of the kitchen. She swiped at her gritty eyes but stopped in midaction, afraid to rub them anymore for fear of damaging them.
Need some kind of weapon.
She started toward the drawer a few feet away from her. Her legs gave out. Crumpling down the refrigerator to the tile floor, she grabbed at the dish towel hanging over the edge of the counter nearby and covered her mouth and nose with it. The room continued to rotate as though gravity were playing some kind of cruel joke on her. With a gong clanging against her skull from the concussion of the blast, she rolled over onto her knees and pushed up. The room swayed and she fell back.
She groped for her cell in her pocket and managed to slip it out, but her hand trembled so much she dropped it on the debris-covered tile.
Got to pull myself together. I've been in tough situations before.
To still the thundering of her heartbeat, she took a moment and inhaled steadying breaths through the filtering material of the towel. More coughs racked her.
Stay calm. Call 911.
She flipped the phone open while it still rested on the floor and began punching in the numbers. Drawing in another deep breath, she lifted it to her ear. The shrill ringing in her ears persisted. She doubted she could hear the 911 operator, but she needed help even getting up.
She waited a few seconds, hoping the 911 operator had answered, then said into the cell, "I can't hear you. I need help. Cara—Madison." Panic began to worm its way into her mind. With her hand holding the phone quivering, she quickly finished, "Explosion. 218 North Pine. Hurry."
Did I get through?
The cell slipped from her nerveless fingers. Still connected to 911, she hoped, she left the phone next to her while she clutched the dish towel against her face. All she wanted to do now was collapse to the cold, dirty tiles and close her eyes to still the spinning. And wait to be rescued. Dust and debris from the dining room coated the floor, a reminder of what just happened. A thought nagged her.
As a bodyguard for the past four years, she'd had one assignment where an explosion had been involved. She tried to remember back to that job her first year, but her thoughts swirled like the gray smoke earlier. What if the blast wasn't the only one? What if it ignited a fire?
Trained to remain calm in chaotic situations, she shoved her rising panic down and crawled toward the back door. A stab of pain emanated from her hip that had hit the counter, making her progress laborious. The dizziness from her movement threatened to swallow her. She had to slow down her pace even more. The scent of sulfur hung in the hazy, smoked-filled kitchen. Another spasm of coughing assailed her. Every muscle tensed as the minutes ticked by, and yet she was still only halfway to her escape. A chunk of Sheetrock crashed to the floor near her, dust mushrooming into the air. Glancing up, she spied cracks in the ceiling. Her heart jammed into her throat.
"Well, as I live and breathe, Connor Fitzgerald here in my station." Sheriff Taylor pumped Connor's arm as he shook his hand. "What brings you down here?"
"Can't an old friend visit?" Connor grinned at the taller man, several years older than his own age of thirty-four.
"Come in and tell me how it's going." Sean Taylor waved his hand toward one of two chairs in front of his desk. "How's it going at Virginia's Criminal Intelligence Division?"
"Work's good. Busy." Connor folded his long length into the chair, resting his elbows on the padded arms. "I'm here for a week to spend some time with Gramps rather than my usual one or two days. He gets lonely. He claims all his contemporaries are dying off."
"Your grandfather continues to surprise me. He's eighty and still going strong."
"Yup, that's him."
"At least you aren't too far away in Richmond."
The door opened and a deputy stuck his head into the room. "Sheriff, there's been a 911 call from Cara Madison at her dad's. She reported an explosion at the house. I dispatched two deputies and called Doc Sims."
Cara's here? She's hurt? Connor sat up straight, his gut tightening. "Who's injured?"
"Don't know. All she said was there was an explosion and that she couldn't hear well. The 911 operator tried to get more information from her but couldn't."
Sean snatched up his keys. "Thanks." Turning toward Connor, he continued, "Want to come? I know you and Cara go way back."
Connor nodded and rose. He hadn't seen her in years, and the last time they hadn't parted on good terms. He'd wanted her to stay in Clear Branch and marry him. She'd wanted to see the world. She'd left the next day.
follow you in my car," Connor said as he strode with Sean toward the exit.
Cara's father knew a lot of important people in Virginia as well as Washington, D.C. If someone was after him, the Criminal Investigative Department of the Virginia State Police could be called in to assist with the case. Since Connor was an investigator for the CID, he might as well check on what happened. That was the only reason he was going. Yeah, right, as if you don't want to make sure Cara's okay.
In his Jeep Cherokee, Connor pulled out of the parking lot right behind the sheriff's vehicle. Although his gaze focused on the white car with the flashing lights and siren in front of him, his thought centered on Cara, the only woman who had captured his heart and then crushed it. If Virginia's CID was called in, that didn't mean the case had to be his problem. He could probably claim conflict of interest. He didn't need another problem on his plate.
Cara hadn't been his concern for thirteen years. So why was he going to the Madison house?
He couldn't shake the question: Was she all right? The last he'd heard anything about her she'd quit her job as an investigative reporter for a major TV network. But that was five years ago. Didn't Gramps say something about her becoming a bodyguard? Whenever his grandfather tried to talk about Cara, Connor had always changed the subject. Now he wished he'd listened for once.
Then another question popped into his thoughts as he turned onto Pine Street in Clear Branch: Why do I care?
A fire truck and two deputies' cars were parked in front of a sprawling ranch-style home with a gaping hole where a large picture window in the dining room used to be. Bits of that window and brick around it littered the yard. He'd wanted his detached, professional facade to slip into place, but the sight of the damage the explosion had caused shoved his concern to the foreground. Fear spurred his heartbeat.
Lord, in spite of our history, I don't want Cara hurt.
Climbing from his Jeep, he surveyed the quiet, well-to-do neighborhood. Several people stood on their lawns observing the commotion. His long strides ate up the distance between him and Sean, who had finished talking to a firefighter and was heading toward the gaping hole in the house.
Check to make sure she's in one piece. Then leave.
"A gas explosion?" Connor asked, taking a whiff of the air. Nothing hinted at that, but he did smell a faint odor of sulfur as though someone had recently shot off some fireworks. Alarm bells went off in his mind. "Since C.J. had his stroke, is he still working for Global News?"
"You smell it, too, don'tcha?"
"Yup, black powder."
"He's still at Sunny Meadows, but if I know C.J., he'll be back to his old desk as soon as humanly possible. He was supposed to be home today."
"Where's Cara?" What if she'd passed out somewhere in the house after she made the 911 call? What if there was another bomb? He quickened his steps toward the front door, which was barely hanging on its hinges.
A hand on his arm halted his progress. "I've called the tri-county task force's bomb squad. Also, ATF. I don't want anyone inside until they clear it. Even the firefighters will stay back unless a fire breaks out."
"But Cara?" Lord, she has to be okay.
Sean tossed his head in the direction of the side of the house. "My deputy has her. He found her out back. She's okay."
Connor turned and saw one of the deputies and Cara making their way slowly across the lawn. For a few seconds his heartbeat pummeled against his rib cage at the disheveled sight of her—alive but hurt. He forced his emotions concerning her into a box and slammed the lid closed, searching for that professional facade so necessary for him to do his job.
Print book:
eHarlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10EHQN at checkout!)
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BooksaMillion.com
Ebook:
eHarlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10EHQN at checkout!)
Nookbook
Kindle
BooksaMillion
June 16, 2011
Excerpt - Out of Time by Shirlee McCoy
Out of Time
by
Shirlee McCoy
Someone plans to disrupt the 175th anniversary celebration of the Battle of the Alamo—and it's Alamo Ranger Susannah Jorgenson's job to stop the culprit. But that means partnering with Levi McDonall, who skipped town years ago with her heart. Levi's now a Texas Ranger, sworn to protect her at any cost, but Susannah knows she'll pay the price if she falls for him again. She has to stay focused on their goals—to eliminate the threat and solve the murder of Levi's captain. But an unknown killer is watching…ready to eliminate them.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Silence told its own story, and Alamo Ranger Susannah Jorgenson listened as she hurried across the bridge that led to the chapel. Darkness had fallen hours ago and the air held a hint of rain. The shadows seemed deeper than usual, the darkness just a little blacker. Or maybe it was simply her imagination that made the Alamo complex seem so forbidding.
Imagination and too many sleepless nights.
Six months since Aaron Simons had attacked her, five months since he was killed in a police standoff just outside of San Antonio, and Susannah was still jumping at shadows. People were starting to notice. Her fellow park rangers were beginning to talk. Her life, the one she'd planned so carefully, the one she'd wanted ever since she was a kid, was slowly unraveling, and she felt helpless to stop it.
She shivered. Not from the cold. Not from the chilly breeze. From the darkness, the silence, the endless echo of her fear as she made her final rounds. She'd never known terror before Aaron. Now, it was her closest friend. Not something she was proud of, but something she acknowledged as she jogged to the chapel and flashed the beam of her light along the corners of the building.
Nothing.
No movement, no sounds, no reason to think she wasn't alone, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being watched. That somewhere beyond the beam of her light, danger waited.
Her cell phone rang as she walked into the building, and she jumped, her heart pounding, her pulse racing. Everything out of proportion to the moment. That seemed to be the story of her life lately.
"Hello?" Her voice bounced off the stone walls of the chapel, and something skittered in a dark corner to her right. She turned, her flashlight revealing nothing but tile floor and emptiness.
"Susannah? It's Chad Morran."
"What's up?"
"Just got a call from Captain Ben Fritz with the Texas Rangers."
"Let me guess. He wanted to know about our security plans for the 175th anniversary of the Battle of the Alamo celebration." A soft sound carried through the cavernous room. Rustling papers? Fabric brushing against stone? Susannah cocked her head, listening, but heard nothing but her rapid heartbeat.
"Partially. He also wanted to let me know he's sending a man out to the compound. They want to do a security sweep. See where our areas of weakness are."
"They're assuming we have them."
"Aside from Fort Knox, I doubt there's a place that doesn't. With the 175th anniversary of the Battle of the Alamo coming up, we can't afford to be too careful. The opening ceremony has to go off without a hitch."
"I know." There were more than a few high-level politicians scheduled to speak at a ceremony that would be hosted by the Alamo Planning Committee, and protecting them was the first priority of the Alamo Rangers.
"So you won't mind staying at the compound a little late tonight? You are head of the security team for the event, after all."
"You don't need to convince me, Chad. I'm happy to do it." Though staying alone at the compound after dark had become one of her least favorite things to do.
"Good. Good. Captain Fritz said his man should be there within the hour. I can come and help with the briefing if you want me to, or we can touch base tomorrow before we open."
"No need for you to come. I'll handle things."
"You're sure?" That he would ask made Susannah's cheeks heat.
"It's my job, Chad. If I can't do it, I shouldn't be working here." Something she'd reminded herself of one too many times during the past few months.
"I wasn't implying that you couldn't handle it, Susannah. Just giving you an opportunity to ask for backup if you need it. This event is a big deal. We can't afford to have anything go wrong."
"Nothing will."
She hoped.
She prayed.
But things went wrong all the time.
Good days turned bad in a blink of an eye.
"All right. I'll leave it in your hands, then, and I'll want a full report tomorrow."
"No problem." She slid the phone back in her pocket, did a full sweep of the chapel and of the office area beyond. Nothing, of course. There was never anything. She should be relieved, but all she felt was disgust at herself and her fear.
She ran a hand over her hair and tapped her Stetson against her thigh. What she needed was a little fresh air.
A few minutes outside of the compound listening to the sound of people and the action drifting up from the River Walk and she'd feel more like herself.
"Sure you will," she muttered as she opened the chapel door and stepped straight into a broad, muscular chest.
Someone grabbed her upper arms, holding her in place when she would have fallen.
And she was back in time, hands wrapped around her throat, cutting off air, fetid breath washing over her face. Alcohol and evil and every nightmare come to life.
She gagged, shoving forward into her attacker, pushing her weight into a solid wall of strength as she tried to unbalance him.
"Hey. Calm down. I was just trying to keep you from falling." The soothing tone washed over her, the words rumbling near her ear as the man released his hold and stepped back.
Broad-shouldered.
A wide-brimmed cowboy hat hiding his eyes.
Not Aaron.
Of course, not Aaron.
"Sorry about that. I wasn't expecting anyone to be standing near the door. We're closed for the day, but we'll be open again at seven tomorrow morning." She cleared her throat, wiped a sweaty palm against her khaki slacks.
"No need to apologize. I should have knocked as soon as I got here. I'm Ranger Levi McDonall. My captain said he was going to call and let you know I was on the way."
"Levi McDonall?" Her childhood hero? Her best guy friend? Her first teenage crush?
No way could they be the same.
"That's right. You were told that I'd be coming, weren't you?"
"Just a few minutes ago. Come on in." She hurried into the chapel, trying to pull herself together. This was the Texas Ranger she'd be working with for the next nine days, and she couldn't afford to look like she didn't have things under control.
Didn't have herself under control.
She flipped on a light, turned to face McDonall.
He'd pulled off his hat, and his strong, handsome face was exactly the one she hadn't believed it could be.
Levi McDonall.
Her Levi McDonall.
At least, that's how she'd once thought of him.
He met her gaze, his eyes a richer brown than she'd remembered, his lashes long and thick. He'd changed. Filled out. Gone from brash teenager to confident man.
"Susannah Jorgenson?" He took a step toward her, his eyes reflecting her surprise, his full lips curving into a smile.
"That's right."
"Of course it is. I'd know you anywhere."
"I guess so. I spent the better part of nine years annoying you."
"Annoying? I wouldn't exactly say that." He smiled again, flashing dimples that would have melted the hardest of hearts.
"I'm sure you would if you weren't afraid of sounding rude."
"When have you ever known me to be afraid of that?"
"I haven't known you for years. As a matter of fact, the last time I saw you, you were a teenager with big dreams."
"And the last time I saw you, you had pigtails and braces." He grinned, moving farther into the room, light reflecting off his black hair and simmering in his eyes.
"I never had braces," she responded, not resisting as he pulled her into a bear hug, bracing for what she knew she would feel. Trapped. Panicked.
But the feelings didn't come, and she let herself relax into his embrace, let his warmth seep into her and chase away the chill that had dogged her for the better part of the evening.
"That's better." He stepped back, looked down into her face, his gaze touching her hair, her cheeks, her lips before returning to her eyes.
"What?"
"You were wound up tighter than a caged tiger."
"Not really. I was just—" Afraid of nothing? Jumping at shadows? She couldn't say any of those things. "It's been a long day. I'm ready for it to be over."
"I'll make this as quick as possible, but I can't promise that we won't be here awhile. The Alamo Planning Committee is anxious for security measures to be worked up and in place for the upcoming ceremony. My captain asked me to come by and do a security sweep, check to see if there are any weaknesses that we'll need to address during the event."
"I'll give you a tour. Let you get a feel for the compound. Then, we can go over things in detail." She followed his lead, focusing on the task at hand. Secure the compound for the ceremony. Get through the next nine days. She could make a decision about her future as an Alamo Ranger after that.
"You have some security plans in place already, right?"
"Of course. We've been working on them since we were told the opening ceremony would be held at the Alamo." She led him into the office, gestured for him to take a seat while she pulled a file from her desk. "We can take a look at the plans before we do the tour if you'd like."
"Better to see the place first, I think. I moved back to San Antonio a couple of years ago, but I haven't been to the Alamo since I was a kid. Walking around the compound will familiarize me with it again. That will make visualizing security measures a little easier."
"Let's get started, then." She led him through the chapel and into the compound. Shadows still edged the path, but they seemed less sinister, the silence less ominous.
She wasn't sure she liked what that said about her.
She'd been an Alamo Ranger for four years, and she'd never been afraid to walk the compound alone at night. That she was ate at her, turned her inside out, made her wonder if being a security officer really was what she should be doing. Made her question everything she believed about herself, her goals, her passions.
"You've changed, Susannah." Levi broke into her thoughts, and she met his eyes, saw that he was studying her with an intensity that made her shiver.
"We've both changed."
"We've both matured, sure, but there's something else. Used to be you were bubbly and excitable. Talkative to the point of frustration. Now, you're subdued. Quiet."
"And you're reading a lot into five minutes of reconnecting." She offered a smile that she hoped looked more natural than it felt.
"Maybe, but—"
"It doesn't really matter, does it? We're both here to do a job. How we've changed, why we've changed, if we've changed, none of those things are important." She cut him off, not wanting speculation to lead to a discussion she didn't want to have. Not with Levi. Not with anyone.
"Then we'll call my observation a point of interest and move on. How big is the compound?"
"A little over four acres. The ceremony will take place in the gardens. We'll have a stage set up there."
"And you have enough people on your security team to keep the area protected?"
"Yes. We—" A loud bang shattered the quiet, the discordant sound so completely unexpected Susannah didn't have time to think, didn't have time to panic. She ran, skirting the long barracks, Levi close on her heels. Another bang followed the first, and she changed course, racing toward the sound. A figure lurched out from behind the giant oak that had stood for centuries in the compound, and Susannah called out a warning, her hand on her gun, her body humming with adrenaline.
The intruder didn't heed the warning to freeze, didn't stop bulldozing toward her. Wobbling, but coming fast, knocking into Susannah before she could decide if deadly force was necessary.
She stumbled and went down hard, the pungent scent of alcohol and sweat swirling around her, threatening to drag her back to that night, back into terror.
And then he was gone, pulled up and away, slammed down onto the ground, Levi crouching over him, a gun pressed to his head. "Don't move. Don't even breathe. You okay, Susannah?"
"Fine." She managed to get to her feet, managed to cross the small area that separated them. Managed to do it all without shattering into a million pieces.
But she wanted to shatter.
Wanted to fall into a heap of blubbering fear and let Levi handle the intruder.
"Susie. Suze. You tell him to let me go. You tell him he's got no right to treat me like this." The slurred words, the voice, they were familiar. The alcohol. The sweat. The stumbling, fumbling steps.
Mitch.
She should have known.
She hadn't.
Fear had clouded her judgment, had almost made her pull a weapon she didn't need.
The knowledge was a heavy weight as she crouched next to Mitch and signaled for Levi to let him go.
"You can let him up." Susannah's voice seeped through the haze of Levi's rage as he leaned over her attacker. The acrid scent of alcohol and sweat drifted up from the prone man, mixing with the softer, subtler scent of Susannah's perfume.
Susannah Jorgenson.
He still couldn't quite believe the stunningly beautiful Alamo Ranger he was going to be working with for the next nine days was the knobby-kneed tomboy who'd followed him around when he was a kid.
"He's trespassing on private property." And he'd knocked Susannah to the ground.
"Trespassing? You know I wouldn't do something like that, Susannah." The words were slurred, the man obviously drunk as a skunk.
"You are trespassing, Mitch. And you know it." Susannah nudged Levi's arm away, then helped the man turn over and sit up. Deep wrinkles and hollow cheeks told the story of too much excess. Threadbare clothes and duct-taped shoes told the story of something else. Desperation. Helplessness.
Levi knew the feeling of both those things.
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June 15, 2011
Guest blog by Donita K. Paul and excerpt
The Dragons of Chirilby
Donita K. Paul
(previously published as The Vanishing Sculptor)
Before DragonSpell, on a different continent and a different time, a young emerlindian's desperate decision threatens to disrupt the foundation of the world.
Tipper has been caring for her family's estate for years now, ever since her father disappeared, making a living by selling off his famous artwork. Then she learns that three statues she sold were carved from an ancient foundation stone, and the fabric of her reality is crumbling.
She must free her father and save the world. But she can't do it alone.
Her ragtag band of adventurers includes Beccaroon, a giant parrot; Bealomondore, an aristocratic young artist; a handsome dragonkeeper prince; the Wizard Fenworth; and the tumanhofer librarian Librettowit. Together they travel through valleys and kingdoms and consort with purveyors of good and agents of evil to find and reunite the missing statues. Will they learn to rely on Wulder's grace and guidance along the way?
A word from Donita:
The Vanishing Sculptor confused people, well, mainly my readers. They said the title sounded like a mystery. Was I writing mysteries now? Where are the dragons? Come on, Mrs. Paul, we want dragons. So Vanishing Sculptor got shelved and in its place came Dragons of Chiril. The title fits better with Dragons of the Valley , the second book in the Chiril Chronicles, and Dragons of the Watch , the third book. Dragons of Chiril comes out on June 21st, 2011. You could say it has been reborn, but not in the spiritual sense. There is one sentence in the whole book that is different.
The heroine in the first two books of the Chiril Chronicles is Tipper Schope. In her early twenties, she has been in charge of a massive household for the many years following her father's disappearance. In her mind, she has not done a great job. At the time of the first scene, she has been reduced to selling her noted father's artwork in order to pay the bills. Her home is a deteriorating mansion. They have two servants left from the full staff. Her mother's mental health and stability has broken down. The failure of the mansion has caused hardship among those who depended on her father and this establishment. Tipper feels the weight of all the responsibility.
I see strong women face two types of situations those they chose and those that are thrust upon them. I know a young lady who worked hard to put herself through college to become an RN. She showed tremendous strength and determination to meet her goal, one she had chosen herself. But this same young lady had an abusive parent, an alcoholic spouse, and a relative with a debilitating disease. Obviously these burdens were not ones she chose. With each new obstacle that came her way, she continued on the path she knew God had ordained. And not only that, but she remained a cheerful, optimistic person. As a great mom, she has drilled into her kids, "Attitude is everything."
The character in Dragons of Chiril is also challenged by adversity. Unfortunately, three of the statues she sold to acquire money for expenses, turned out to be the cornerstone of the world she lives in. With the statues separated, the countryside has bizarre eruptions that destroy property and life.
As in real life, with each new challenge, Tipper grows to meet the difficulty. That stretching to do the next thing, the thing we think is just beyond our ability, makes us grow stronger. Tipper's character deepens as she handles what I (the author) throw at her. And she also gains a perspective of herself that eliminates the false guilt. I think false guilt weighs us down more than the reality we face. Tipper does reach a happy ending, but the reader is aware that it is not happily ever after, because the road we travel will not smooth out and be bump-free until we reach Heaven. That's okay. We have the hope!
Dragons of the Watch will be the last book in this series. It comes out in October.
Excerpt of chapter one:
A View from a Tree
Sir Beccaroon cocked his head, ruffled his neck feathers, and stretched, allowing his crimson wings to spread. The branch beneath him sank and rose again, responding to his weight. Moist, hot air penetrated his finery, and he held his wings away from his brilliant blue sides.
"Too hot for company," he muttered, rocking back and forth from one scaly four-toed foot to the other on a limb of a sacktrass tree. The leaves shimmered as the motion rippled along the branch. "Where is that girl?"
His yellow head swiveled almost completely around. He peered with one eye down the overgrown path and then scoped out every inch within his range of vision, twisting his neck slowly.
A brief morning shower had penetrated the canopy above and rinsed the waxy leaves. A few remaining drops glistened where thin shafts of tropical sun touched the dark green foliage. On the broot vine, flowers the size of plates lifted their fiery red petals, begging the thumb-sized bees to come drink before the weight of nectar broke off the blooms.
Beccaroon flew to a perch on a gnarly branch. He sipped from a broot blossom and ran his black tongue over the edges of his beak. A sudden breeze shook loose a sprinkle of leftover raindrops. Beccaroon shook his tail feathers and blinked. When the disturbance settled, he cocked his head and listened.
"Ah! She's coming." He preened his soft green breast and waited, giving a show of patience he didn't feel. His head jerked up as he detected someone walking with the girl.
"Awk!" The sound exploded from his throat. He flew into a roost far above the forest floor, where he couldn't be seen from the ground, and watched the approach of the girl placed under his guardianship. Tipper strolled along the path below, wearing a flowing golden gown over her tall, lean body. She'd put her long blond hair in a fancy braid that started at the crown of her head. A golden chain hung from each of her pointed ears. And she'd decorated her pointed facial features with subdued colors—blue for her eyelids, rose for her lips, and a shimmering yellow on her cheeks. Beccaroon sighed. His girl was lovely.
The bushes along the path behind her rustled. Beccaroon's tongue clucked against his beak in disapproval. Hanner trudged after Tipper, leading a donkey hitched to a cart. The man's shaggy hair, tied with a string at the back of his neck, hung oily and limp. Food and drink stained the front of his leather jerkin, and his boots wore mud instead of a shine. The parrot caught a whiff of the o'rant from where he perched. The young man should have carried the fragrance of citrus, but his overstrong odor reminded Beccaroon of rotten fruit.
A tree full of monkeys broke out in outraged chatter. Tipper, when alone, walked amid the animals' habitat without causing alarm. "Smart monkeys," said Beccaroon. "You recognize a ninny-napconder when you see one." He used the cover of the monkeys' rabblerousing to glide to another tree, where he could hide at a lower level.
He had an idea where Tipper would lead Hanner.
"Here it is," said the pretty emerlindian. She pulled vines from a clump, revealing a gray statue beneath. "My father named this one Vegetable Garden."
Hanner pulled off more vines as he made his way slowly around the four-foot statue. "Vegetable Garden? Mistress Tipper, are you sure you have the right one? This is a statue of a boy reading a book. He's not even chewing a carrot while he sits here."
"Father used to say reading a good book was nourishment."
Hanner scratched his head, shrugged his shoulders, and went to fetch the donkey and cart. Tipper's head tilted back, and her blue eyes looked up into the trees. Her gaze roamed over the exact spot Beccaroon used as a hidden roost. Not by the blink of an eyelash did she betray whether she had seen him. Hanner returned.
Tipper spread out a blanket in the cart after Hanner maneuvered it next to the statue, then helped him lift the stone boy into the back. Hanner grunted a lot, and Tipper scolded.
"Careful… Don't break his arm… Too many vines still around the base."
They got the statue loaded, and Tipper tucked the blanket over and around it. She then gave Hanner a pouch of coins.
"This is for your usual delivery fee. I couldn't put in any extra for traveling expenses. I'm sure you'll be reimbursed by our buyer." He grunted and slipped the money inside his jerkin.
Tipper clasped her hands together. "Be careful. And give Master Dodderbanoster my regards."
He tipped his hat and climbed aboard the cart. "I always am. And I always do."
She stood in the path until the creak of the cart wheels could no longer be heard.
Beccaroon swooped down and sat on a thick branch wrapped with a leafless green creeper. The vine looked too much like a snake, so he hopped to another limb.
"Was that wise?" he asked.
"I don't think so either, Bec, but what else can I do? I sell the artwork only as a last resort when we need quite a bit of cash. The well needs re-digging." Tipper pulled a tight face, looking like she'd swallowed nasty medicine. "We've sold almost everything in the house. Mother sees our things in the market and buys them back. Sometimes I get a better price for a piece the second time I sell it, and sometimes not." Beccaroon swayed back and forth on his feet, shaking his head.
"She never catches on?"
"Never." Tipper giggled. "She shows remarkably consistent taste. When she spots something that was once ours, she buys it, brings it home, shows it off to me, and tells me she has always wanted something just like it. And she never notices pictures gone from the walls, rugs missing in rooms, chairs, tables, vases, candlesticks gone. I used to rearrange things to disguise a hole in the décor, but there's no need." The sigh that followed her explanation held no joy. Tipper looked around. "There never is a place to sit in this forest when one wants to plop down and have a good cry."
"You're not the type to cry. I'll walk you home." Beccaroon hopped down to the path.
His head came up to her waist. She immediately put her dainty hand on his topknot and smoothed the creamy plumes back. "You're the best of friends. Keeping this secret would be unbearable if I didn't have you to confide in."
Beccaroon clicked his tongue. "No flattery, or I shall fly away."
They moseyed back the direction Tipper had come, opposite the way Hanner had departed.
Beccaroon tsked. "I don't like that greasy fellow."
"I know." Tipper gently twisted the longest feather from the center of Bec's crest around her forefinger.
The grand parrot jerked his head away and gave her his sternest glare. She was his girl, but he still wouldn't let her take liberties. She didn't seem to notice he was disgruntled, and that further blackened his mood.
"Hanner is all right, Bec. He takes the statues to Dodderbanoster. Dodderbanoster takes them to cities beyond my reach and gets a fair price for them. Sometimes I think the pouch Hanner brings back is way too full."
Beccaroon clicked his tongue. "Your father is a master artist. His work is worth a mighty price."
"Hanner says sometimes Dodderbanoster sells them to a dealer who takes them even farther away, to thriving districts. Wealthy patrons bid to own a Verrin Schope work of art." She held back a leafy branch so Beccaroon could strut by with ease. "Late at night when I sit in my window and think, I hope that Papa will see one of his sculptures or
paintings in a market in some far away metropolis.
"I imagine the scene. He exclaims with shock. He turns red and sputters and shakes his fists. In fact, he's so angry he comes straight home and yells loud and long at his daughter who dares to sell his masterpieces."
Beccaroon rolled his shoulders, causing his wings to tilt out, then settle against his sides. "What of your mother? Does she ever mention your father's absence?"
"No, why should she? He's been gone for years, but she still sees him. She talks to him every night after his workday is done. Promenades through the garden with him. Pours his tea, and just the other evening I heard her fussing at him for not giving enough money to the parish."
"I suppose she dipped in the household funds to make up for his neglect."
Tipper sighed. "Yes, she did."
They went on a ways in silence.
Tipper picked a bloom, savored its spicy odor, then placed it behind one pointed ear. "Mother has an idea in her head."
"For anyone else, the head is a splendid place to keep an idea. For your mother, she should just let them go."
"She's determined to visit her sister." Tipper raised her eyebrows so that the upside-down V was even more pronounced. "She'll go if she manages to pack her long list of necessities. Some of the items are quite unreasonable."
Beccaroon snatched a nut from an open shell on the ground. He played the small nugget over his tongue, enjoying its sweetness, then swallowed. "And you? Is she taking you?"
"No, I'm to stay here and make sure Papa is comfortable and remembers to go to bed at night instead of working till all hours in his studio."
"I don't like you being alone in that house."
"I don't either."
"Of course, there are the servants."
"Only two now."
Beccaroon ruffled his feathers, starting at the tuft on top of his head, fluffing the ruff of his neck, proceeding down his back, and ending with a great shake of his magnificent tail.
"It seems I will have to move into the house."
"Oh, Bec. I was hoping you'd say that."
Excerpted from The Dragons of Chiril by Donita K. Paul Copyright © 2011 by Donita K. Paul.
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Excerpt - Second Chance Dad by Roxanne Rustand
Second Chance Dad
by
Roxanne Rustand
The minute she steps foot in his dark, miserable house, Sophie Alexander knows Josh McClaren is not her usual patient. But the single mom and physical therapist is desperate to make a life for her and her young son. And she's definitely no quitter! It's obvious to Sophie that handsome, cantankerous Josh hides his pain behind a wall of grief. Little by little, Sophie and her son, Eli, do more than help Josh find his faith again. They make Josh wonder if there's a family in his future after all….
Excerpt of chapter one:
Sophie stepped out of her ancient Taurus sedan but lingered at the open door, staring at the massive dog on the porch of the sprawling cabin. The dog stared back at her with laserlike intensity, head lowered and tail stiff.
It was not a welcoming pose.
But set back in the deep shadows of the pine trees crowding so close, the cabin itself—with all the windows dark—seemed even more menacing than a wolfhound mix with very sharp teeth.
"Don't worry about the dog," Grace Dearborn had said with a breezy smile during Sophie's orientation at the county home health department offices. "He's quite the bluffer. It's the owner who is more likely to bite."
From the spooky appearance of the dwelling, Sophie could imagine the home health care administrator's words about this client being true in the most literal sense. Ominous clouds had rolled in earlier this afternoon, bringing heavy rains and lightning, and from the looks of the sky, the current respite would be brief.
So what kind of person would be sitting in there, in all that gloomy darkness?
She looked at the folder in her hand again.
Dr. Josh McLaren. Widower. Lives alone. No local support system. Declined home health aides. Postsurgical healing of comminuted fracture, right leg with a knee replacement. Surgical repair of fractured .1.-4 and L-5 lumbar vertebrae, multiple comminuted fractures, right hand.
There were no details on the accident itself. Had he been hit by a truck? She shuddered, imagining the pain he'd been through. The surgeries and therapy had to have been as bad as the injuries themselves.
The only other documentation in the folder were the doctor's physical therapy orders dated last year, originating from Lucas General Hospital in Minneapolis, and some scant, frustrated progress notes written by her various physical therapist predecessors.
The last one had ignored professional convention by inserting his personal feelings into his notes.
The man is surly and impossible.
Ten minutes spent arguing about the need for therapy. Five minutes of deep massage of his right leg and strengthening exercises before he ordered me out of his house.
And the final note…
I give up. Doctor or not, McLaren is a highly unpleasant client and I will not be coming back here.
Sophie scanned the documents again, searching for a birth date or mention of the man's age, which was basic information present in the other nine case charts she'd been assigned. Thus far, nothing.
Maybe this guy was an old duffer, like her grandfather. Crotchety and isolated and clinging to whatever measure of independence he could manage.
This morning, Grace had studied Sophie's home visit schedule before handing it over, and she'd made it clear once again that Sophie had to succeed with every physical therapy client, to the limits of their potential, and that she'd be closely evaluating Sophie's progress.
The job was temporary—just three months while covering for the regular therapist who'd gone to Chicago for some intensive advanced training. Excellence was expected on a daily basis, Grace had emphasized. But if Sophie did exceptionally well, Grace would try to push the county board to approve hiring her on a permanent basis.
The thought had lifted Sophie's heart with joy, though now some of her giddy excitement faded. She set her jaw. If her ability to stay in Aspen Creek hinged on those stipulations, then no one—not even this difficult old man—was going to stand in her way. Far too much depended on it.
"Buddy, I'm going to overwhelm you with kindness, and your mean ole dog, too," she muttered under her breath as she pawed through a grocery sack on the front seat of her car. "See how you like that."
Withdrawing a small can, she peeled off the outer plastic lid, pulled the tab to open the can and held it high. "Salmon," she crooned. "Come and get it."
It took a minute for the scent to drift over to the cabin. The dog's head jerked up. He sniffed the breeze, then he cautiously started across the stretch of grass between the cabin and driveway.
She stayed in the lee of her open car door, ready to leap back inside at the least sign of aggression. But by the time the dog reached her front bumper his tongue was lolling and his tail wagging.
She grabbed a plastic spoon on her dashboard— a remnant of her last trip to a Dairy Queen—and scooped up a chunk of the pungent, pink fish. She dropped it on the grass and the dog wolfed it down, his tail wagging even faster. "Friends?"
She held out a cautious hand and he licked it, his eyes riveted on the can in her other hand. "Just one bite. When I come out, I'll give you one more. Deal?"
His entire body wagged as he followed her to the cabin door.
No lights shone through the windows. She knocked. Then knocked again as loud as she could and listened for any signs of movement.
What if.what if the old guy had passed on?
Her heart in her throat, she framed her face with her hands and pressed her nose to a pane of glass, trying to peer into the gloom. Knocked again. And then she quietly tried the doorknob.
It turned easily in her hand. She pulled the door open, just an inch. "Hello? Anyone here?" She raised her voice. "I'm from the home health agency."
No answer.
Thunder rumbled outside, heavy and ominous. A nearby crack of lightning shook the porch beneath her feet. She opened the door wider, then bracketed her hands against the inner screen door and tried to look inside. "Hello?"
The dog at her side whimpered. Then he shoved past her, sending the door swinging back to crash against the interior wall.
So much for subtlety.
"Hello," she yelled. "Are you here? Are you okay?"
Something moved in the darkness—probably just the dog. Still, she took a cautious step back.
If the old fellow had died, she had no business disturbing the scene. The sheriff should be called, and the coroner. And if he was in there with a shotgun, she sure didn't want to surprise him.
But on the other hand, if he needed help, she could hardly walk away. Steeling herself, she reached around the corner and fumbled along the inside wall until she found a light switch and flipped it on.
Only a single, weak bulb came to life in the center of the room, leaving most of it dark. She started to step over the threshold…then drew in a sharp breath.
The room was nearly bare. She could make out the shapes of a sofa, chair and what might be a desk in one corner. But it was the figure suddenly looming over her that made her heart lurch into overdrive with fear. Tall. Broad shoulders. Silhouetted by the faint light behind him, she couldn't make out his expression, but his stance telegraphed irritation.
This wasn't some old guy.
Maybe…maybe he was an intruder. Maybe he'd hurt poor old crotchety Dr. McLaren and was hauling away all the loot in this cabin.
Raising her hands defensively, she backed up a step, and then another, preparing to run.
But then she saw the dog amble over and sit at the man's side, leaning its shaggy body against his hip. He rested a gentle hand on the animal's head.
"I—I'm sorry," she faltered, searching his face. He didn't look disabled…but then she saw the telltale signs of tension in his stance, as if it had been painful to make it to the door. And the angle of his body, as if he were guarding himself against injuries that probably still kept him up at night.
He said nothing.
"You must be Dr. McLaren. I thought…I thought you were old," she stammered as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. He wasn't only a much younger man— probably in his mid-thirties at the most—but he was striking in that tall, dark, and dangerous sort of way that always made her self-conscious about her very ordinary self. "When you didn't answer, I…urn…I was afraid that you might be dead."
"Unfortunately, no," he growled. He glanced at her upraised hands, then met her eyes with a piercing stare. "So who are you, and why are you threatening me with a can of salmon?" His gaze slid over to the folder in her other hand. "Second thought—just forget it and go away."
He started to close the door. She stopped it with her foot. "I can't leave. I'm Sophie Alexander, your new physical therapist, from the county home health agency."
"Well, Sophie, maybe you're the new therapist, but you're wrong. You certainly can leave."
"No, I can't."
"The others did, which was fine with me."
"Look. I've been given my schedule, and Grace Dearborn—"
"Grace." He sighed heavily.
"Right. Ms. Dearborn made it very clear that I had to follow through without fail on every person in my caseload. And honestly? Today hasn't been good. I've been scratched and bitten by an eighty-seven-year-old woman with Alzheimer's who should be in a care center, not living with her son. And I have been screamed at by an old man who was sure I was his ex-wife come back to life, and who called 911, while I was there. You can call 911 too, or you can just let me in and we'll talk about where you're at with your therapy. Okay? Because either way, I'm not leaving. I cannot let Grace down."
He scowled back at her, obviously impressed…or maybe, just stunned into silence.
"Please." She softened her tone. "It was a long drive up here. I'd like to get this visit over before that storm hits, so I can get back to town before the roads wash out. Okay?"
"Why does pleasing Grace mean so much to you? It's just a job."
"It means a lot more to me than you could ever imagine. So now, can we get down to business?"
* * *For someone who couldn't be more than five foot three and a hundred pounds soaking wet, the latest physical therapist to land on his doorstep appeared to be one very determined woman. He could only hope that she wasn't as stubborn as she looked, but right now the fiery gleam in those pretty green eyes spelled trouble.
"Well?" She pinned him with a steady look. "Can I come in?"
Josh gritted his teeth and inwardly braced himself to mask his pain as he waved her on into the great room of the cabin. "Suit yourself."
She hit him with a blinding smile, then traipsed on in, coochy-cooed his dog, Bear, who—traitor that he was—moaned with pleasure at her soft touch and followed her when she headed for the sofa under the moose head mounted on the wall.
She gave the moose a sad look, then angled a disapproving glance in Josh's direction.
"Don't look at me—he came with the cabin." Josh turned on a table lamp beside his chair and waited until she settled on the couch with a folder in her lap that probably told her more about him than he wanted anyone to know—much less some perky little pixie who was planning to gush platitudes and false empathy about his "situation," and then come up with yet another completely useless plan to turn his life around.
He'd been there, done that, and wasn't going there again with anyone—even if this gal did have a smile that could rival the lighting in a surgical suite.
Glancing between the can of salmon in her hand and the rapt attention of the dog at her feet, she set the can on the table at the end of the couch and waggled a forefinger at Bear. "Don't even think about it."
"How do I know you haven't poisoned my dog with that stuff?"
"I love dogs. I'm just not sure about the ones that meet me with a snarl, and I happened to have the salmon in a grocery bag I forgot to take out of my car last night. But believe me, after meeting several grumpy dogs and their even grumpier owners today I'll always carry something yummy in the future. Pays to make friends." She gave him a slow appraisal.
"What about you? Ghirardelli? Lindt?"
He masked a startled bark of laughter with a deeper scowl.
"Well, then, let's get on with things, okay?" she continued smoothly. "I suspect that with your medical background, you know far more than I do about your injuries and how to provide the exact type of therapy for regaining maximum function."
Did he? Not really. Not anymore. He'd specialized in emergency medicine, not the long haul of restorative medicine that often followed severe injuries, and after ten years of intense focus on his own field, what he knew was based more on logic and what was now outdated information from medical school.
Print book:
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Excerpt - Second Chance Dad by Roxanne Rustand
Second Chance Dad
by
Roxanne Rustand
The minute she steps foot in his dark, miserable house, Sophie Alexander knows Josh McClaren is not her usual patient. But the single mom and physical therapist is desperate to make a life for her and her young son. And she's definitely no quitter! It's obvious to Sophie that handsome, cantankerous Josh hides his pain behind a wall of grief. Little by little, Sophie and her son, Eli, do more than help Josh find his faith again. They make Josh wonder if there's a family in his future after all….
Excerpt of chapter one:
Sophie stepped out of her ancient Taurus sedan but lingered at the open door, staring at the massive dog on the porch of the sprawling cabin. The dog stared back at her with laserlike intensity, head lowered and tail stiff.
It was not a welcoming pose.
But set back in the deep shadows of the pine trees crowding so close, the cabin itself—with all the windows dark—seemed even more menacing than a wolfhound mix with very sharp teeth.
"Don't worry about the dog," Grace Dearborn had said with a breezy smile during Sophie's orientation at the county home health department offices. "He's quite the bluffer. It's the owner who is more likely to bite."
From the spooky appearance of the dwelling, Sophie could imagine the home health care administrator's words about this client being true in the most literal sense. Ominous clouds had rolled in earlier this afternoon, bringing heavy rains and lightning, and from the looks of the sky, the current respite would be brief.
So what kind of person would be sitting in there, in all that gloomy darkness?
She looked at the folder in her hand again.
Dr. Josh McLaren. Widower. Lives alone. No local support system. Declined home health aides. Postsurgical healing of comminuted fracture, right leg with a knee replacement. Surgical repair of fractured .1.-4 and L-5 lumbar vertebrae, multiple comminuted fractures, right hand.
There were no details on the accident itself. Had he been hit by a truck? She shuddered, imagining the pain he'd been through. The surgeries and therapy had to have been as bad as the injuries themselves.
The only other documentation in the folder were the doctor's physical therapy orders dated last year, originating from Lucas General Hospital in Minneapolis, and some scant, frustrated progress notes written by her various physical therapist predecessors.
The last one had ignored professional convention by inserting his personal feelings into his notes.
The man is surly and impossible.
Ten minutes spent arguing about the need for therapy. Five minutes of deep massage of his right leg and strengthening exercises before he ordered me out of his house.
And the final note…
I give up. Doctor or not, McLaren is a highly unpleasant client and I will not be coming back here.
Sophie scanned the documents again, searching for a birth date or mention of the man's age, which was basic information present in the other nine case charts she'd been assigned. Thus far, nothing.
Maybe this guy was an old duffer, like her grandfather. Crotchety and isolated and clinging to whatever measure of independence he could manage.
This morning, Grace had studied Sophie's home visit schedule before handing it over, and she'd made it clear once again that Sophie had to succeed with every physical therapy client, to the limits of their potential, and that she'd be closely evaluating Sophie's progress.
The job was temporary—just three months while covering for the regular therapist who'd gone to Chicago for some intensive advanced training. Excellence was expected on a daily basis, Grace had emphasized. But if Sophie did exceptionally well, Grace would try to push the county board to approve hiring her on a permanent basis.
The thought had lifted Sophie's heart with joy, though now some of her giddy excitement faded. She set her jaw. If her ability to stay in Aspen Creek hinged on those stipulations, then no one—not even this difficult old man—was going to stand in her way. Far too much depended on it.
"Buddy, I'm going to overwhelm you with kindness, and your mean ole dog, too," she muttered under her breath as she pawed through a grocery sack on the front seat of her car. "See how you like that."
Withdrawing a small can, she peeled off the outer plastic lid, pulled the tab to open the can and held it high. "Salmon," she crooned. "Come and get it."
It took a minute for the scent to drift over to the cabin. The dog's head jerked up. He sniffed the breeze, then he cautiously started across the stretch of grass between the cabin and driveway.
She stayed in the lee of her open car door, ready to leap back inside at the least sign of aggression. But by the time the dog reached her front bumper his tongue was lolling and his tail wagging.
She grabbed a plastic spoon on her dashboard— a remnant of her last trip to a Dairy Queen—and scooped up a chunk of the pungent, pink fish. She dropped it on the grass and the dog wolfed it down, his tail wagging even faster. "Friends?"
She held out a cautious hand and he licked it, his eyes riveted on the can in her other hand. "Just one bite. When I come out, I'll give you one more. Deal?"
His entire body wagged as he followed her to the cabin door.
No lights shone through the windows. She knocked. Then knocked again as loud as she could and listened for any signs of movement.
What if.what if the old guy had passed on?
Her heart in her throat, she framed her face with her hands and pressed her nose to a pane of glass, trying to peer into the gloom. Knocked again. And then she quietly tried the doorknob.
It turned easily in her hand. She pulled the door open, just an inch. "Hello? Anyone here?" She raised her voice. "I'm from the home health agency."
No answer.
Thunder rumbled outside, heavy and ominous. A nearby crack of lightning shook the porch beneath her feet. She opened the door wider, then bracketed her hands against the inner screen door and tried to look inside. "Hello?"
The dog at her side whimpered. Then he shoved past her, sending the door swinging back to crash against the interior wall.
So much for subtlety.
"Hello," she yelled. "Are you here? Are you okay?"
Something moved in the darkness—probably just the dog. Still, she took a cautious step back.
If the old fellow had died, she had no business disturbing the scene. The sheriff should be called, and the coroner. And if he was in there with a shotgun, she sure didn't want to surprise him.
But on the other hand, if he needed help, she could hardly walk away. Steeling herself, she reached around the corner and fumbled along the inside wall until she found a light switch and flipped it on.
Only a single, weak bulb came to life in the center of the room, leaving most of it dark. She started to step over the threshold…then drew in a sharp breath.
The room was nearly bare. She could make out the shapes of a sofa, chair and what might be a desk in one corner. But it was the figure suddenly looming over her that made her heart lurch into overdrive with fear. Tall. Broad shoulders. Silhouetted by the faint light behind him, she couldn't make out his expression, but his stance telegraphed irritation.
This wasn't some old guy.
Maybe…maybe he was an intruder. Maybe he'd hurt poor old crotchety Dr. McLaren and was hauling away all the loot in this cabin.
Raising her hands defensively, she backed up a step, and then another, preparing to run.
But then she saw the dog amble over and sit at the man's side, leaning its shaggy body against his hip. He rested a gentle hand on the animal's head.
"I—I'm sorry," she faltered, searching his face. He didn't look disabled…but then she saw the telltale signs of tension in his stance, as if it had been painful to make it to the door. And the angle of his body, as if he were guarding himself against injuries that probably still kept him up at night.
He said nothing.
"You must be Dr. McLaren. I thought…I thought you were old," she stammered as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. He wasn't only a much younger man— probably in his mid-thirties at the most—but he was striking in that tall, dark, and dangerous sort of way that always made her self-conscious about her very ordinary self. "When you didn't answer, I…urn…I was afraid that you might be dead."
"Unfortunately, no," he growled. He glanced at her upraised hands, then met her eyes with a piercing stare. "So who are you, and why are you threatening me with a can of salmon?" His gaze slid over to the folder in her other hand. "Second thought—just forget it and go away."
He started to close the door. She stopped it with her foot. "I can't leave. I'm Sophie Alexander, your new physical therapist, from the county home health agency."
"Well, Sophie, maybe you're the new therapist, but you're wrong. You certainly can leave."
"No, I can't."
"The others did, which was fine with me."
"Look. I've been given my schedule, and Grace Dearborn—"
"Grace." He sighed heavily.
"Right. Ms. Dearborn made it very clear that I had to follow through without fail on every person in my caseload. And honestly? Today hasn't been good. I've been scratched and bitten by an eighty-seven-year-old woman with Alzheimer's who should be in a care center, not living with her son. And I have been screamed at by an old man who was sure I was his ex-wife come back to life, and who called 911, while I was there. You can call 911 too, or you can just let me in and we'll talk about where you're at with your therapy. Okay? Because either way, I'm not leaving. I cannot let Grace down."
He scowled back at her, obviously impressed…or maybe, just stunned into silence.
"Please." She softened her tone. "It was a long drive up here. I'd like to get this visit over before that storm hits, so I can get back to town before the roads wash out. Okay?"
"Why does pleasing Grace mean so much to you? It's just a job."
"It means a lot more to me than you could ever imagine. So now, can we get down to business?"
* * *For someone who couldn't be more than five foot three and a hundred pounds soaking wet, the latest physical therapist to land on his doorstep appeared to be one very determined woman. He could only hope that she wasn't as stubborn as she looked, but right now the fiery gleam in those pretty green eyes spelled trouble.
"Well?" She pinned him with a steady look. "Can I come in?"
Josh gritted his teeth and inwardly braced himself to mask his pain as he waved her on into the great room of the cabin. "Suit yourself."
She hit him with a blinding smile, then traipsed on in, coochy-cooed his dog, Bear, who—traitor that he was—moaned with pleasure at her soft touch and followed her when she headed for the sofa under the moose head mounted on the wall.
She gave the moose a sad look, then angled a disapproving glance in Josh's direction.
"Don't look at me—he came with the cabin." Josh turned on a table lamp beside his chair and waited until she settled on the couch with a folder in her lap that probably told her more about him than he wanted anyone to know—much less some perky little pixie who was planning to gush platitudes and false empathy about his "situation," and then come up with yet another completely useless plan to turn his life around.
He'd been there, done that, and wasn't going there again with anyone—even if this gal did have a smile that could rival the lighting in a surgical suite.
Glancing between the can of salmon in her hand and the rapt attention of the dog at her feet, she set the can on the table at the end of the couch and waggled a forefinger at Bear. "Don't even think about it."
"How do I know you haven't poisoned my dog with that stuff?"
"I love dogs. I'm just not sure about the ones that meet me with a snarl, and I happened to have the salmon in a grocery bag I forgot to take out of my car last night. But believe me, after meeting several grumpy dogs and their even grumpier owners today I'll always carry something yummy in the future. Pays to make friends." She gave him a slow appraisal.
"What about you? Ghirardelli? Lindt?"
He masked a startled bark of laughter with a deeper scowl.
"Well, then, let's get on with things, okay?" she continued smoothly. "I suspect that with your medical background, you know far more than I do about your injuries and how to provide the exact type of therapy for regaining maximum function."
Did he? Not really. Not anymore. He'd specialized in emergency medicine, not the long haul of restorative medicine that often followed severe injuries, and after ten years of intense focus on his own field, what he knew was based more on logic and what was now outdated information from medical school.
Print book:
eHarlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10EHQN at checkout!)
Barnes and Noble
Amazon
Christianbook.com
BooksaMillion.com
Ebook:
eHarlequin.com (Save an extra 10% with code SAVE10EHQN at checkout!)
Nookbook
Kindle
BooksaMillion.com
June 14, 2011
Weddings and Wasabi is finally here!
I'm SO EXCITED!!! The fourth book in my Sushi series, Weddings and Wasabi, is now available!
The print book is available now, but the ebook version won't be available for another 30 days. If you want to save a little money, you can buy the ebook version, which will be only $2.99, but if you prefer print book, it's ready for ordering right now!
After finally graduating with a culinary degree, Jennifer Lim is pressured by her family to work at her control-freak aunty's restaurant. But after a family dispute, Jenn is determined to no longer be a doormat and instead starts her own catering company. Her search for a wine merchant brings John into her life—a tall, dark, handsome biker in form-fitting black leather, who's Hispanic to boot. It would be wonderfully wild to snag a man like that!
Shy engineer Edward tentatively tries out his birthday present from his winery-owner uncle—a Harley-Davidson complete with the trimmings. Jennifer seems attracted to the rough, aggressive image, but it isn't his real self. Is she latching onto him just to spite her horrified family? And if this spark between them is real, will showing her the true guy underneath put it out?
And what's with the goat in the backyard?
Order from:
BarnesandNoble.com
Amazon
Winepress
The print book is available now, but the ebook version won't be available for another 30 days. If you want to save a little money, you can buy the ebook version, which will be only $2.99, but if you prefer print book, it's ready for ordering right now!
After finally graduating with a culinary degree, Jennifer Lim is pressured by her family to work at her control-freak aunty's restaurant. But after a family dispute, Jenn is determined to no longer be a doormat and instead starts her own catering company. Her search for a wine merchant brings John into her life—a tall, dark, handsome biker in form-fitting black leather, who's Hispanic to boot. It would be wonderfully wild to snag a man like that!
Shy engineer Edward tentatively tries out his birthday present from his winery-owner uncle—a Harley-Davidson complete with the trimmings. Jennifer seems attracted to the rough, aggressive image, but it isn't his real self. Is she latching onto him just to spite her horrified family? And if this spark between them is real, will showing her the true guy underneath put it out?
And what's with the goat in the backyard?
Order from:
BarnesandNoble.com
Amazon
Winepress
Street Team Book List excerpt - The Sweetest Thing by Elizabeth Musser
Camy here: Here's another book I added to my Street Team book giveaway list! You can win this book by joining my Street Team--Click here for more info!
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing The Sweetest Thing • Bethany House (June 1, 2011) by Elizabeth Musser
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Elizabeth Musser, an Atlanta native, studied English and French literature at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee. While at Vanderbilt, I had the opportunity to spend a semester in Aix-en-Provence,
France. During her Senior year at Vanderbilt, she attended a five-day missions conference for students and discovered an amazing thing: God had missionaries in France, and she felt God calling her there. After graduation, she spent eight months training for the mission field in Chicago, Illinois and then two years serving in a tiny Protestant church in Eastern France where she met her future husband.
Elizabeth lives in southern France with her husband and their two sons. She find her work as a mother, wife, author and missionary filled with challenges and chances to see God's hand at work daily in her life. Inspiration for her novels come both from her experiences growing up in Atlanta as well as through the people she meets in her work in France. Many conversations within her novels are inspired from real-life conversations with skeptics and seekers alike.
Her acclaimed novel, The Swan House, was a Book Sense bestseller list in the Southeast and was selected as one of the top Christian books for 2001 by Amazon's editors. Searching for Eternity is her sixth novel.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Compelling Southern Novel Explores Atlanta Society in the 1930s.
The Singleton family's fortunes seem unaffected by the Great Depression, and Perri—along with the other girls at Atlanta's elite Washington Seminary—lives a life of tea dances with college boys and matinees at the cinema. When tragedy strikes, Perri is confronted with a world far different from the one she has always known.
At the insistence of her parents, Mary 'Dobbs' Dillard, the daughter of an itinerant preacher, is sent from inner-city Chicago to live with her aunt and attend Washington Seminary. Dobbs, passionate, fiercely individualistic and deeply religious, enters Washington Seminary as a bull in a china shop and shocks the girls with her frank talk about poverty and her stories of revival on the road. Her arrival intersects at the point of Perri's ultimate crisis, and the tragedy forges an unlikely friendship.
The Sweetest Thing tells the story of two remarkable young women—opposites in every way—fighting for the same goal: surviving tumultuous change. Just as the Great Depression collides disastrously with Perri's well-ordered life, friendship blossoms--a friendship that will be tested by jealousy, betrayal, and family secrets...
Excerpt of Chapter One:
The Sweetest Thing
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing The Sweetest Thing • Bethany House (June 1, 2011) by Elizabeth Musser
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Elizabeth Musser, an Atlanta native, studied English and French literature at Vanderbilt University in Nashville, Tennessee. While at Vanderbilt, I had the opportunity to spend a semester in Aix-en-Provence,
France. During her Senior year at Vanderbilt, she attended a five-day missions conference for students and discovered an amazing thing: God had missionaries in France, and she felt God calling her there. After graduation, she spent eight months training for the mission field in Chicago, Illinois and then two years serving in a tiny Protestant church in Eastern France where she met her future husband.
Elizabeth lives in southern France with her husband and their two sons. She find her work as a mother, wife, author and missionary filled with challenges and chances to see God's hand at work daily in her life. Inspiration for her novels come both from her experiences growing up in Atlanta as well as through the people she meets in her work in France. Many conversations within her novels are inspired from real-life conversations with skeptics and seekers alike.
Her acclaimed novel, The Swan House, was a Book Sense bestseller list in the Southeast and was selected as one of the top Christian books for 2001 by Amazon's editors. Searching for Eternity is her sixth novel.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Compelling Southern Novel Explores Atlanta Society in the 1930s.The Singleton family's fortunes seem unaffected by the Great Depression, and Perri—along with the other girls at Atlanta's elite Washington Seminary—lives a life of tea dances with college boys and matinees at the cinema. When tragedy strikes, Perri is confronted with a world far different from the one she has always known.
At the insistence of her parents, Mary 'Dobbs' Dillard, the daughter of an itinerant preacher, is sent from inner-city Chicago to live with her aunt and attend Washington Seminary. Dobbs, passionate, fiercely individualistic and deeply religious, enters Washington Seminary as a bull in a china shop and shocks the girls with her frank talk about poverty and her stories of revival on the road. Her arrival intersects at the point of Perri's ultimate crisis, and the tragedy forges an unlikely friendship.
The Sweetest Thing tells the story of two remarkable young women—opposites in every way—fighting for the same goal: surviving tumultuous change. Just as the Great Depression collides disastrously with Perri's well-ordered life, friendship blossoms--a friendship that will be tested by jealousy, betrayal, and family secrets...
Excerpt of Chapter One:
The Sweetest Thing
June 13, 2011
Nookie love for Father's Day!
Maybe if I post about this enough, Captain Caffeine will get it for me. :)
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6/9 - 6/14
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6/14 - 6/16
Free Expedited Shipping on Nook for Father's Day - valid only 6/14 - 6/16!
The ALL-NEW NOOK ™ - The Simple Touch Reader ™
Available for just $139 and Free Shipping - Buy Now!
RATED BY CNET 05/24/2011 as "The superior device"
Easiest to use 6" touchscreen
Longest battery life-read up to 2 months on just 1 charge
Ultra-light and thin-under 8 ounces
Largest bookstore with more than 2 million titles-get them in seconds
Expert recommendations & fun social features
6/9 - 6/14
Free Express Shipping on Nook for Father's Day - limited time offer, expires 6/14/2011!
6/14 - 6/16
Free Expedited Shipping on Nook for Father's Day - valid only 6/14 - 6/16!
