Camy Tang's Blog, page 152
June 6, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - THE LADY OF BOLTON HILL by Elizabeth Camden
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 Lady of Bolton Hill Bethany House (June 1, 2011) by Elizabeth Camden
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
A research librarian and associate professor, Elizabeth Camden has a master's in history from the University of Virginia and a master's in library science from Indiana University. She has published several articles for academic publications and is the author of four nonfiction history books. Her ongoing fascination with history and love of literature have led her to write inspirational fiction. Elizabeth lives with her husband in central Florida.
A word from Elizabeth: I am a college librarian in central Florida by day, but by night I can be found pounding out inspirational historical novels the moment the sun goes down. I love writing books about fiercely intelligent people who are confronted with profound challenges. As a rather introverted person, I have found that writing is the best way for me to share my faith and a sense of resilience with others.
As for who I am? I love old Hitchcock films, the hour before sunset, a long, sweaty run through the Florida countryside, and a glass of good wine. After spending my entire adult life on a college campus (either as a student or a librarian) I have finally been able to pursue my ultimate goal of writing professionally.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Female journalists are rare in 1879, but American-born Clara Endicott has finally made a name for herself with her provocative articles championing London's poor. When the backlash from her work forces a return home to Baltimore, Clara finds herself face-to-face with a childhood sweetheart who is no longer the impoverished factory worker she once knew. In her absence, Daniel Tremain has become a powerful industry giant and Clara finds him as enigmatic as ever. However, Daniel's success is fueled by resentment from past wounds and Clara's deeply-held beliefs about God's grace force Daniel to confront his own motives. When Clara's very life is endangered by one of Daniel's adversaries, they must face a reckoning neither of them ever could have foreseen.
When Clara Endicott and Daniel Tremain's worlds collide after twelve years apart, the spark that was once between them immediately reignites into a romance neither of them thought possible.
But time has changed them both.
Daniel is an industrial titan with powerful enemies. Clara is an idealistic journalist determined to defend underprivileged workers.
Can they withstand the cost of their convictions while their hearts, and lives, hang in the balance?
Excerpt of Chapter One:
The Lady of Bolton Hill
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
A research librarian and associate professor, Elizabeth Camden has a master's in history from the University of Virginia and a master's in library science from Indiana University. She has published several articles for academic publications and is the author of four nonfiction history books. Her ongoing fascination with history and love of literature have led her to write inspirational fiction. Elizabeth lives with her husband in central Florida.
A word from Elizabeth: I am a college librarian in central Florida by day, but by night I can be found pounding out inspirational historical novels the moment the sun goes down. I love writing books about fiercely intelligent people who are confronted with profound challenges. As a rather introverted person, I have found that writing is the best way for me to share my faith and a sense of resilience with others.
As for who I am? I love old Hitchcock films, the hour before sunset, a long, sweaty run through the Florida countryside, and a glass of good wine. After spending my entire adult life on a college campus (either as a student or a librarian) I have finally been able to pursue my ultimate goal of writing professionally.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Female journalists are rare in 1879, but American-born Clara Endicott has finally made a name for herself with her provocative articles championing London's poor. When the backlash from her work forces a return home to Baltimore, Clara finds herself face-to-face with a childhood sweetheart who is no longer the impoverished factory worker she once knew. In her absence, Daniel Tremain has become a powerful industry giant and Clara finds him as enigmatic as ever. However, Daniel's success is fueled by resentment from past wounds and Clara's deeply-held beliefs about God's grace force Daniel to confront his own motives. When Clara's very life is endangered by one of Daniel's adversaries, they must face a reckoning neither of them ever could have foreseen. When Clara Endicott and Daniel Tremain's worlds collide after twelve years apart, the spark that was once between them immediately reignites into a romance neither of them thought possible.
But time has changed them both.
Daniel is an industrial titan with powerful enemies. Clara is an idealistic journalist determined to defend underprivileged workers.
Can they withstand the cost of their convictions while their hearts, and lives, hang in the balance?
Excerpt of Chapter One:
The Lady of Bolton Hill
June 3, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - HOPE REKINDLED by Tracie Peterson
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 Hope Rekindled Bethany House (June 1, 2011) by Tracie Peterson
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tracie Peterson is the bestselling, award-winning author of more than 85 novels.
She received her first book contract in November, 1992 and saw A Place To Belong published in February 1993 with Barbour Publishings' Heartsong Presents. She wrote exclusively with Heartsong for the next two years, receiving their readership's vote for Favorite Author of the Year for three years in a row.
In December, 1995 she signed a contract with Bethany House Publishers to co-write a series with author Judith Pella. Tracie now writes exclusively for Bethany House Publishers.
She teaches writing workshops at a variety of conferences on subjects such as inspirational romance and historical research.
Tracie was awarded the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for 2007 Inspirational Fiction and her books have won numerous awards for favorite books in a variety of contests.
Making her home in Montana, this Kansas native enjoys spending time with family--especially her three grandchildren--Rainy, Fox and Max. She's active in her church as the Director of Women's Ministries, coordinates a yearly writer's retreat for published authors, and travels, as time permits, to research her books
ABOUT THE BOOK
Will Love Escape Her Grasp?
Life seems to be falling into place for Deborah Vandermark. On the cusp of finally marrying Christopher, the man who claimed her heart, she is devastated when he receives an urgent telegram. Bound to his family obligations, Christopher travels to Kansas City, uncertain of what he will find there.
When her fiancé returns to Texas, Deborah is faced with a very different future than she expected. She finds herself plagued with questions and uncertainty...about marriage, motherhood, and her passion to train as a physician. And when an old adversary reveals a contract that may spell ruin for Vandermark Logging, Deborah's life seems to be spiraling out of control. Can Christopher and Deborah find a way to claim the future they long to share when so much stands in the way?
Excerpt of Chapter One:
Hope Rekindled
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing Hope Rekindled Bethany House (June 1, 2011) by Tracie Peterson
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Tracie Peterson is the bestselling, award-winning author of more than 85 novels.
She received her first book contract in November, 1992 and saw A Place To Belong published in February 1993 with Barbour Publishings' Heartsong Presents. She wrote exclusively with Heartsong for the next two years, receiving their readership's vote for Favorite Author of the Year for three years in a row.
In December, 1995 she signed a contract with Bethany House Publishers to co-write a series with author Judith Pella. Tracie now writes exclusively for Bethany House Publishers.
She teaches writing workshops at a variety of conferences on subjects such as inspirational romance and historical research.
Tracie was awarded the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award for 2007 Inspirational Fiction and her books have won numerous awards for favorite books in a variety of contests.
Making her home in Montana, this Kansas native enjoys spending time with family--especially her three grandchildren--Rainy, Fox and Max. She's active in her church as the Director of Women's Ministries, coordinates a yearly writer's retreat for published authors, and travels, as time permits, to research her books
ABOUT THE BOOK
Will Love Escape Her Grasp?Life seems to be falling into place for Deborah Vandermark. On the cusp of finally marrying Christopher, the man who claimed her heart, she is devastated when he receives an urgent telegram. Bound to his family obligations, Christopher travels to Kansas City, uncertain of what he will find there.
When her fiancé returns to Texas, Deborah is faced with a very different future than she expected. She finds herself plagued with questions and uncertainty...about marriage, motherhood, and her passion to train as a physician. And when an old adversary reveals a contract that may spell ruin for Vandermark Logging, Deborah's life seems to be spiraling out of control. Can Christopher and Deborah find a way to claim the future they long to share when so much stands in the way?
Excerpt of Chapter One:
Hope Rekindled
May 26, 2011
More Nookie luuuuuuv - the new touch screen Nook!
How cool is this???? It's lighter than a Kindle!!!!
May 20, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - Undaunted Faith by Andrea Boeshaar
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 Undaunted Faith Realms (May 3, 2011) by Andrea Boeshaar
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar has been married for more than 30 years. She and her husband, Daniel, have three adult sons, daughters-in-law, and two precious grandchildren. Andrea's educational background includes the University of Wisconsin - Milwaukee, where she studied in English, and Alverno College where she studied in Professional Communications and Business Management.
Andrea has been writing stories and poems since she was a little girl; however, it wasn't until 1984 that she started submitting her work for publication. Eight years after that, she was convicted about writing for the Christian market. She read books in her genre (Inspirational Romance & Women's Fiction), studied the market, and worked hard to hone her craft.
Finally her first novel was published in 1994. Since then she's written numerous articles and devotionals. Andrea has also published inspiration romance novels, women's fiction, and novellas.
In 2003, Andrea joined the Hartline Literary Agency and worked for Joyce Hart as a literary agent. She saw much success. But then in 2007, Andrea realized she was more of a teacher/encourager than a sales person. She left the agency and became a certified Christian life coach. Now, in addition to her writing, Andrea enjoys encouraging others to use their God-given talents and gifts to their fullest.
Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar is a certified Christian life coach and speaks at writers' conferences and for women's groups. She has taught workshops at such conferences as Write-To-Publish, American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW), Oregon Christian Writers Conference, Mount Hermon Writers Conference, and many local writers conferences. Another of Andrea's accomplishments is cofounder of the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) organization. For many years she served on both its Advisory Board and as its CEO.
ABOUT THE BOOK
When Pastor Luke McCabe begins paying extra attention to her, Bethany takes his fine-sounding words with a grain of salt. She's heard sweet talk before. This time she is going to keep her mind on the Lord and on her new teaching job in the Arizona Territory.
But when her reputation is accidentally soiled by the rakish town sheriff, Luke steps in with a marriage proposal to save Bethany's good name. Luke is certain their marriage is God's will...but Bethany is just as certain God must have someone else in mind to be Luke's wife.
Someone sweet and spiritual, who knows the Scriptures better than Bethany does. Someone like Luke's old friend from home.
Excerpt of Chapter One:
Prologue
Journal entry: Monday, April 1, 1867
I, Bethany Leanne Stafford, am writing in a leather-bound journal, which my dear friend Mrs. Valerie McCabe gave me for a going-away gift. She suggested I write my memoirs of my impending journey West and about my new life as a schoolteacher in the wild
Arizona Territory. Valerie said she wished she'd have kept a diary of her escape from New Orleans and a loveless marriage from which her husband Ben had rescued her.
For continuity's sake, I shall back up from the day I left Milwaukee, Wisconsin. In September of last year, upon leaving the city, I took the train to Jericho Junction, Missouri. My traveling companions were Pastors Luke and Jacob McCabe and Gretchen Schlyterhaus, a German widow. Mrs. Schlyterhaus had worked as a housekeeper for Captain Brian Sinclair, who, at the time of our departure, was declared dead—drowned in a boating accident on Lake Michigan. Mrs. Schlyterhaus felt her livelihood had ended too, until Pastor Luke convinced her to go West with us. Weeks later, the captain was
discovered alive in a Chicago hospital. Mrs. Schlyterhaus had been certain that he would insist upon her returning to her duties in his household; after all, she'd signed a binding contract with him. But to her surprise, the captain allowed her to resign and even sent her a bonus (a tidy sum, I heard). Richard and Sarah brought it with them when they came for the Christmas holiday. Uncharacteristic for the captain, but Sarah said he's a changed man. He found the Lord—and a good woman, whom he married—and he's living happily
in Milwaukee where he owns a shipping business and a store. Richard is now his business partner and an equally important man in Milwaukee.
But I digress. After a full day's train ride, we arrived in Jericho Junction, where I've lived for the past seven and a half months and earned my teaching certificate. In that time I've gotten to know Sarah's relatives. How I wish I were part of this family! Pastor Daniel McCabe is a thoughtful, gentle man, unlike my own father who is a hard, insensitive soul. Mrs. McCabe has been more of a mother to me than I've ever known. My own mother died when I was eight. My father remarried, and my stepmother is as lazy as she is lovely (and she's beautiful!). My half brother Tommy was born when I was nine, and nearly every year since my stepmother bore another child for me to look after in addition to my chores on the farm.
Forever, it seemed, I dreamed of escaping the drudgery of my life by marrying Richard, except God had other plans. Richard married Sarah. At first I felt jealous, but seeing how much Richard loved her, I couldn't begrudge them their happiness. I did fear, however,
that I'd be forever trapped on my father's farm caring for my brothers and sisters and working my body to the bone. I couldn't bear the thought of dying as a spinster who'd never accomplished anything meaningful.
So when Luke McCabe offered me this chance to teach in the Arizona Territory, I jumped at it. In spite of my father's protests, I packed my meager belongings and stayed next door with the Navises until the day of my departure. Needless to say, I left my family on a sour note. My father said he never wanted to see me again. I can't say as I give a whit. I'm glad to be gone!
And as for the trip itself, we will depart in just a few short hours. We will follow the Santa Fe Trail along with other migrants—most of them families whom we met last night in the hotel's dining room.
I am ever so excited about my adventure. Still, I'm quite aware that traveling by oxen-drawn, covered wagons may, indeed, prove to be a hardship, but both Mrs. Schlyterhaus and I are ready and eager to face each new challenge. As required by the United States, more than one hundred wagons are signed up to leave this morning. Due to the threat of Indian attack no less than a hundred can travel the trail.
But I must cease my writing now. Luke is knocking at the door. It's time for breakfast...and then we'll be on our way!
Journal entry: Wednesday, June 12
There has been no time for me to write. It's been a long and exhausting journey thus far. During the daytime I walk beside the wagon while Luke and Jake take turns driving and scouting the trail ahead by horseback. After we make camp I prepare dinner, and then we clean up and get some sleep. But this evening by lamplight I simply had to pen what occurred today. I saw, for the first time in my life—a rattlesnake! On the farm in Wisconsin, I never saw anything larger than a pine snake, and even though they can bite, pine snakes are not poisonous. But I happened upon this deadly reptile quite accidentally as I unloaded our wagon this evening. I nearly stepped on the horrid thing and it poised, ready to strike me. In those seconds that passed I was sure I'd be bitten and die. But Luke saw the snake the same time I did. He pulled out his rifle and shot it dead before it attacked me.
Afterward I just stood there, gazing at the creature's lifeless, beady black eyes. I burst into tears, realizing how frightened I had really been. Luke put his hand on my shoulder and said, "There, now, Beth, that buzzworm's dead as a doornail. He can't hurt you anymore."
Luke saved my very life that day, and I thank God for him.
Journal entry: Friday, June 14
Yesterday a horrible thing happened involving another rattlesnake, but this time it resulted in a tragedy. A five-year-old boy named Justin McMurray got bit. His passing was the saddest thing I ever witnessed. The strike happened during the day, but the McMurrays didn't want to make the entire wagon train stop because of Justin. By the time several men and one doctor went by the McMurray wagon to see if they could be of help, it was too late. The poison had gotten into the boy's system, and he had a raging fever. Then Luke and I went over and talked to Justin. Despite the fever and chills, he was coherent and in a tremendous amount of pain. My heart immediately went out to him, but also to Mrs. McMurray. She looked so sad and helpless as she held her child whose life was slipping away with each passing second. Instinctively, I put my arm around the woman's shoulders in an effort to comfort her while Luke talked to the boy about heaven. Justin listened intently. I choked back a sob and glanced at Mrs. McMurray, who had tears rolling down her cheeks. Luke's eyes looked misty too, but instead of weeping, he started singing. He knew so many songs about rejoicing in heaven
that Mrs. McMurray actually smiled, and Justin even laughed a couple of times.
Finally the Lord took the boy home, and while I was happy that Justin is in the Savior's arms, I felt a bit sick inside. I still do.
Journal entry: Sunday, June 30
For the past two weeks since little Justin McMurray's death, I've been having nightmares. Each time I doze, I envision rattlesnakes everywhere—in the wagon, even
in my hair! I awaken with a start, and Mrs. Schlyterhaus hushes me, since we both sleep inside the wagon while Luke and Jake make their beds on the ground below us.
My fear of rattlesnakes grew along with the exhausting desert temperatures to the point where I refused to get down from the wagon and stretch my legs during the day. At night I begged Mrs. Schlyterhaus to start the fire and make supper. I did not have any appetite and would lie down inside the wagon and pray for some peaceful sleep . . . which never seemed to come. Finally last night Luke said, "Bethany Stafford, you climb down off that wagon this minute!" I told him I would do no such thing. He asked me why, but I could
not admit how afraid I was to leave the wagon and have a rattlesnake kill me. However, Luke guessed the trouble. He said, "There's no snakes around, so come down now or I'll climb up and get you myself."
Still, I refused, but I tried to be polite about it. Next thing I knew Luke had his arm around my waist, lifting me out of the wagon. Then he announced we were taking a stroll around the wagon train encampment.
I begged to stay back, but he would not be dissuaded. I went so far as to threaten him, saying if I died of snakebite, it would be all his fault. He said, "I'll take my chances."
So I pleaded with him to at least carry along his rifle. Luke replied, "No, ma'am, we're only taking the Lord with us tonight."
The fear inside of me increased. My heart pounded and my legs shook with every anxious step. At last Luke said folks were going to get the wrong impression about us if I did not begin to walk in a ladylike fashion. To my shame, I realized I was stepping all over him in order to keep away from the rattlesnakes that I knew lurked beneath the sands of the Cimarron.
Luke's voice became very soft and gentle. He said, "Beth, God does not give us the spirit of fear, so don't be afraid. Our heavenly Father was not surprised when Justin McMurray got bit by that snake. That home-going had been planned since the beginning of time."
I knew he was right, and somehow his straightforwardness caused me to relax. Then he mentioned what a nice evening it was for a stroll, and for the first time I realized the sky looked clear and the air felt cool and clean against my face. Amazingly I even felt hungry then. I loosened the death grip I had around Luke's elbow. He chuckled as though he was amused. I felt horribly embarrassed, and he laughed again. I like the sound of his laugh, so slow and easy. And it's a funny thing, but with God and Luke right there with me, I didn't fret about rattlesnakes the rest of the night.
Journal entry: Sunday, July 21
After walking in oven-hot temperatures for ten to fourteen miles every day, except Sundays, we finally arrived in Santa Fe. I'm not sure what I expected, but I'm ever so disappointed with what has met my weary eyes thus far. Santa Fe is not at all lush and green like Wisconsin during the summer months. Everything is a dismal brown. Most houses are single-story adobe structures with dirt floors. There is a telegraph office, and we learned that Sarah gave birth to a healthy baby boy. His name is Samuel Richard. I must say that Luke and Jake seem quite proud of their youngest sister and newest nephew. I'm genuinely happy for Richard and Sarah.
As for myself, I am bone-thin, and the traveling dresses I made for the journey hang from my shoulders like old potato sacks. Luke is worried about me, and so we will remain here for a couple of weeks while I regain my strength.
On the last leg of our journey we escaped both Indian attack and bad weather. But we did encounter a buffalo stampede, the likes I hope to never witness again! The ground shook so hard my teeth rattled. That same day we saw abandoned wagons and fresh graves, which proved an almost eerie forewarning. Days later, a strange fever made its way around our wagon train, and several people died, including four small children.
Although both Luke and Jake gave encouraging graveside messages, having to leave the little bodies of their children behind, coupled with the fear of animals discovering them, proved more than the three young mothers in our camp could bear. They wept for days,
and my heart broke right along with them.
Luke soon enlisted my services, and I prayed with the mourning women and helped with their daily chores. Luke said I was a blessing to them. Oddly, in assisting them, my own heart began to heal. When Mrs. Schlyterhaus took ill with the fever, I nursed her back to health as well. Both Luke and Jake said they didn't know what they'd have done without me.
As for Mrs. Schlyterhaus, Jake has decided that, although her health is improving, she will remain here in Santa Fe permanently. He has arranged for her to stay with a missionary family and work as their housekeeper. Mrs. Schlyterhaus is very accepting of this arrangement, although I will miss her. She has softened considerably since leaving Milwaukee and has come to realize how unhappy she has been since her husband's death. But she said the thought of another four weeks traveling through Indian territory frightens her senseless.
In truth, it frightens me also. But, as Luke is fond of saying, God does not give us the spirit of fear, and from the human standpoint, he and Jake have taken precautions to ensure our safety. He hired a guide— a physician named Frank Bandy, one of the few white men who have made peace with the Apaches. The Indians allow him passage through their territory because he has been able to minister medically to their people.
But, alas, I must stop writing for now as there are numerous tasks I would like to accomplish—although if Luke discovers I am not resting, I may have some explaining to do.
Journal entry: Monday, October 7
I have discovered I keep a poor journal. Truth is, I forgot about my diary these past months as it has been tucked away in my trunk of belongings. However, this morning I shall do my best to bring the events up to date. I fully recovered from my journey and now spend much of my time becoming familiar with my surroundings and the people here. We arrived in Silverstone on August 27, and I had only a few days to prepare the classroom as school began on Monday, the second of September. I have thirteen children in my class, ranging from first to eighth grades. Three of my students are from one family. They lost their mother just a few short months ago in childbirth. I hope to be able to help them deal with their loss as they might prove to be the brightest children under my tutelage this year.
Meanwhile, the Arizona heat has been ghastly. Rain compounded the misery by turning everything to mud. I doubt I shall ever get used to this place. I find myself looking forward to my cool baths every morning at the break of dawn when several of us women go down to the riverbank, as is the custom of the Mexican women here. The muddy water looks red and the river's current is swift; however, after wilting in the previous day's heat, it is a welcomed respite. Silverstone itself is located twenty miles north of Arizona City and the Yuma Crossing on the Colorado River. Beyond the town the scenery is breathtakingly beautiful. The majestic mountaintops seem to touch an ever-azure sky, and the swirling red river water flows beneath them. But the town is an eyesore by comparison. It's a hot, dusty, unpainted freight town. The people here are an odd mix of prospectors, ranchers, freighters, Mexicans, and Indians, and they keep Main Street (if it may be called such a thing) lively with regular brawls, which I abhor.
On one side of the rutted, unpaved road there is an adobe government building, which houses the sheriff and a jail. Ironically, right next door, there is a rickety wooden saloon called Chicago Joe's and, above it, a house of ill repute. On the other side of Main Street is the Winters' Boardinghouse, in which I am presently residing. The Winters also operate a dining room and the post office. Beside their place is a dry-goods store and next to it a freight office and a bank. Luke maintains the church at the end of the thoroughfare and delivers the Sunday morning message each week. Jake does carpentry work when he is not riding the circuit and preaching. Beside the church there stands a small one-room schoolhouse, where I teach.
As one might guess, the two sides of Main Street are largely at odds with each other. Mrs. Winters says we are the "good" side, and those across the way (particularly the women in the brothel) are the "bad" side—all save for Sheriff Paden Montaño, of course. Silverstone's sheriff has been commissioned by the United States Army and oversees the shipping and receiving of government freight landed in Silverstone by river steamers. Then it is transported across the Territory by wagon. Sheriff Montaño's father was a rugged vaquero (cowboy), and his mother was a genteel woman from back East.
I think the sheriff seems to have inherited traits from both parents; however, he is a sight to behold. He is a darkly handsome man with hair so long it hangs nearly to his waist. One would never see such a man in Milwaukee, Wisconsin!
At first glance, he resembles a fierce Indian, but his actions are polite and refined. Like his vaquero father, he is a capable horseman and masterful with a gun. Like his mother, with whom he was raised, he is well educated. Some say Sheriff Montaño is a Mexican and Indian sympathizer, out to use his status as a United States lawman for his own purposes, but Luke says he's a fair man. I must admit I have found the sheriff to be charming.
And then there is Ralph Jonas, who is quite the opposite. He claims to be a Christian man, but he can be quite disagreeable. His wife died during childbirth just before we arrived in town, and Mr. Jonas is desperately trying to replace her—just as he might replace a mule. I was insulted when he proposed to me, and I find his philosophy on marriage highly distasteful. Thankfully, Luke had a talk with him. I don't know what he said, but now Mr. Jonas keeps his distance for the most part.
I must admit that I hate it here in Silverstone. I want to return to Jericho Junction. I'm praying the McCabes will find something for me to do there, but first an opportunity will have to present itself. But worse is the next wagon train won't depart for Missouri again until next spring.
Six months. Six long months.
Will I be able to survive that long, here in this Godforsaken land?
One
Aknock sounded once. Then again, more insistent this time.
"Coming." Bethany set down the quill and capped the inkwell. Closing her journal, she stood from where she'd been sitting at the desk Jake had crafted for her use. Then, before she could open the door, Trudy poked her round, cherubic face into Bethany's bedroom.
"Mama says breakfast is ready."
"Thank you, Trudy. I'll be down shortly."
A grin curved the flaxen-haired girl's pink mouth. "Reverend Luke and Reverend Jake are already here. Sheriff Montaño is too."
Bethany wasn't at all taken aback by the familiar way in which Trudy referred to both Luke and Jake. Because the men shared the same surname, the townspeople called them by their first names.
"I'll be down shortly." Walking to the looking glass, Bethany brushed out her long brown hair. It had dried from her earlier bath in the river.
Thirteen-year-old Trudy stepped farther into the room and closed the door behind her. "I'll bet we'll hear some lively conversation. Something about cattle stealing. Papa said the Indians have been causing trouble again."
"Oh, dear." Bethany tried not to show either her discontent with this town or her unease with the natives of this land.
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing Undaunted Faith Realms (May 3, 2011) by Andrea Boeshaar
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar has been married for more than 30 years. She and her husband, Daniel, have three adult sons, daughters-in-law, and two precious grandchildren. Andrea's educational background includes the University of Wisconsin - Milwaukee, where she studied in English, and Alverno College where she studied in Professional Communications and Business Management.
Andrea has been writing stories and poems since she was a little girl; however, it wasn't until 1984 that she started submitting her work for publication. Eight years after that, she was convicted about writing for the Christian market. She read books in her genre (Inspirational Romance & Women's Fiction), studied the market, and worked hard to hone her craft.
Finally her first novel was published in 1994. Since then she's written numerous articles and devotionals. Andrea has also published inspiration romance novels, women's fiction, and novellas.
In 2003, Andrea joined the Hartline Literary Agency and worked for Joyce Hart as a literary agent. She saw much success. But then in 2007, Andrea realized she was more of a teacher/encourager than a sales person. She left the agency and became a certified Christian life coach. Now, in addition to her writing, Andrea enjoys encouraging others to use their God-given talents and gifts to their fullest.
Andrea Kuhn Boeshaar is a certified Christian life coach and speaks at writers' conferences and for women's groups. She has taught workshops at such conferences as Write-To-Publish, American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW), Oregon Christian Writers Conference, Mount Hermon Writers Conference, and many local writers conferences. Another of Andrea's accomplishments is cofounder of the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) organization. For many years she served on both its Advisory Board and as its CEO.
ABOUT THE BOOK
When Pastor Luke McCabe begins paying extra attention to her, Bethany takes his fine-sounding words with a grain of salt. She's heard sweet talk before. This time she is going to keep her mind on the Lord and on her new teaching job in the Arizona Territory. But when her reputation is accidentally soiled by the rakish town sheriff, Luke steps in with a marriage proposal to save Bethany's good name. Luke is certain their marriage is God's will...but Bethany is just as certain God must have someone else in mind to be Luke's wife.
Someone sweet and spiritual, who knows the Scriptures better than Bethany does. Someone like Luke's old friend from home.
Excerpt of Chapter One:
Prologue
Journal entry: Monday, April 1, 1867
I, Bethany Leanne Stafford, am writing in a leather-bound journal, which my dear friend Mrs. Valerie McCabe gave me for a going-away gift. She suggested I write my memoirs of my impending journey West and about my new life as a schoolteacher in the wild
Arizona Territory. Valerie said she wished she'd have kept a diary of her escape from New Orleans and a loveless marriage from which her husband Ben had rescued her.
For continuity's sake, I shall back up from the day I left Milwaukee, Wisconsin. In September of last year, upon leaving the city, I took the train to Jericho Junction, Missouri. My traveling companions were Pastors Luke and Jacob McCabe and Gretchen Schlyterhaus, a German widow. Mrs. Schlyterhaus had worked as a housekeeper for Captain Brian Sinclair, who, at the time of our departure, was declared dead—drowned in a boating accident on Lake Michigan. Mrs. Schlyterhaus felt her livelihood had ended too, until Pastor Luke convinced her to go West with us. Weeks later, the captain was
discovered alive in a Chicago hospital. Mrs. Schlyterhaus had been certain that he would insist upon her returning to her duties in his household; after all, she'd signed a binding contract with him. But to her surprise, the captain allowed her to resign and even sent her a bonus (a tidy sum, I heard). Richard and Sarah brought it with them when they came for the Christmas holiday. Uncharacteristic for the captain, but Sarah said he's a changed man. He found the Lord—and a good woman, whom he married—and he's living happily
in Milwaukee where he owns a shipping business and a store. Richard is now his business partner and an equally important man in Milwaukee.
But I digress. After a full day's train ride, we arrived in Jericho Junction, where I've lived for the past seven and a half months and earned my teaching certificate. In that time I've gotten to know Sarah's relatives. How I wish I were part of this family! Pastor Daniel McCabe is a thoughtful, gentle man, unlike my own father who is a hard, insensitive soul. Mrs. McCabe has been more of a mother to me than I've ever known. My own mother died when I was eight. My father remarried, and my stepmother is as lazy as she is lovely (and she's beautiful!). My half brother Tommy was born when I was nine, and nearly every year since my stepmother bore another child for me to look after in addition to my chores on the farm.
Forever, it seemed, I dreamed of escaping the drudgery of my life by marrying Richard, except God had other plans. Richard married Sarah. At first I felt jealous, but seeing how much Richard loved her, I couldn't begrudge them their happiness. I did fear, however,
that I'd be forever trapped on my father's farm caring for my brothers and sisters and working my body to the bone. I couldn't bear the thought of dying as a spinster who'd never accomplished anything meaningful.
So when Luke McCabe offered me this chance to teach in the Arizona Territory, I jumped at it. In spite of my father's protests, I packed my meager belongings and stayed next door with the Navises until the day of my departure. Needless to say, I left my family on a sour note. My father said he never wanted to see me again. I can't say as I give a whit. I'm glad to be gone!
And as for the trip itself, we will depart in just a few short hours. We will follow the Santa Fe Trail along with other migrants—most of them families whom we met last night in the hotel's dining room.
I am ever so excited about my adventure. Still, I'm quite aware that traveling by oxen-drawn, covered wagons may, indeed, prove to be a hardship, but both Mrs. Schlyterhaus and I are ready and eager to face each new challenge. As required by the United States, more than one hundred wagons are signed up to leave this morning. Due to the threat of Indian attack no less than a hundred can travel the trail.
But I must cease my writing now. Luke is knocking at the door. It's time for breakfast...and then we'll be on our way!
Journal entry: Wednesday, June 12
There has been no time for me to write. It's been a long and exhausting journey thus far. During the daytime I walk beside the wagon while Luke and Jake take turns driving and scouting the trail ahead by horseback. After we make camp I prepare dinner, and then we clean up and get some sleep. But this evening by lamplight I simply had to pen what occurred today. I saw, for the first time in my life—a rattlesnake! On the farm in Wisconsin, I never saw anything larger than a pine snake, and even though they can bite, pine snakes are not poisonous. But I happened upon this deadly reptile quite accidentally as I unloaded our wagon this evening. I nearly stepped on the horrid thing and it poised, ready to strike me. In those seconds that passed I was sure I'd be bitten and die. But Luke saw the snake the same time I did. He pulled out his rifle and shot it dead before it attacked me.
Afterward I just stood there, gazing at the creature's lifeless, beady black eyes. I burst into tears, realizing how frightened I had really been. Luke put his hand on my shoulder and said, "There, now, Beth, that buzzworm's dead as a doornail. He can't hurt you anymore."
Luke saved my very life that day, and I thank God for him.
Journal entry: Friday, June 14
Yesterday a horrible thing happened involving another rattlesnake, but this time it resulted in a tragedy. A five-year-old boy named Justin McMurray got bit. His passing was the saddest thing I ever witnessed. The strike happened during the day, but the McMurrays didn't want to make the entire wagon train stop because of Justin. By the time several men and one doctor went by the McMurray wagon to see if they could be of help, it was too late. The poison had gotten into the boy's system, and he had a raging fever. Then Luke and I went over and talked to Justin. Despite the fever and chills, he was coherent and in a tremendous amount of pain. My heart immediately went out to him, but also to Mrs. McMurray. She looked so sad and helpless as she held her child whose life was slipping away with each passing second. Instinctively, I put my arm around the woman's shoulders in an effort to comfort her while Luke talked to the boy about heaven. Justin listened intently. I choked back a sob and glanced at Mrs. McMurray, who had tears rolling down her cheeks. Luke's eyes looked misty too, but instead of weeping, he started singing. He knew so many songs about rejoicing in heaven
that Mrs. McMurray actually smiled, and Justin even laughed a couple of times.
Finally the Lord took the boy home, and while I was happy that Justin is in the Savior's arms, I felt a bit sick inside. I still do.
Journal entry: Sunday, June 30
For the past two weeks since little Justin McMurray's death, I've been having nightmares. Each time I doze, I envision rattlesnakes everywhere—in the wagon, even
in my hair! I awaken with a start, and Mrs. Schlyterhaus hushes me, since we both sleep inside the wagon while Luke and Jake make their beds on the ground below us.
My fear of rattlesnakes grew along with the exhausting desert temperatures to the point where I refused to get down from the wagon and stretch my legs during the day. At night I begged Mrs. Schlyterhaus to start the fire and make supper. I did not have any appetite and would lie down inside the wagon and pray for some peaceful sleep . . . which never seemed to come. Finally last night Luke said, "Bethany Stafford, you climb down off that wagon this minute!" I told him I would do no such thing. He asked me why, but I could
not admit how afraid I was to leave the wagon and have a rattlesnake kill me. However, Luke guessed the trouble. He said, "There's no snakes around, so come down now or I'll climb up and get you myself."
Still, I refused, but I tried to be polite about it. Next thing I knew Luke had his arm around my waist, lifting me out of the wagon. Then he announced we were taking a stroll around the wagon train encampment.
I begged to stay back, but he would not be dissuaded. I went so far as to threaten him, saying if I died of snakebite, it would be all his fault. He said, "I'll take my chances."
So I pleaded with him to at least carry along his rifle. Luke replied, "No, ma'am, we're only taking the Lord with us tonight."
The fear inside of me increased. My heart pounded and my legs shook with every anxious step. At last Luke said folks were going to get the wrong impression about us if I did not begin to walk in a ladylike fashion. To my shame, I realized I was stepping all over him in order to keep away from the rattlesnakes that I knew lurked beneath the sands of the Cimarron.
Luke's voice became very soft and gentle. He said, "Beth, God does not give us the spirit of fear, so don't be afraid. Our heavenly Father was not surprised when Justin McMurray got bit by that snake. That home-going had been planned since the beginning of time."
I knew he was right, and somehow his straightforwardness caused me to relax. Then he mentioned what a nice evening it was for a stroll, and for the first time I realized the sky looked clear and the air felt cool and clean against my face. Amazingly I even felt hungry then. I loosened the death grip I had around Luke's elbow. He chuckled as though he was amused. I felt horribly embarrassed, and he laughed again. I like the sound of his laugh, so slow and easy. And it's a funny thing, but with God and Luke right there with me, I didn't fret about rattlesnakes the rest of the night.
Journal entry: Sunday, July 21
After walking in oven-hot temperatures for ten to fourteen miles every day, except Sundays, we finally arrived in Santa Fe. I'm not sure what I expected, but I'm ever so disappointed with what has met my weary eyes thus far. Santa Fe is not at all lush and green like Wisconsin during the summer months. Everything is a dismal brown. Most houses are single-story adobe structures with dirt floors. There is a telegraph office, and we learned that Sarah gave birth to a healthy baby boy. His name is Samuel Richard. I must say that Luke and Jake seem quite proud of their youngest sister and newest nephew. I'm genuinely happy for Richard and Sarah.
As for myself, I am bone-thin, and the traveling dresses I made for the journey hang from my shoulders like old potato sacks. Luke is worried about me, and so we will remain here for a couple of weeks while I regain my strength.
On the last leg of our journey we escaped both Indian attack and bad weather. But we did encounter a buffalo stampede, the likes I hope to never witness again! The ground shook so hard my teeth rattled. That same day we saw abandoned wagons and fresh graves, which proved an almost eerie forewarning. Days later, a strange fever made its way around our wagon train, and several people died, including four small children.
Although both Luke and Jake gave encouraging graveside messages, having to leave the little bodies of their children behind, coupled with the fear of animals discovering them, proved more than the three young mothers in our camp could bear. They wept for days,
and my heart broke right along with them.
Luke soon enlisted my services, and I prayed with the mourning women and helped with their daily chores. Luke said I was a blessing to them. Oddly, in assisting them, my own heart began to heal. When Mrs. Schlyterhaus took ill with the fever, I nursed her back to health as well. Both Luke and Jake said they didn't know what they'd have done without me.
As for Mrs. Schlyterhaus, Jake has decided that, although her health is improving, she will remain here in Santa Fe permanently. He has arranged for her to stay with a missionary family and work as their housekeeper. Mrs. Schlyterhaus is very accepting of this arrangement, although I will miss her. She has softened considerably since leaving Milwaukee and has come to realize how unhappy she has been since her husband's death. But she said the thought of another four weeks traveling through Indian territory frightens her senseless.
In truth, it frightens me also. But, as Luke is fond of saying, God does not give us the spirit of fear, and from the human standpoint, he and Jake have taken precautions to ensure our safety. He hired a guide— a physician named Frank Bandy, one of the few white men who have made peace with the Apaches. The Indians allow him passage through their territory because he has been able to minister medically to their people.
But, alas, I must stop writing for now as there are numerous tasks I would like to accomplish—although if Luke discovers I am not resting, I may have some explaining to do.
Journal entry: Monday, October 7
I have discovered I keep a poor journal. Truth is, I forgot about my diary these past months as it has been tucked away in my trunk of belongings. However, this morning I shall do my best to bring the events up to date. I fully recovered from my journey and now spend much of my time becoming familiar with my surroundings and the people here. We arrived in Silverstone on August 27, and I had only a few days to prepare the classroom as school began on Monday, the second of September. I have thirteen children in my class, ranging from first to eighth grades. Three of my students are from one family. They lost their mother just a few short months ago in childbirth. I hope to be able to help them deal with their loss as they might prove to be the brightest children under my tutelage this year.
Meanwhile, the Arizona heat has been ghastly. Rain compounded the misery by turning everything to mud. I doubt I shall ever get used to this place. I find myself looking forward to my cool baths every morning at the break of dawn when several of us women go down to the riverbank, as is the custom of the Mexican women here. The muddy water looks red and the river's current is swift; however, after wilting in the previous day's heat, it is a welcomed respite. Silverstone itself is located twenty miles north of Arizona City and the Yuma Crossing on the Colorado River. Beyond the town the scenery is breathtakingly beautiful. The majestic mountaintops seem to touch an ever-azure sky, and the swirling red river water flows beneath them. But the town is an eyesore by comparison. It's a hot, dusty, unpainted freight town. The people here are an odd mix of prospectors, ranchers, freighters, Mexicans, and Indians, and they keep Main Street (if it may be called such a thing) lively with regular brawls, which I abhor.
On one side of the rutted, unpaved road there is an adobe government building, which houses the sheriff and a jail. Ironically, right next door, there is a rickety wooden saloon called Chicago Joe's and, above it, a house of ill repute. On the other side of Main Street is the Winters' Boardinghouse, in which I am presently residing. The Winters also operate a dining room and the post office. Beside their place is a dry-goods store and next to it a freight office and a bank. Luke maintains the church at the end of the thoroughfare and delivers the Sunday morning message each week. Jake does carpentry work when he is not riding the circuit and preaching. Beside the church there stands a small one-room schoolhouse, where I teach.
As one might guess, the two sides of Main Street are largely at odds with each other. Mrs. Winters says we are the "good" side, and those across the way (particularly the women in the brothel) are the "bad" side—all save for Sheriff Paden Montaño, of course. Silverstone's sheriff has been commissioned by the United States Army and oversees the shipping and receiving of government freight landed in Silverstone by river steamers. Then it is transported across the Territory by wagon. Sheriff Montaño's father was a rugged vaquero (cowboy), and his mother was a genteel woman from back East.
I think the sheriff seems to have inherited traits from both parents; however, he is a sight to behold. He is a darkly handsome man with hair so long it hangs nearly to his waist. One would never see such a man in Milwaukee, Wisconsin!
At first glance, he resembles a fierce Indian, but his actions are polite and refined. Like his vaquero father, he is a capable horseman and masterful with a gun. Like his mother, with whom he was raised, he is well educated. Some say Sheriff Montaño is a Mexican and Indian sympathizer, out to use his status as a United States lawman for his own purposes, but Luke says he's a fair man. I must admit I have found the sheriff to be charming.
And then there is Ralph Jonas, who is quite the opposite. He claims to be a Christian man, but he can be quite disagreeable. His wife died during childbirth just before we arrived in town, and Mr. Jonas is desperately trying to replace her—just as he might replace a mule. I was insulted when he proposed to me, and I find his philosophy on marriage highly distasteful. Thankfully, Luke had a talk with him. I don't know what he said, but now Mr. Jonas keeps his distance for the most part.
I must admit that I hate it here in Silverstone. I want to return to Jericho Junction. I'm praying the McCabes will find something for me to do there, but first an opportunity will have to present itself. But worse is the next wagon train won't depart for Missouri again until next spring.
Six months. Six long months.
Will I be able to survive that long, here in this Godforsaken land?
One
Aknock sounded once. Then again, more insistent this time.
"Coming." Bethany set down the quill and capped the inkwell. Closing her journal, she stood from where she'd been sitting at the desk Jake had crafted for her use. Then, before she could open the door, Trudy poked her round, cherubic face into Bethany's bedroom.
"Mama says breakfast is ready."
"Thank you, Trudy. I'll be down shortly."
A grin curved the flaxen-haired girl's pink mouth. "Reverend Luke and Reverend Jake are already here. Sheriff Montaño is too."
Bethany wasn't at all taken aback by the familiar way in which Trudy referred to both Luke and Jake. Because the men shared the same surname, the townspeople called them by their first names.
"I'll be down shortly." Walking to the looking glass, Bethany brushed out her long brown hair. It had dried from her earlier bath in the river.
Thirteen-year-old Trudy stepped farther into the room and closed the door behind her. "I'll bet we'll hear some lively conversation. Something about cattle stealing. Papa said the Indians have been causing trouble again."
"Oh, dear." Bethany tried not to show either her discontent with this town or her unease with the natives of this land.
May 17, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - Fade to Blue by Julie Carobini
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!
Fade to Blue
by
Julie Carobini
Suz Mitchell is the determined dreamer we should all be and won't allow her ex-husband Len's jail sentence to ruin their young son Jeremiah's life. An accomplished artist, she moves with her child across the country to California's central coast and lands a sweet job restoring priceless paintings at the historic Hearst Castle overlooking the ocean.
To her utter surprise, a serious old flame, Seth, is also now working at Hearst and jumbles the dreams inside Suz's heart. While sorting out the awkwardness of their past split and current spiritual differences, a repentent Len shows up eager to restore his family.
Suz must learn to let God be the true restorer of all that once seemed lost.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
Of all the people I might have imagined seeing today through the windows of this graying warehouse, Seth had not made the top ten. Not even the top one hundred.
The older man next to me cleared his throat, causing me to tear my gawking eyes away from the window where a ladder had cast a long shadow across our work stations. Not to mention the man on said ladder whose unexpected appearance made my steady hands quake.
"He'll be done soon enough, Suzi-Q." My mentor's voice cut into my thoughts, his designated nickname for me still startling. Fred's round eyes peered over his wire-rims, "All those windows are a blessing to the artists, but they can be a curse too when the sea winds kick up sand and dirt."
I nodded, my mind not completely connecting with my new mentor's explanation of why the wall of northerly windows needed cleaning. Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe the man on the ladder only resembled Seth, and my mind had gone too fuzzy to recognize that fact. Surely the aromatic swirl of oil paints and glossy finishes could have such an effect on a person. I drew in a carefully filtered breath and tried again to focus on the man at my side.
With his cherry red cheeks, featherlike white hair and round spectacles, Fred reminded me of jolly old Saint Nick. Considering the array of raw materials spread all around us on every shelf and table top, this drafty building could pass for a toy shop too. Without all the elves and hilarity, of course.
"Now see these here?" He pointed to a tray of metal tools in varying degrees of size and sharpness and didn't wait for me to answer. "Each one has a purpose all its own. Here." He placed a cold strip of metal into my hand. "Go ahead and roll it around in your palm."
I did as I was told, glancing at the object, trying to memorize its size and shape, while also predicting the type of work I might use it for some time. "It's heavy," I said.
He nodded. "That it is. You'll want to use that mainly for wood. If you try to wield it across anything lighter than that, you'll be in danger of damaging the piece."
Heavy. Had its own purpose. Got it. Outside, the ladder scraped across metal, sending out a high-pitch screech. It took all my will-power not to turn and gawk at the man who carried a bucket and wielded a squeegee. But if I didn't do so soon, I might continue the notion that Seth, the man I'd left years ago, had found his way to Otter Bay. The idea was…was…well, it was crazy.
A whirling concoction of fuschia-colored fabric and cinnamon-laced perfume lofted into the studio and landed next to me. Her name was Letty and we had met less than a week before, yet who could tell? She was blunt and honest, too much so to mess with surface pleasantries. So she had given me the two-minute version of her life-story and quickly assessed me in one, long, flowing stroke. "You are a people-pleaser. And you have stars in your eyes." She reached over then and thumbed through my portfolio, the one I'd pulled together in a valiant effort to acquire a job restoring art at the famed Hearst Castle. "Dang, you can paint, though."
Frankly, I let her believe what she wanted. No need to tell her the gritty details of my past. In the brief time that we'd known each other, I'd decided one thing: Letty made biding my time here as a restoration artist apprentice in this warehouse much, much easier.
She stood close, her black hair wrapped in a chocolate-tinted scarf, the spicyness of her perfume tickling my nose. "You do sushi?"
I tilted my chin. "I can honestly tell you that I do not."
"Do not what?"
"Do sushi."
"Well. It is a shame."
I owed her a snappy comeback, but my attention stood divided. How stupid. What was I thinking? The man out there on that ladder could not be Seth. Seth's hair had length and wave, and, well, it had always been rather moppish. A trademark look for him, but this man wore his hair short in soft spikes. To better highlight his eyes. I swallowed my own gasp and flashed Letty a grin. "But I'm happy to give sushi a try. For you."
Letty puckered her nose and mouth. "Hey, do not put yourself out on my account."
"Come on, Letty. You angry with me?"
She plunked herself into a chair, and twirled the fringed edge of her scarf. "Me, mad? Nah. I just like to see you squirm." She rested her chin on the backs of curled fingers. "You're just such a goody two shoes. I will break you of this yet."
I laughed and slid a look at Fred who only offered a brief shrug and no comment. I glanced back at Letty. "Oh brother. Who says 'goody two shoes' anymore? And what does that have to do with eating sushi anyway?"
"Was that a spark of fire that crossed your face?" she asked, her voice nearly-taunting me. She turned to our boss. "I think I may have finally offended our Suz here."
Fred scratched his head, leaving a plume of feathery hair to stand aloft on his crown. "Doesn't look offended to me. Did you want to offend my newest apprentice?"
She leaned back and laughed into the rafters before jerking herself upright. "Okay, you and I, we are going to do some sushi. Tonight. I know the cheapest dive in town. The only place I ever dine out."
Fred cut in, his mouth quirked downward in defeat. "I think this would be a good time for a break, Suz. I will return in twenty minutes with a picture of the cabin, if you're interested." He shuffled off.
Letty leaned in. "Cabin?"
I kept my voice neutral. "I'm hoping to move soon and Fred mentioned that he and his wife own a cabin that they rent out."
Letty's voice rose. "The one in the woods? Isn't that occupied?"
"The renters are leaving soon. A job transfer, I think."
Letty seemed perturbed. Maybe she was annoyed that I'd skirted her dinner invitation. I set down the tool that I'd been rolling over and over in my hand until every bit of its cold surface had turned warm. She watched me in silence for once, her eyes piercing, as if wanting to know more about my desire for new digs. The reason was simple, but I wasn't about to divulge it, nor anything else about my past.
I set the tool down and smiled. "Tell you what. I promised Jeremiah I'd take him to the Red Abalone Grill tonight. Not so sure about sushi being on the menu but everything's good. Wanna come?"
She hesitated. "Sure he won't mind me butting in on your date?"
"He's four. He'll get over it."
She sighed. "The elbows on the table, the toothless grin…the eating with the mouth open. Hm, it has been a long time since I have had dinner with a man." She slapped the workbench. "I will take it."
"Hey, thanks for all the compliments on my parenting skills." Even as I said it, a slight twist tugged at my insides. "See you at six?"
Before she could answer, a thump against the wall drew our attention to that expanse of windows outside. Seth's lookalike stood at the base of the extended ladder, slid it sideways, his eyes drawn upward. And not on me. Shadows played down the length of his arms exposed at the elbows by upturned sleeves, his muscles moving reflexively.
"My," Letty said. "I think I need to call a man about some windows."
"Really? Thought your landlady had the whole house done last weekend." I grinned. "Or did they miss your room?"
Letty pushed her chin forward. Her black eyes flashed. "I do not rent a room. It is a cabana, Suz. A cabana."
She's embarrassed about her rooming situation. Check. At least she pays her own way and doesn't have to rely on a generous older brother to provide shelter for her. And her child.
"It was a joke. Sorry."
She batted her hand. "No sorry. Just consider yourself lucky. If I had not committed to dinner with you and that little one of yours, I might have turned to a hottie window washer instead."
"Well then. I must live right."
She fixed her eyes on the windows again. "Then again…" Letty gaped at me. "Can you explain why that guy is ogling you?"
I would remember that moment for the rest of my life. Until now, I had been playing with the dream, wondering if the man outside the window could be my old love, yet unwilling to garner his attention, stare him boldly in the face, and come to a conclusion. Was it just a fanciful dream brought on by a life not working according to plan, not to mention the finger-numbing temperature in this drafty studio warehouse? Or had Seth coincidentally landed in the same small town as I had just a few months ago?
The man had stopped his work and stood, peering through the window, one strong arm still propped against the ladder. And I knew…it was him.
The diner bustled for a Tuesday night. As usual, Mimi wove in and around booths, swinging a coffee pot, but both Peg, the diner's owner, and her niece who helped run the place, Holly, still hung around.
Holly pulled up in front of us, gathering menus. "The three of you tonight? Then follow me."
She whisked us to an open table along the side wall where windows offered a glimpse of the sea. Nights still came too early this time of year and the sun had already begun its descent, but there was no mistaking the bubble and churn of the ocean at twilight.
"Hey there, Jeremiah," Holly said. "Bet you'd like some hot chocolate with marshmallows on top."
Jer looked at me for quick approval, and when he received it, he nodded vigorously.
Holly laughed. "All right, and for you, ladies? Suz, you usually like chai about now, am I right?"
"Perfect, thanks."
"I've seen your friend around town but never in here before." She smacked her order pad on the table and reached out a hand. "I'm Holly. Welcome to my home away from home."
"Gracias. Letty. And I will have a cup of your strongest coffee. Black."
Holly nodded then picked up her order pad again, drawing my attention to her unusual clothing. I was glad for the distraction. "You're not wearing your uniform tonight, Holly. Pretty dress. Going somewhere?"
A blush crossed her face and she dropped in a mini-curtsy. "Thanks for noticin'. Yeah, I've got a date." She glanced over toward the kitchen. "Tryin' to get out of here, but my aunt Peg's got a bee up her bonnet tonight for some reason."
"Sorry to hear it."
"Eh. It's less and less these days so you won't hear me complainin'. I already went home once, but she called me back. Anyway, I hope to get to the back office soon." She patted her head. "Have to do somethin' with this mess of hair."
Letty's eyes flashed wide. "Tell me you are kidding! Don't you know how much women pay to have hair like that? No, no, no, do not give in to the comb and brush. Just leave it as is."
Holly smiled. "You think?"
"I do not think—I know."
"Well, then. Thank you. Considerin' he's pickin' me up here any sec, I'm relieved to hear it." Her smile brightened her face. "I'll be back in a New York minute with all your drinks."
Letty glanced at me. "That was fun."
I nodded. "She's a character, isn't she? Holly's known for being able to snag all the eligible surfers in town, but she's too precious to resent." I jerked my head up. "Not like I'm into chasing surfers or anything."
Jer, as I liked to call him, giggled. "She's nice. She makes good pancakes—with whipped cream!"
Letty's eyes grew wide again. "Whipped cream? Maybe I will have to order that for my dinner."
Jer dropped his head in an avalanche of giggles. "You can't have whipped cream for dinner." He poked me with one tiny forefinger. "Tell her, mama. Whipped cream is only for dessert."
"And breakfast?" Letty asked.
Jer smacked himself in the face with his hands. "Oh yeah. For breakfast!"
Holly appeared with three drinks on a tray. "Here we go. Jer, your chocolate is just the right temp'rature for you." She spoke while serving us. "I'll be takin' your orders now, and Mimi will be bringin' them to you. Now don't you worry, you'll be in good hands."
After scribbling down our orders, she took off in a hurry. I played with the handle of my mug, but didn't take a sip. Jeremiah ate two marshmallows off the top of his drink.
Letty stared. "You want to talk about the window washer with the sizzling eyes?" She leaned into the table, zeroing in on me. "The one who ran off like a wounded buck after taking one long look at you?"
Jer slurped his chocolate. "What's a buck?"
Letty patted his hand. "A wild animal. Drink your chocolate, honey."
I took a sip, allowing myself time to answer, but I knew she wouldn't let up. "He's…he was an old friend." I sighed. "We didn't part on very good terms, though."
"But I thought you weren't from around here."
"I'm not."
A coy smile upturned the corner of her mouth. "So, perhaps he has followed you."
I shook my head. "Not possible. He didn't know I was here. It's all just a…a fluke."
Jer had already emptied half his mug of chocolate, much of it on his upper lip. "What's a fluke?"
Letty shook her head. "Phwee. There is no such thing, young Jeremiah. Everything is part of the plan with a capital P. The man up stairs—he knows what he's doing."
Jer scrunched up his face. "What man's upstairs?"
"I meant God, Jeremiah. He knows what he is doing. And he has his mother, Mary, and all his saints to help him. You know that, right?"
I rubbed my lips together and peered at my son whose furrowed soft brow displayed his confusion. Fluke, or chance, whatever we earthlings called it, was a deep concept to explain to a four year old, especially when mixed with theology. "She means that God is in complete control of our lives and that we shouldn't worry about things that happen." I looked to her. "Isn't that right, Letty?"
"Yes. Amen. So. You going to talk to him?"
"You mean like make amends?"
"That's one way to break the ice, I guess. Hey, I'd stick an olive branch in my teeth if it meant I'd be invited up close and personal."
"You are so weird!" I sighed. "It's been so many years. That look you saw on his face told me all I needed to know."
"And what might that be?"
"That of all the places he could have landed in this great country of ours, why'd he have to pick the one with the most wretched woman from his past?"
Jer's cup fell over. Fortunately, it had already been drained. "What's wretched?" he asked.
Mimi blew toward us, a full tray of steaming food on her tray. "Here we are," she said, as she began placing the food before us. "Can I get you anything else…oh, looky here."
We all turned. Seth had just walked into the diner, looking tall and sharp in dark pants, a denim blue shirt, and a casual blazer. He was alone.
Letty grabbed my hand and hissed. "Invite him to sit with us!"
I jerked my hand away and dropped my gaze to the chopped cob salad in front of me. Twice in one day? What was he doing here? Lord, I've prayed for you to show me the transgressions that have gotten me to this place in life. Could he have chosen this public place for me to make amends with a man I once hurt?
Letty's sudden, deflated, "Oh," pulled me from my thoughts.
Holly greeted Seth. They exchanged some words, and although I tried, I couldn't make them out. Then he held the door open for her. Just before leaving, Holly turned her head toward us and with a wide smile mouthed the words: This is him.
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Fade to Blueby
Julie Carobini
Suz Mitchell is the determined dreamer we should all be and won't allow her ex-husband Len's jail sentence to ruin their young son Jeremiah's life. An accomplished artist, she moves with her child across the country to California's central coast and lands a sweet job restoring priceless paintings at the historic Hearst Castle overlooking the ocean.
To her utter surprise, a serious old flame, Seth, is also now working at Hearst and jumbles the dreams inside Suz's heart. While sorting out the awkwardness of their past split and current spiritual differences, a repentent Len shows up eager to restore his family.
Suz must learn to let God be the true restorer of all that once seemed lost.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
Of all the people I might have imagined seeing today through the windows of this graying warehouse, Seth had not made the top ten. Not even the top one hundred.
The older man next to me cleared his throat, causing me to tear my gawking eyes away from the window where a ladder had cast a long shadow across our work stations. Not to mention the man on said ladder whose unexpected appearance made my steady hands quake.
"He'll be done soon enough, Suzi-Q." My mentor's voice cut into my thoughts, his designated nickname for me still startling. Fred's round eyes peered over his wire-rims, "All those windows are a blessing to the artists, but they can be a curse too when the sea winds kick up sand and dirt."
I nodded, my mind not completely connecting with my new mentor's explanation of why the wall of northerly windows needed cleaning. Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe the man on the ladder only resembled Seth, and my mind had gone too fuzzy to recognize that fact. Surely the aromatic swirl of oil paints and glossy finishes could have such an effect on a person. I drew in a carefully filtered breath and tried again to focus on the man at my side.
With his cherry red cheeks, featherlike white hair and round spectacles, Fred reminded me of jolly old Saint Nick. Considering the array of raw materials spread all around us on every shelf and table top, this drafty building could pass for a toy shop too. Without all the elves and hilarity, of course.
"Now see these here?" He pointed to a tray of metal tools in varying degrees of size and sharpness and didn't wait for me to answer. "Each one has a purpose all its own. Here." He placed a cold strip of metal into my hand. "Go ahead and roll it around in your palm."
I did as I was told, glancing at the object, trying to memorize its size and shape, while also predicting the type of work I might use it for some time. "It's heavy," I said.
He nodded. "That it is. You'll want to use that mainly for wood. If you try to wield it across anything lighter than that, you'll be in danger of damaging the piece."
Heavy. Had its own purpose. Got it. Outside, the ladder scraped across metal, sending out a high-pitch screech. It took all my will-power not to turn and gawk at the man who carried a bucket and wielded a squeegee. But if I didn't do so soon, I might continue the notion that Seth, the man I'd left years ago, had found his way to Otter Bay. The idea was…was…well, it was crazy.
A whirling concoction of fuschia-colored fabric and cinnamon-laced perfume lofted into the studio and landed next to me. Her name was Letty and we had met less than a week before, yet who could tell? She was blunt and honest, too much so to mess with surface pleasantries. So she had given me the two-minute version of her life-story and quickly assessed me in one, long, flowing stroke. "You are a people-pleaser. And you have stars in your eyes." She reached over then and thumbed through my portfolio, the one I'd pulled together in a valiant effort to acquire a job restoring art at the famed Hearst Castle. "Dang, you can paint, though."
Frankly, I let her believe what she wanted. No need to tell her the gritty details of my past. In the brief time that we'd known each other, I'd decided one thing: Letty made biding my time here as a restoration artist apprentice in this warehouse much, much easier.
She stood close, her black hair wrapped in a chocolate-tinted scarf, the spicyness of her perfume tickling my nose. "You do sushi?"
I tilted my chin. "I can honestly tell you that I do not."
"Do not what?"
"Do sushi."
"Well. It is a shame."
I owed her a snappy comeback, but my attention stood divided. How stupid. What was I thinking? The man out there on that ladder could not be Seth. Seth's hair had length and wave, and, well, it had always been rather moppish. A trademark look for him, but this man wore his hair short in soft spikes. To better highlight his eyes. I swallowed my own gasp and flashed Letty a grin. "But I'm happy to give sushi a try. For you."
Letty puckered her nose and mouth. "Hey, do not put yourself out on my account."
"Come on, Letty. You angry with me?"
She plunked herself into a chair, and twirled the fringed edge of her scarf. "Me, mad? Nah. I just like to see you squirm." She rested her chin on the backs of curled fingers. "You're just such a goody two shoes. I will break you of this yet."
I laughed and slid a look at Fred who only offered a brief shrug and no comment. I glanced back at Letty. "Oh brother. Who says 'goody two shoes' anymore? And what does that have to do with eating sushi anyway?"
"Was that a spark of fire that crossed your face?" she asked, her voice nearly-taunting me. She turned to our boss. "I think I may have finally offended our Suz here."
Fred scratched his head, leaving a plume of feathery hair to stand aloft on his crown. "Doesn't look offended to me. Did you want to offend my newest apprentice?"
She leaned back and laughed into the rafters before jerking herself upright. "Okay, you and I, we are going to do some sushi. Tonight. I know the cheapest dive in town. The only place I ever dine out."
Fred cut in, his mouth quirked downward in defeat. "I think this would be a good time for a break, Suz. I will return in twenty minutes with a picture of the cabin, if you're interested." He shuffled off.
Letty leaned in. "Cabin?"
I kept my voice neutral. "I'm hoping to move soon and Fred mentioned that he and his wife own a cabin that they rent out."
Letty's voice rose. "The one in the woods? Isn't that occupied?"
"The renters are leaving soon. A job transfer, I think."
Letty seemed perturbed. Maybe she was annoyed that I'd skirted her dinner invitation. I set down the tool that I'd been rolling over and over in my hand until every bit of its cold surface had turned warm. She watched me in silence for once, her eyes piercing, as if wanting to know more about my desire for new digs. The reason was simple, but I wasn't about to divulge it, nor anything else about my past.
I set the tool down and smiled. "Tell you what. I promised Jeremiah I'd take him to the Red Abalone Grill tonight. Not so sure about sushi being on the menu but everything's good. Wanna come?"
She hesitated. "Sure he won't mind me butting in on your date?"
"He's four. He'll get over it."
She sighed. "The elbows on the table, the toothless grin…the eating with the mouth open. Hm, it has been a long time since I have had dinner with a man." She slapped the workbench. "I will take it."
"Hey, thanks for all the compliments on my parenting skills." Even as I said it, a slight twist tugged at my insides. "See you at six?"
Before she could answer, a thump against the wall drew our attention to that expanse of windows outside. Seth's lookalike stood at the base of the extended ladder, slid it sideways, his eyes drawn upward. And not on me. Shadows played down the length of his arms exposed at the elbows by upturned sleeves, his muscles moving reflexively.
"My," Letty said. "I think I need to call a man about some windows."
"Really? Thought your landlady had the whole house done last weekend." I grinned. "Or did they miss your room?"
Letty pushed her chin forward. Her black eyes flashed. "I do not rent a room. It is a cabana, Suz. A cabana."
She's embarrassed about her rooming situation. Check. At least she pays her own way and doesn't have to rely on a generous older brother to provide shelter for her. And her child.
"It was a joke. Sorry."
She batted her hand. "No sorry. Just consider yourself lucky. If I had not committed to dinner with you and that little one of yours, I might have turned to a hottie window washer instead."
"Well then. I must live right."
She fixed her eyes on the windows again. "Then again…" Letty gaped at me. "Can you explain why that guy is ogling you?"
I would remember that moment for the rest of my life. Until now, I had been playing with the dream, wondering if the man outside the window could be my old love, yet unwilling to garner his attention, stare him boldly in the face, and come to a conclusion. Was it just a fanciful dream brought on by a life not working according to plan, not to mention the finger-numbing temperature in this drafty studio warehouse? Or had Seth coincidentally landed in the same small town as I had just a few months ago?
The man had stopped his work and stood, peering through the window, one strong arm still propped against the ladder. And I knew…it was him.
The diner bustled for a Tuesday night. As usual, Mimi wove in and around booths, swinging a coffee pot, but both Peg, the diner's owner, and her niece who helped run the place, Holly, still hung around.
Holly pulled up in front of us, gathering menus. "The three of you tonight? Then follow me."
She whisked us to an open table along the side wall where windows offered a glimpse of the sea. Nights still came too early this time of year and the sun had already begun its descent, but there was no mistaking the bubble and churn of the ocean at twilight.
"Hey there, Jeremiah," Holly said. "Bet you'd like some hot chocolate with marshmallows on top."
Jer looked at me for quick approval, and when he received it, he nodded vigorously.
Holly laughed. "All right, and for you, ladies? Suz, you usually like chai about now, am I right?"
"Perfect, thanks."
"I've seen your friend around town but never in here before." She smacked her order pad on the table and reached out a hand. "I'm Holly. Welcome to my home away from home."
"Gracias. Letty. And I will have a cup of your strongest coffee. Black."
Holly nodded then picked up her order pad again, drawing my attention to her unusual clothing. I was glad for the distraction. "You're not wearing your uniform tonight, Holly. Pretty dress. Going somewhere?"
A blush crossed her face and she dropped in a mini-curtsy. "Thanks for noticin'. Yeah, I've got a date." She glanced over toward the kitchen. "Tryin' to get out of here, but my aunt Peg's got a bee up her bonnet tonight for some reason."
"Sorry to hear it."
"Eh. It's less and less these days so you won't hear me complainin'. I already went home once, but she called me back. Anyway, I hope to get to the back office soon." She patted her head. "Have to do somethin' with this mess of hair."
Letty's eyes flashed wide. "Tell me you are kidding! Don't you know how much women pay to have hair like that? No, no, no, do not give in to the comb and brush. Just leave it as is."
Holly smiled. "You think?"
"I do not think—I know."
"Well, then. Thank you. Considerin' he's pickin' me up here any sec, I'm relieved to hear it." Her smile brightened her face. "I'll be back in a New York minute with all your drinks."
Letty glanced at me. "That was fun."
I nodded. "She's a character, isn't she? Holly's known for being able to snag all the eligible surfers in town, but she's too precious to resent." I jerked my head up. "Not like I'm into chasing surfers or anything."
Jer, as I liked to call him, giggled. "She's nice. She makes good pancakes—with whipped cream!"
Letty's eyes grew wide again. "Whipped cream? Maybe I will have to order that for my dinner."
Jer dropped his head in an avalanche of giggles. "You can't have whipped cream for dinner." He poked me with one tiny forefinger. "Tell her, mama. Whipped cream is only for dessert."
"And breakfast?" Letty asked.
Jer smacked himself in the face with his hands. "Oh yeah. For breakfast!"
Holly appeared with three drinks on a tray. "Here we go. Jer, your chocolate is just the right temp'rature for you." She spoke while serving us. "I'll be takin' your orders now, and Mimi will be bringin' them to you. Now don't you worry, you'll be in good hands."
After scribbling down our orders, she took off in a hurry. I played with the handle of my mug, but didn't take a sip. Jeremiah ate two marshmallows off the top of his drink.
Letty stared. "You want to talk about the window washer with the sizzling eyes?" She leaned into the table, zeroing in on me. "The one who ran off like a wounded buck after taking one long look at you?"
Jer slurped his chocolate. "What's a buck?"
Letty patted his hand. "A wild animal. Drink your chocolate, honey."
I took a sip, allowing myself time to answer, but I knew she wouldn't let up. "He's…he was an old friend." I sighed. "We didn't part on very good terms, though."
"But I thought you weren't from around here."
"I'm not."
A coy smile upturned the corner of her mouth. "So, perhaps he has followed you."
I shook my head. "Not possible. He didn't know I was here. It's all just a…a fluke."
Jer had already emptied half his mug of chocolate, much of it on his upper lip. "What's a fluke?"
Letty shook her head. "Phwee. There is no such thing, young Jeremiah. Everything is part of the plan with a capital P. The man up stairs—he knows what he's doing."
Jer scrunched up his face. "What man's upstairs?"
"I meant God, Jeremiah. He knows what he is doing. And he has his mother, Mary, and all his saints to help him. You know that, right?"
I rubbed my lips together and peered at my son whose furrowed soft brow displayed his confusion. Fluke, or chance, whatever we earthlings called it, was a deep concept to explain to a four year old, especially when mixed with theology. "She means that God is in complete control of our lives and that we shouldn't worry about things that happen." I looked to her. "Isn't that right, Letty?"
"Yes. Amen. So. You going to talk to him?"
"You mean like make amends?"
"That's one way to break the ice, I guess. Hey, I'd stick an olive branch in my teeth if it meant I'd be invited up close and personal."
"You are so weird!" I sighed. "It's been so many years. That look you saw on his face told me all I needed to know."
"And what might that be?"
"That of all the places he could have landed in this great country of ours, why'd he have to pick the one with the most wretched woman from his past?"
Jer's cup fell over. Fortunately, it had already been drained. "What's wretched?" he asked.
Mimi blew toward us, a full tray of steaming food on her tray. "Here we are," she said, as she began placing the food before us. "Can I get you anything else…oh, looky here."
We all turned. Seth had just walked into the diner, looking tall and sharp in dark pants, a denim blue shirt, and a casual blazer. He was alone.
Letty grabbed my hand and hissed. "Invite him to sit with us!"
I jerked my hand away and dropped my gaze to the chopped cob salad in front of me. Twice in one day? What was he doing here? Lord, I've prayed for you to show me the transgressions that have gotten me to this place in life. Could he have chosen this public place for me to make amends with a man I once hurt?
Letty's sudden, deflated, "Oh," pulled me from my thoughts.
Holly greeted Seth. They exchanged some words, and although I tried, I couldn't make them out. Then he held the door open for her. Just before leaving, Holly turned her head toward us and with a wide smile mouthed the words: This is him.
Print book:
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Amazon
Christianbook.com
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Ebook:
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Excerpt - Fade to Blue by Julie Carobini
Camy here: Mucho thanks to B&H Publishing Group for sending me the ARC of this title. Here's the excerpt for your enjoyment!
Fade to Blue
by
Julie Carobini
Suz Mitchell is the determined dreamer we should all be and won't allow her ex-husband Len's jail sentence to ruin their young son Jeremiah's life. An accomplished artist, she moves with her child across the country to California's central coast and lands a sweet job restoring priceless paintings at the historic Hearst Castle overlooking the ocean.
To her utter surprise, a serious old flame, Seth, is also now working at Hearst and jumbles the dreams inside Suz's heart. While sorting out the awkwardness of their past split and current spiritual differences, a repentent Len shows up eager to restore his family.
Suz must learn to let God be the true restorer of all that once seemed lost.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
Of all the people I might have imagined seeing today through the windows of this graying warehouse, Seth had not made the top ten. Not even the top one hundred.
The older man next to me cleared his throat, causing me to tear my gawking eyes away from the window where a ladder had cast a long shadow across our work stations. Not to mention the man on said ladder whose unexpected appearance made my steady hands quake.
"He'll be done soon enough, Suzi-Q." My mentor's voice cut into my thoughts, his designated nickname for me still startling. Fred's round eyes peered over his wire-rims, "All those windows are a blessing to the artists, but they can be a curse too when the sea winds kick up sand and dirt."
I nodded, my mind not completely connecting with my new mentor's explanation of why the wall of northerly windows needed cleaning. Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe the man on the ladder only resembled Seth, and my mind had gone too fuzzy to recognize that fact. Surely the aromatic swirl of oil paints and glossy finishes could have such an effect on a person. I drew in a carefully filtered breath and tried again to focus on the man at my side.
With his cherry red cheeks, featherlike white hair and round spectacles, Fred reminded me of jolly old Saint Nick. Considering the array of raw materials spread all around us on every shelf and table top, this drafty building could pass for a toy shop too. Without all the elves and hilarity, of course.
"Now see these here?" He pointed to a tray of metal tools in varying degrees of size and sharpness and didn't wait for me to answer. "Each one has a purpose all its own. Here." He placed a cold strip of metal into my hand. "Go ahead and roll it around in your palm."
I did as I was told, glancing at the object, trying to memorize its size and shape, while also predicting the type of work I might use it for some time. "It's heavy," I said.
He nodded. "That it is. You'll want to use that mainly for wood. If you try to wield it across anything lighter than that, you'll be in danger of damaging the piece."
Heavy. Had its own purpose. Got it. Outside, the ladder scraped across metal, sending out a high-pitch screech. It took all my will-power not to turn and gawk at the man who carried a bucket and wielded a squeegee. But if I didn't do so soon, I might continue the notion that Seth, the man I'd left years ago, had found his way to Otter Bay. The idea was…was…well, it was crazy.
A whirling concoction of fuschia-colored fabric and cinnamon-laced perfume lofted into the studio and landed next to me. Her name was Letty and we had met less than a week before, yet who could tell? She was blunt and honest, too much so to mess with surface pleasantries. So she had given me the two-minute version of her life-story and quickly assessed me in one, long, flowing stroke. "You are a people-pleaser. And you have stars in your eyes." She reached over then and thumbed through my portfolio, the one I'd pulled together in a valiant effort to acquire a job restoring art at the famed Hearst Castle. "Dang, you can paint, though."
Frankly, I let her believe what she wanted. No need to tell her the gritty details of my past. In the brief time that we'd known each other, I'd decided one thing: Letty made biding my time here as a restoration artist apprentice in this warehouse much, much easier.
She stood close, her black hair wrapped in a chocolate-tinted scarf, the spicyness of her perfume tickling my nose. "You do sushi?"
I tilted my chin. "I can honestly tell you that I do not."
"Do not what?"
"Do sushi."
"Well. It is a shame."
I owed her a snappy comeback, but my attention stood divided. How stupid. What was I thinking? The man out there on that ladder could not be Seth. Seth's hair had length and wave, and, well, it had always been rather moppish. A trademark look for him, but this man wore his hair short in soft spikes. To better highlight his eyes. I swallowed my own gasp and flashed Letty a grin. "But I'm happy to give sushi a try. For you."
Letty puckered her nose and mouth. "Hey, do not put yourself out on my account."
"Come on, Letty. You angry with me?"
She plunked herself into a chair, and twirled the fringed edge of her scarf. "Me, mad? Nah. I just like to see you squirm." She rested her chin on the backs of curled fingers. "You're just such a goody two shoes. I will break you of this yet."
I laughed and slid a look at Fred who only offered a brief shrug and no comment. I glanced back at Letty. "Oh brother. Who says 'goody two shoes' anymore? And what does that have to do with eating sushi anyway?"
"Was that a spark of fire that crossed your face?" she asked, her voice nearly-taunting me. She turned to our boss. "I think I may have finally offended our Suz here."
Fred scratched his head, leaving a plume of feathery hair to stand aloft on his crown. "Doesn't look offended to me. Did you want to offend my newest apprentice?"
She leaned back and laughed into the rafters before jerking herself upright. "Okay, you and I, we are going to do some sushi. Tonight. I know the cheapest dive in town. The only place I ever dine out."
Fred cut in, his mouth quirked downward in defeat. "I think this would be a good time for a break, Suz. I will return in twenty minutes with a picture of the cabin, if you're interested." He shuffled off.
Letty leaned in. "Cabin?"
I kept my voice neutral. "I'm hoping to move soon and Fred mentioned that he and his wife own a cabin that they rent out."
Letty's voice rose. "The one in the woods? Isn't that occupied?"
"The renters are leaving soon. A job transfer, I think."
Letty seemed perturbed. Maybe she was annoyed that I'd skirted her dinner invitation. I set down the tool that I'd been rolling over and over in my hand until every bit of its cold surface had turned warm. She watched me in silence for once, her eyes piercing, as if wanting to know more about my desire for new digs. The reason was simple, but I wasn't about to divulge it, nor anything else about my past.
I set the tool down and smiled. "Tell you what. I promised Jeremiah I'd take him to the Red Abalone Grill tonight. Not so sure about sushi being on the menu but everything's good. Wanna come?"
She hesitated. "Sure he won't mind me butting in on your date?"
"He's four. He'll get over it."
She sighed. "The elbows on the table, the toothless grin…the eating with the mouth open. Hm, it has been a long time since I have had dinner with a man." She slapped the workbench. "I will take it."
"Hey, thanks for all the compliments on my parenting skills." Even as I said it, a slight twist tugged at my insides. "See you at six?"
Before she could answer, a thump against the wall drew our attention to that expanse of windows outside. Seth's lookalike stood at the base of the extended ladder, slid it sideways, his eyes drawn upward. And not on me. Shadows played down the length of his arms exposed at the elbows by upturned sleeves, his muscles moving reflexively.
"My," Letty said. "I think I need to call a man about some windows."
"Really? Thought your landlady had the whole house done last weekend." I grinned. "Or did they miss your room?"
Letty pushed her chin forward. Her black eyes flashed. "I do not rent a room. It is a cabana, Suz. A cabana."
She's embarrassed about her rooming situation. Check. At least she pays her own way and doesn't have to rely on a generous older brother to provide shelter for her. And her child.
"It was a joke. Sorry."
She batted her hand. "No sorry. Just consider yourself lucky. If I had not committed to dinner with you and that little one of yours, I might have turned to a hottie window washer instead."
"Well then. I must live right."
She fixed her eyes on the windows again. "Then again…" Letty gaped at me. "Can you explain why that guy is ogling you?"
I would remember that moment for the rest of my life. Until now, I had been playing with the dream, wondering if the man outside the window could be my old love, yet unwilling to garner his attention, stare him boldly in the face, and come to a conclusion. Was it just a fanciful dream brought on by a life not working according to plan, not to mention the finger-numbing temperature in this drafty studio warehouse? Or had Seth coincidentally landed in the same small town as I had just a few months ago?
The man had stopped his work and stood, peering through the window, one strong arm still propped against the ladder. And I knew…it was him.
The diner bustled for a Tuesday night. As usual, Mimi wove in and around booths, swinging a coffee pot, but both Peg, the diner's owner, and her niece who helped run the place, Holly, still hung around.
Holly pulled up in front of us, gathering menus. "The three of you tonight? Then follow me."
She whisked us to an open table along the side wall where windows offered a glimpse of the sea. Nights still came too early this time of year and the sun had already begun its descent, but there was no mistaking the bubble and churn of the ocean at twilight.
"Hey there, Jeremiah," Holly said. "Bet you'd like some hot chocolate with marshmallows on top."
Jer looked at me for quick approval, and when he received it, he nodded vigorously.
Holly laughed. "All right, and for you, ladies? Suz, you usually like chai about now, am I right?"
"Perfect, thanks."
"I've seen your friend around town but never in here before." She smacked her order pad on the table and reached out a hand. "I'm Holly. Welcome to my home away from home."
"Gracias. Letty. And I will have a cup of your strongest coffee. Black."
Holly nodded then picked up her order pad again, drawing my attention to her unusual clothing. I was glad for the distraction. "You're not wearing your uniform tonight, Holly. Pretty dress. Going somewhere?"
A blush crossed her face and she dropped in a mini-curtsy. "Thanks for noticin'. Yeah, I've got a date." She glanced over toward the kitchen. "Tryin' to get out of here, but my aunt Peg's got a bee up her bonnet tonight for some reason."
"Sorry to hear it."
"Eh. It's less and less these days so you won't hear me complainin'. I already went home once, but she called me back. Anyway, I hope to get to the back office soon." She patted her head. "Have to do somethin' with this mess of hair."
Letty's eyes flashed wide. "Tell me you are kidding! Don't you know how much women pay to have hair like that? No, no, no, do not give in to the comb and brush. Just leave it as is."
Holly smiled. "You think?"
"I do not think—I know."
"Well, then. Thank you. Considerin' he's pickin' me up here any sec, I'm relieved to hear it." Her smile brightened her face. "I'll be back in a New York minute with all your drinks."
Letty glanced at me. "That was fun."
I nodded. "She's a character, isn't she? Holly's known for being able to snag all the eligible surfers in town, but she's too precious to resent." I jerked my head up. "Not like I'm into chasing surfers or anything."
Jer, as I liked to call him, giggled. "She's nice. She makes good pancakes—with whipped cream!"
Letty's eyes grew wide again. "Whipped cream? Maybe I will have to order that for my dinner."
Jer dropped his head in an avalanche of giggles. "You can't have whipped cream for dinner." He poked me with one tiny forefinger. "Tell her, mama. Whipped cream is only for dessert."
"And breakfast?" Letty asked.
Jer smacked himself in the face with his hands. "Oh yeah. For breakfast!"
Holly appeared with three drinks on a tray. "Here we go. Jer, your chocolate is just the right temp'rature for you." She spoke while serving us. "I'll be takin' your orders now, and Mimi will be bringin' them to you. Now don't you worry, you'll be in good hands."
After scribbling down our orders, she took off in a hurry. I played with the handle of my mug, but didn't take a sip. Jeremiah ate two marshmallows off the top of his drink.
Letty stared. "You want to talk about the window washer with the sizzling eyes?" She leaned into the table, zeroing in on me. "The one who ran off like a wounded buck after taking one long look at you?"
Jer slurped his chocolate. "What's a buck?"
Letty patted his hand. "A wild animal. Drink your chocolate, honey."
I took a sip, allowing myself time to answer, but I knew she wouldn't let up. "He's…he was an old friend." I sighed. "We didn't part on very good terms, though."
"But I thought you weren't from around here."
"I'm not."
A coy smile upturned the corner of her mouth. "So, perhaps he has followed you."
I shook my head. "Not possible. He didn't know I was here. It's all just a…a fluke."
Jer had already emptied half his mug of chocolate, much of it on his upper lip. "What's a fluke?"
Letty shook her head. "Phwee. There is no such thing, young Jeremiah. Everything is part of the plan with a capital P. The man up stairs—he knows what he's doing."
Jer scrunched up his face. "What man's upstairs?"
"I meant God, Jeremiah. He knows what he is doing. And he has his mother, Mary, and all his saints to help him. You know that, right?"
I rubbed my lips together and peered at my son whose furrowed soft brow displayed his confusion. Fluke, or chance, whatever we earthlings called it, was a deep concept to explain to a four year old, especially when mixed with theology. "She means that God is in complete control of our lives and that we shouldn't worry about things that happen." I looked to her. "Isn't that right, Letty?"
"Yes. Amen. So. You going to talk to him?"
"You mean like make amends?"
"That's one way to break the ice, I guess. Hey, I'd stick an olive branch in my teeth if it meant I'd be invited up close and personal."
"You are so weird!" I sighed. "It's been so many years. That look you saw on his face told me all I needed to know."
"And what might that be?"
"That of all the places he could have landed in this great country of ours, why'd he have to pick the one with the most wretched woman from his past?"
Jer's cup fell over. Fortunately, it had already been drained. "What's wretched?" he asked.
Mimi blew toward us, a full tray of steaming food on her tray. "Here we are," she said, as she began placing the food before us. "Can I get you anything else…oh, looky here."
We all turned. Seth had just walked into the diner, looking tall and sharp in dark pants, a denim blue shirt, and a casual blazer. He was alone.
Letty grabbed my hand and hissed. "Invite him to sit with us!"
I jerked my hand away and dropped my gaze to the chopped cob salad in front of me. Twice in one day? What was he doing here? Lord, I've prayed for you to show me the transgressions that have gotten me to this place in life. Could he have chosen this public place for me to make amends with a man I once hurt?
Letty's sudden, deflated, "Oh," pulled me from my thoughts.
Holly greeted Seth. They exchanged some words, and although I tried, I couldn't make them out. Then he held the door open for her. Just before leaving, Holly turned her head toward us and with a wide smile mouthed the words: This is him.
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Fade to Blueby
Julie Carobini
Suz Mitchell is the determined dreamer we should all be and won't allow her ex-husband Len's jail sentence to ruin their young son Jeremiah's life. An accomplished artist, she moves with her child across the country to California's central coast and lands a sweet job restoring priceless paintings at the historic Hearst Castle overlooking the ocean.
To her utter surprise, a serious old flame, Seth, is also now working at Hearst and jumbles the dreams inside Suz's heart. While sorting out the awkwardness of their past split and current spiritual differences, a repentent Len shows up eager to restore his family.
Suz must learn to let God be the true restorer of all that once seemed lost.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
Of all the people I might have imagined seeing today through the windows of this graying warehouse, Seth had not made the top ten. Not even the top one hundred.
The older man next to me cleared his throat, causing me to tear my gawking eyes away from the window where a ladder had cast a long shadow across our work stations. Not to mention the man on said ladder whose unexpected appearance made my steady hands quake.
"He'll be done soon enough, Suzi-Q." My mentor's voice cut into my thoughts, his designated nickname for me still startling. Fred's round eyes peered over his wire-rims, "All those windows are a blessing to the artists, but they can be a curse too when the sea winds kick up sand and dirt."
I nodded, my mind not completely connecting with my new mentor's explanation of why the wall of northerly windows needed cleaning. Maybe I was hallucinating. Maybe the man on the ladder only resembled Seth, and my mind had gone too fuzzy to recognize that fact. Surely the aromatic swirl of oil paints and glossy finishes could have such an effect on a person. I drew in a carefully filtered breath and tried again to focus on the man at my side.
With his cherry red cheeks, featherlike white hair and round spectacles, Fred reminded me of jolly old Saint Nick. Considering the array of raw materials spread all around us on every shelf and table top, this drafty building could pass for a toy shop too. Without all the elves and hilarity, of course.
"Now see these here?" He pointed to a tray of metal tools in varying degrees of size and sharpness and didn't wait for me to answer. "Each one has a purpose all its own. Here." He placed a cold strip of metal into my hand. "Go ahead and roll it around in your palm."
I did as I was told, glancing at the object, trying to memorize its size and shape, while also predicting the type of work I might use it for some time. "It's heavy," I said.
He nodded. "That it is. You'll want to use that mainly for wood. If you try to wield it across anything lighter than that, you'll be in danger of damaging the piece."
Heavy. Had its own purpose. Got it. Outside, the ladder scraped across metal, sending out a high-pitch screech. It took all my will-power not to turn and gawk at the man who carried a bucket and wielded a squeegee. But if I didn't do so soon, I might continue the notion that Seth, the man I'd left years ago, had found his way to Otter Bay. The idea was…was…well, it was crazy.
A whirling concoction of fuschia-colored fabric and cinnamon-laced perfume lofted into the studio and landed next to me. Her name was Letty and we had met less than a week before, yet who could tell? She was blunt and honest, too much so to mess with surface pleasantries. So she had given me the two-minute version of her life-story and quickly assessed me in one, long, flowing stroke. "You are a people-pleaser. And you have stars in your eyes." She reached over then and thumbed through my portfolio, the one I'd pulled together in a valiant effort to acquire a job restoring art at the famed Hearst Castle. "Dang, you can paint, though."
Frankly, I let her believe what she wanted. No need to tell her the gritty details of my past. In the brief time that we'd known each other, I'd decided one thing: Letty made biding my time here as a restoration artist apprentice in this warehouse much, much easier.
She stood close, her black hair wrapped in a chocolate-tinted scarf, the spicyness of her perfume tickling my nose. "You do sushi?"
I tilted my chin. "I can honestly tell you that I do not."
"Do not what?"
"Do sushi."
"Well. It is a shame."
I owed her a snappy comeback, but my attention stood divided. How stupid. What was I thinking? The man out there on that ladder could not be Seth. Seth's hair had length and wave, and, well, it had always been rather moppish. A trademark look for him, but this man wore his hair short in soft spikes. To better highlight his eyes. I swallowed my own gasp and flashed Letty a grin. "But I'm happy to give sushi a try. For you."
Letty puckered her nose and mouth. "Hey, do not put yourself out on my account."
"Come on, Letty. You angry with me?"
She plunked herself into a chair, and twirled the fringed edge of her scarf. "Me, mad? Nah. I just like to see you squirm." She rested her chin on the backs of curled fingers. "You're just such a goody two shoes. I will break you of this yet."
I laughed and slid a look at Fred who only offered a brief shrug and no comment. I glanced back at Letty. "Oh brother. Who says 'goody two shoes' anymore? And what does that have to do with eating sushi anyway?"
"Was that a spark of fire that crossed your face?" she asked, her voice nearly-taunting me. She turned to our boss. "I think I may have finally offended our Suz here."
Fred scratched his head, leaving a plume of feathery hair to stand aloft on his crown. "Doesn't look offended to me. Did you want to offend my newest apprentice?"
She leaned back and laughed into the rafters before jerking herself upright. "Okay, you and I, we are going to do some sushi. Tonight. I know the cheapest dive in town. The only place I ever dine out."
Fred cut in, his mouth quirked downward in defeat. "I think this would be a good time for a break, Suz. I will return in twenty minutes with a picture of the cabin, if you're interested." He shuffled off.
Letty leaned in. "Cabin?"
I kept my voice neutral. "I'm hoping to move soon and Fred mentioned that he and his wife own a cabin that they rent out."
Letty's voice rose. "The one in the woods? Isn't that occupied?"
"The renters are leaving soon. A job transfer, I think."
Letty seemed perturbed. Maybe she was annoyed that I'd skirted her dinner invitation. I set down the tool that I'd been rolling over and over in my hand until every bit of its cold surface had turned warm. She watched me in silence for once, her eyes piercing, as if wanting to know more about my desire for new digs. The reason was simple, but I wasn't about to divulge it, nor anything else about my past.
I set the tool down and smiled. "Tell you what. I promised Jeremiah I'd take him to the Red Abalone Grill tonight. Not so sure about sushi being on the menu but everything's good. Wanna come?"
She hesitated. "Sure he won't mind me butting in on your date?"
"He's four. He'll get over it."
She sighed. "The elbows on the table, the toothless grin…the eating with the mouth open. Hm, it has been a long time since I have had dinner with a man." She slapped the workbench. "I will take it."
"Hey, thanks for all the compliments on my parenting skills." Even as I said it, a slight twist tugged at my insides. "See you at six?"
Before she could answer, a thump against the wall drew our attention to that expanse of windows outside. Seth's lookalike stood at the base of the extended ladder, slid it sideways, his eyes drawn upward. And not on me. Shadows played down the length of his arms exposed at the elbows by upturned sleeves, his muscles moving reflexively.
"My," Letty said. "I think I need to call a man about some windows."
"Really? Thought your landlady had the whole house done last weekend." I grinned. "Or did they miss your room?"
Letty pushed her chin forward. Her black eyes flashed. "I do not rent a room. It is a cabana, Suz. A cabana."
She's embarrassed about her rooming situation. Check. At least she pays her own way and doesn't have to rely on a generous older brother to provide shelter for her. And her child.
"It was a joke. Sorry."
She batted her hand. "No sorry. Just consider yourself lucky. If I had not committed to dinner with you and that little one of yours, I might have turned to a hottie window washer instead."
"Well then. I must live right."
She fixed her eyes on the windows again. "Then again…" Letty gaped at me. "Can you explain why that guy is ogling you?"
I would remember that moment for the rest of my life. Until now, I had been playing with the dream, wondering if the man outside the window could be my old love, yet unwilling to garner his attention, stare him boldly in the face, and come to a conclusion. Was it just a fanciful dream brought on by a life not working according to plan, not to mention the finger-numbing temperature in this drafty studio warehouse? Or had Seth coincidentally landed in the same small town as I had just a few months ago?
The man had stopped his work and stood, peering through the window, one strong arm still propped against the ladder. And I knew…it was him.
The diner bustled for a Tuesday night. As usual, Mimi wove in and around booths, swinging a coffee pot, but both Peg, the diner's owner, and her niece who helped run the place, Holly, still hung around.
Holly pulled up in front of us, gathering menus. "The three of you tonight? Then follow me."
She whisked us to an open table along the side wall where windows offered a glimpse of the sea. Nights still came too early this time of year and the sun had already begun its descent, but there was no mistaking the bubble and churn of the ocean at twilight.
"Hey there, Jeremiah," Holly said. "Bet you'd like some hot chocolate with marshmallows on top."
Jer looked at me for quick approval, and when he received it, he nodded vigorously.
Holly laughed. "All right, and for you, ladies? Suz, you usually like chai about now, am I right?"
"Perfect, thanks."
"I've seen your friend around town but never in here before." She smacked her order pad on the table and reached out a hand. "I'm Holly. Welcome to my home away from home."
"Gracias. Letty. And I will have a cup of your strongest coffee. Black."
Holly nodded then picked up her order pad again, drawing my attention to her unusual clothing. I was glad for the distraction. "You're not wearing your uniform tonight, Holly. Pretty dress. Going somewhere?"
A blush crossed her face and she dropped in a mini-curtsy. "Thanks for noticin'. Yeah, I've got a date." She glanced over toward the kitchen. "Tryin' to get out of here, but my aunt Peg's got a bee up her bonnet tonight for some reason."
"Sorry to hear it."
"Eh. It's less and less these days so you won't hear me complainin'. I already went home once, but she called me back. Anyway, I hope to get to the back office soon." She patted her head. "Have to do somethin' with this mess of hair."
Letty's eyes flashed wide. "Tell me you are kidding! Don't you know how much women pay to have hair like that? No, no, no, do not give in to the comb and brush. Just leave it as is."
Holly smiled. "You think?"
"I do not think—I know."
"Well, then. Thank you. Considerin' he's pickin' me up here any sec, I'm relieved to hear it." Her smile brightened her face. "I'll be back in a New York minute with all your drinks."
Letty glanced at me. "That was fun."
I nodded. "She's a character, isn't she? Holly's known for being able to snag all the eligible surfers in town, but she's too precious to resent." I jerked my head up. "Not like I'm into chasing surfers or anything."
Jer, as I liked to call him, giggled. "She's nice. She makes good pancakes—with whipped cream!"
Letty's eyes grew wide again. "Whipped cream? Maybe I will have to order that for my dinner."
Jer dropped his head in an avalanche of giggles. "You can't have whipped cream for dinner." He poked me with one tiny forefinger. "Tell her, mama. Whipped cream is only for dessert."
"And breakfast?" Letty asked.
Jer smacked himself in the face with his hands. "Oh yeah. For breakfast!"
Holly appeared with three drinks on a tray. "Here we go. Jer, your chocolate is just the right temp'rature for you." She spoke while serving us. "I'll be takin' your orders now, and Mimi will be bringin' them to you. Now don't you worry, you'll be in good hands."
After scribbling down our orders, she took off in a hurry. I played with the handle of my mug, but didn't take a sip. Jeremiah ate two marshmallows off the top of his drink.
Letty stared. "You want to talk about the window washer with the sizzling eyes?" She leaned into the table, zeroing in on me. "The one who ran off like a wounded buck after taking one long look at you?"
Jer slurped his chocolate. "What's a buck?"
Letty patted his hand. "A wild animal. Drink your chocolate, honey."
I took a sip, allowing myself time to answer, but I knew she wouldn't let up. "He's…he was an old friend." I sighed. "We didn't part on very good terms, though."
"But I thought you weren't from around here."
"I'm not."
A coy smile upturned the corner of her mouth. "So, perhaps he has followed you."
I shook my head. "Not possible. He didn't know I was here. It's all just a…a fluke."
Jer had already emptied half his mug of chocolate, much of it on his upper lip. "What's a fluke?"
Letty shook her head. "Phwee. There is no such thing, young Jeremiah. Everything is part of the plan with a capital P. The man up stairs—he knows what he's doing."
Jer scrunched up his face. "What man's upstairs?"
"I meant God, Jeremiah. He knows what he is doing. And he has his mother, Mary, and all his saints to help him. You know that, right?"
I rubbed my lips together and peered at my son whose furrowed soft brow displayed his confusion. Fluke, or chance, whatever we earthlings called it, was a deep concept to explain to a four year old, especially when mixed with theology. "She means that God is in complete control of our lives and that we shouldn't worry about things that happen." I looked to her. "Isn't that right, Letty?"
"Yes. Amen. So. You going to talk to him?"
"You mean like make amends?"
"That's one way to break the ice, I guess. Hey, I'd stick an olive branch in my teeth if it meant I'd be invited up close and personal."
"You are so weird!" I sighed. "It's been so many years. That look you saw on his face told me all I needed to know."
"And what might that be?"
"That of all the places he could have landed in this great country of ours, why'd he have to pick the one with the most wretched woman from his past?"
Jer's cup fell over. Fortunately, it had already been drained. "What's wretched?" he asked.
Mimi blew toward us, a full tray of steaming food on her tray. "Here we are," she said, as she began placing the food before us. "Can I get you anything else…oh, looky here."
We all turned. Seth had just walked into the diner, looking tall and sharp in dark pants, a denim blue shirt, and a casual blazer. He was alone.
Letty grabbed my hand and hissed. "Invite him to sit with us!"
I jerked my hand away and dropped my gaze to the chopped cob salad in front of me. Twice in one day? What was he doing here? Lord, I've prayed for you to show me the transgressions that have gotten me to this place in life. Could he have chosen this public place for me to make amends with a man I once hurt?
Letty's sudden, deflated, "Oh," pulled me from my thoughts.
Holly greeted Seth. They exchanged some words, and although I tried, I couldn't make them out. Then he held the door open for her. Just before leaving, Holly turned her head toward us and with a wide smile mouthed the words: This is him.
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May 14, 2011
Girls, God and the Good Life: Grace Livingston Hill
Girls, God and the Good Life: Grace Livingston Hill: "Camy here, and today I'm a bit nostalgic because I'm reorganizing my bookshelves, which is actually a fun thing for me to do (I think I shou..."
May 13, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - The Lightkeeper's Ball by Colleen Coble
Camy here: Sorry this post is up late! Blogger wouldn't let me in all day yesterday!
Anyway, 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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Colleen Coble
and the book:
The Lightkeeper's Ball Thomas Nelson; 1 edition (April 19, 2011)***Special thanks to Audra Jennings, Senior Media Specialist, The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Colleen Coble's thirty-five novels and novellas have won or finaled in awards ranging from the Romance Writers of America prestigious RITA, the Holt Medallion, the ACFW Book of the Year, the Daphne du Maurier, National Readers' Choice, the Booksellers Best, and the 2009 Best Books of Indiana-Fiction award. She writes romantic mysteries because she loves to see justice prevail and love begin with a happy ending.
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Olivia seems to have it all, but her heart yearns for more.
Olivia Stewart's family is one of the Four Hundred—the highest echelon of society in 1910. When her sister dies under mysterious circumstances, Olivia leaves their New York City home for Mercy Falls, California, to determine what befell Eleanor. She suspects Harrison Bennett, the man Eleanor planned to marry. But the more Olivia gets to know him, the more she doubts his guilt—and the more she is drawn to him herself.
When several attempts are made on her life, Olivia turns to Harrison for help. He takes her on a ride in his aeroplane, but then crashes, and they're forced to spend two days alone together. With her reputation hanging by a thread, Harrison offers to marry her to make the situation right. As a charity ball to rebuild the Mercy Falls lighthouse draws near, she realizes she wants more than a sham engagement—she wants Harrison in her life forever. But her enemy plans to shatter the happiness she is ready to grasp. If Olivia dares to drop her masquerade, she just might see the path to true happiness.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: Thomas Nelson; 1 edition (April 19, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 159554268X
ISBN-13: 978-1595542687
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The New York brownstone was just half a block down from the Astor mansion on Fifth Avenue, the most prestigious address in the country. The carriage, monogrammed with the Stewart emblem, rattled through the iron gates and came to a halt in front of the ornate doors. Assisted by the doorman, Olivia Stewart descended and rushed for the steps of her home. She was late for tea, and her mother would be furious. Mrs. Astor herself had agreed to join them today.
Olivia handed her hat to the maid, who opened the door. "They're in the drawing room, Miss Olivia," Goldia whispered. "Your mama is ready to pace the floor."
Olivia patted at her hair, straightened her shoulders, and pinned a smile in place as she forced her stride to a ladylike stroll to join the other women. Two women turned to face her as she entered: her mother and Mrs. Astor. They wore identical expressions of disapproval.
"Olivia, there you are," her mother said. "Sit down before your tea gets cold."
Olivia pulled off her gloves as she settled into the Queen Anne chair beside Mrs. Astor. "I apologize for my tardiness," she said. "A lorry filled with tomatoes overturned in the street, and my driver couldn't get around it."
Mrs. Astor's face cleared. "Of course, my dear." She sipped her tea from the delicate blue-and-white china. "Your dear mother and I were just discussing your prospects. It's time you married."
Oh dear. She'd hoped to engage in light conversation that had nothing to do with the fact that she was twenty-five and still unmarried. Her unmarried state distressed her if she let it, but every man her father brought to her wanted only her status. She doubted any of them had ever looked into her soul. "I'm honored you would care about my marital status, Mrs. Astor," Olivia said.
"Mrs. Astor wants to hold a ball in your honor, Olivia," her mother gushed. "She has a distant cousin coming to town whom she wants you to meet."
Mrs. Astor nodded. "I believe you and Matthew would suit. He owns property just down the street."
Olivia didn't mistake the reference to the man's money. Wealth would be sure to impact her mother. She opened her mouth to ask if the man was her age, then closed it at the warning glint in her mother's eyes.
"He's been widowed for fifteen years and is long overdue for a suitable wife," Mrs. Astor said.
Olivia barely suppressed a sigh. So he was another of the decrepit gentlemen who showed up from time to time. "You're very kind," she said.
"He's most suitable," her mother said. "Most suitable."
Olivia caught the implication. They spent the next half an hour discussing the date and the location. She tried to enter into the conversation with interest, but all she could do was imagine some gray-whiskered blue blood dancing her around the ballroom. She stifled a sigh of relief when Mrs. Astor took her leave and called for her carriage.
"I'll be happy when you're settled, Olivia," her mother said when they returned to the drawing room. "Mrs. Astor is most kind."
"She is indeed." Olivia pleated her skirt with her fingers. "Do you ever wish you could go somewhere incognito, Mother? Where no one has expectations of you because you are a Stewart?"
Her mother put down her saucer with a clatter. "Whatever are you babbling about, my dear?"
"Haven't you noticed that people look at us differently because we're Stewarts? How is a man ever to love me for myself when all he sees is what my name can gain him? Men never see inside to the real me. They notice only that I'm a Stewart."
"Have you been reading those novels again?" Her mother sniffed and narrowed her gaze on Olivia. "Marriage is about making suitable connections. You owe it to your future children to consider the life you give them. Love comes from respect. I would find it quite difficult to respect someone who didn't have the gumption to make his way in the world. Besides, we need you to marry well. You're twenty-five years old and I've indulged your romantic notions long enough. Heaven knows your sister's marriage isn't what I had in mind, essential though it may be. Someone has to keep the family name in good standing."
Olivia knew what her duty demanded, but she didn't have to like it. "Do all the suitable men have to be in their dotage?"
Her mother's eyes sparked fire but before she spoke, Goldia appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Bennett is here, Mrs. Stewart."
Olivia straightened in her chair. "Show him in. He'll have news of Eleanor."
Bennett appeared in the doorway moments later. He shouldn't have been imposing. He stood only five-foot-three in his shoes, which were always freshly polished. He was slim, nearly gaunt, with a patrician nose and obsidian eyes. He'd always reminded Olivia of a snake about to strike. His expression never betrayed any emotion, and today was no exception. She'd never understood why her father entertained an acquaintance with the man let alone desired their families to be joined.
"Mr. Bennett." She rose and extended her hand and tried not to flinch as he brushed his lips across it.
"Miss Olivia," he said, releasing her hand. He moved to her mother's chair and bowed over her extended hand.
Olivia sank back into her chair. "What do you hear of my sister? I have received no answer to any of my letters."
He took a seat, steepled his fingers, and leaned forward. "That's the reason for our meeting today. I fear I have bad news to impart."
Her pulse thumped erratically against her ribcage. She wetted her lips and drew in a deep breath. "What news of Eleanor?" How bad could it be? Eleanor had gone to marry Harrison, a man she hardly knew. But she was in love with the idea of the Wild West, and therefore more than happy to marry the son of her father's business partner.
He never blinked. "I shall just have to blurt it out then. I'm sorry to inform you that Eleanor is dead."
Her mother moaned. Olivia stared at him. "I don't believe it," she said.
"I know, it's a shock."
There must have been some mistake. She searched his face for some clue that this was a jest. "What happened?"
He didn't hold her gaze. "She drowned."
"How?"
"No one knows. I'm sorry."
Her mother stood and swayed. "What are you saying?" Her voice rose in a shriek. "Eleanor can't be dead! Are you quite mad?"
He stood and took her arm. "I suggest you lie down, Mrs. Stewart. You're quite pale."
Her mother put her hands to her cheeks. "Tell me it isn't true," she begged. Then she keeled over in a dead faint.
#
Harrison Bennett tugged on his tie, glanced at his shoes to make sure no speck of dirt marred their perfection, then disembarked from his motorcar in front of the mansion. The cab had rolled up Nob Hill much too quickly for him to gather his courage to face the party. Electric lights pushed back the darkness from the curving brick driveway to the porch with its impressive white pillars. Doormen flanked the double doors at the entry. Through the large windows, he saw the ballroom. Ladies in luxurious gowns and gentlemen in tuxedos danced under glittering chandeliers, and their laughter tinkled on the wind.
His valet, Eugene, exited behind him. "I'll wait in the kitchen, sir."
Harrison adjusted his hat and strode with all the confidence he could muster to the front door. "Mr. Harrison Bennett," he said to the doorman.
The man scanned the paper in his hand. "Welcome, Mr. Bennett. Mr. Rothschild is in the ballroom."
Harrison thanked him and stepped into the opulent hall papered in gold foil. He went in the direction of the voices with a sense of purpose. This night could change his future. He glanced around the enormous ballroom, and he recognized no one among the glittering gowns and expensive suits. In subtle ways, these nobs would try to keep him in his place. It would take all his gumption not to let them. It was a miracle he'd received an invitation. Only the very wealthy or titled were invited to the Rothschilds' annual ball in San Francisco. Harrison was determined to do whatever was necessary to secure the contract inside his coat pocket.
A young woman in an evening gown fluttered her lashes at him over the top of her fan. When she lowered it, she approached with a coaxing smile on her lips. "Mr. Bennett, I'd hoped to see you here tonight."
He struggled to remember her name. Miss Kessler. She'd made her interest in him known at Eleanor's funeral. Hardly a suitable time. He took her gloved hand and bowed over it. "Miss Kessler. I wasn't expecting to see you here."
"I came when I heard you were on the guest list."
He ignored her brazen remark. "It's good to see you again. I have some business to attend to. Perhaps later?"
Her eyes darkened and she withdrew her hand. "I shall watch for you," she said.
And he'd do the same, with the intent to avoid her. "If you'll excuse me." He didn't wait for an answer but strolled through the crowd. He finally spied his host standing in front of a marble fireplace. A flame danced in the eight-foot hearth. Harrison stepped through the crowd to join the four men clustered around the wealthy Rothschild.
The man closest to Harrison was in his fifties and had a curling mustache. "They'll never get that amendment ratified," he said. "An income tax! It's quite ridiculous to expect us to pay something so outrageous."
A younger man in a gray suit shook his head. "If it means better roads, I'll gladly write them a check. The potholes outside of town ruined my front axels."
"We can take care of our own roads," Rothschild said. "I have no need of the government in my affairs. At least until we're all using flying machines." He snickered, then glanced at Harrison. "You look familiar, young man. Have we met?"
Flying machines. Maybe this meeting was something God had arranged. Harrison thrust out his hand. "Harrison Bennett."
"Claude's son?"'
Was that distaste in the twist of Rothschild's mouth? Harrison put confidence into his grip. "Yes, sir."
"How is your father?"
"Quite well. He's back in New York by now."
"I heard about your fiancée's death. I'm sorry for your loss."
Harrison managed not to wince. "Thank you." He pushed away his memories of that terrible day, the day he'd seen Eleanor Stewart for what she really was.
"Your father was most insistent I meet you. He seems to think you have a business proposition I might be interested in."
Harrison smiled and began to tell the men of the new diamond mines that Bennett and Bennett had found in Africa. A mere week after Mr. Stewart's passing, Mr. Bennett had renamed the venture to include Harrison. An hour later, he had appointments set up with three of the men as possible investors. His father would be pleased.
Harrison smiled and retraced his steps to toward the front door but was waylaid by four women in brightly colored silk. They swooped around him, and Miss Kessler took him by the hand and led him to a quiet corner.
"Let's not talk about anything boring like work," she said, her blue eyes sparkling. "Tell me what you love to do most."
He glanced at the other women clustered around. "I'm building an aeroplane. I'd like to have it in the air by the time Earth passes through the tail of Halley's Comet."
She gasped. "Do you have a death wish, Mr. Bennett? You would be breathing the poisonous fumes directly. No one even knows if the Earth will survive this."
He'd heard this before. "The scientists I've discussed this with believe we shall be just fine," Harrison said.
"I assume you've purchased comet pills?" the blonde closest to him said.
"I have no fear."
The brunette in red silk smiled. "If man were meant to fly, God would have given him wings. Or so I've heard the minister say."
He finally placed the brunette. Her uncle was Rothschild. No wonder she had such contempt for Harrison's tone. All the nobs cared for were trains and ships. "It's just a matter of perfecting the machine," Harrison said. "Someday aeroplanes will be the main mode of transcontinental transportation."
The brunette laughed. "Transcontinental? My uncle would call it balderdash."
He glanced at his pocket watch without replying. "I fear I must leave you lovely ladies. Thank you for the conversation."
He found Eugene in the kitchen and beckoned to his valet.
Eugene put down his coffee cup and followed. "You didn't stay long, sir," he said. "Is everything all right?"
Harrison stalked out the door and toward the car. "Are there no visionaries left in the country?"
Eugene followed a step behind. "You spoke of your flying machine?"
"The world is changing, Eugene, right under their noses—and they don't see it."
Eugene opened the door for Harrison. "You will show them the future, sir."
He set his jaw. "I shall indeed."
"I have a small savings set aside, Mr. Bennett. I'd like to invest in your company. With your permission, of course."
Eugene's trust bolstered Harrison's determination. "I'd be honored to partner with you, Eugene. We are going to change the world."
It is time for a
FIRST Wild Card Tour
book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!
You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Anyway, 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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Colleen Coble
and the book:
The Lightkeeper's Ball Thomas Nelson; 1 edition (April 19, 2011)***Special thanks to Audra Jennings, Senior Media Specialist, The B&B Media Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Colleen Coble's thirty-five novels and novellas have won or finaled in awards ranging from the Romance Writers of America prestigious RITA, the Holt Medallion, the ACFW Book of the Year, the Daphne du Maurier, National Readers' Choice, the Booksellers Best, and the 2009 Best Books of Indiana-Fiction award. She writes romantic mysteries because she loves to see justice prevail and love begin with a happy ending.
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Olivia seems to have it all, but her heart yearns for more.Olivia Stewart's family is one of the Four Hundred—the highest echelon of society in 1910. When her sister dies under mysterious circumstances, Olivia leaves their New York City home for Mercy Falls, California, to determine what befell Eleanor. She suspects Harrison Bennett, the man Eleanor planned to marry. But the more Olivia gets to know him, the more she doubts his guilt—and the more she is drawn to him herself.
When several attempts are made on her life, Olivia turns to Harrison for help. He takes her on a ride in his aeroplane, but then crashes, and they're forced to spend two days alone together. With her reputation hanging by a thread, Harrison offers to marry her to make the situation right. As a charity ball to rebuild the Mercy Falls lighthouse draws near, she realizes she wants more than a sham engagement—she wants Harrison in her life forever. But her enemy plans to shatter the happiness she is ready to grasp. If Olivia dares to drop her masquerade, she just might see the path to true happiness.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 304 pages
Publisher: Thomas Nelson; 1 edition (April 19, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 159554268X
ISBN-13: 978-1595542687
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
The New York brownstone was just half a block down from the Astor mansion on Fifth Avenue, the most prestigious address in the country. The carriage, monogrammed with the Stewart emblem, rattled through the iron gates and came to a halt in front of the ornate doors. Assisted by the doorman, Olivia Stewart descended and rushed for the steps of her home. She was late for tea, and her mother would be furious. Mrs. Astor herself had agreed to join them today.
Olivia handed her hat to the maid, who opened the door. "They're in the drawing room, Miss Olivia," Goldia whispered. "Your mama is ready to pace the floor."
Olivia patted at her hair, straightened her shoulders, and pinned a smile in place as she forced her stride to a ladylike stroll to join the other women. Two women turned to face her as she entered: her mother and Mrs. Astor. They wore identical expressions of disapproval.
"Olivia, there you are," her mother said. "Sit down before your tea gets cold."
Olivia pulled off her gloves as she settled into the Queen Anne chair beside Mrs. Astor. "I apologize for my tardiness," she said. "A lorry filled with tomatoes overturned in the street, and my driver couldn't get around it."
Mrs. Astor's face cleared. "Of course, my dear." She sipped her tea from the delicate blue-and-white china. "Your dear mother and I were just discussing your prospects. It's time you married."
Oh dear. She'd hoped to engage in light conversation that had nothing to do with the fact that she was twenty-five and still unmarried. Her unmarried state distressed her if she let it, but every man her father brought to her wanted only her status. She doubted any of them had ever looked into her soul. "I'm honored you would care about my marital status, Mrs. Astor," Olivia said.
"Mrs. Astor wants to hold a ball in your honor, Olivia," her mother gushed. "She has a distant cousin coming to town whom she wants you to meet."
Mrs. Astor nodded. "I believe you and Matthew would suit. He owns property just down the street."
Olivia didn't mistake the reference to the man's money. Wealth would be sure to impact her mother. She opened her mouth to ask if the man was her age, then closed it at the warning glint in her mother's eyes.
"He's been widowed for fifteen years and is long overdue for a suitable wife," Mrs. Astor said.
Olivia barely suppressed a sigh. So he was another of the decrepit gentlemen who showed up from time to time. "You're very kind," she said.
"He's most suitable," her mother said. "Most suitable."
Olivia caught the implication. They spent the next half an hour discussing the date and the location. She tried to enter into the conversation with interest, but all she could do was imagine some gray-whiskered blue blood dancing her around the ballroom. She stifled a sigh of relief when Mrs. Astor took her leave and called for her carriage.
"I'll be happy when you're settled, Olivia," her mother said when they returned to the drawing room. "Mrs. Astor is most kind."
"She is indeed." Olivia pleated her skirt with her fingers. "Do you ever wish you could go somewhere incognito, Mother? Where no one has expectations of you because you are a Stewart?"
Her mother put down her saucer with a clatter. "Whatever are you babbling about, my dear?"
"Haven't you noticed that people look at us differently because we're Stewarts? How is a man ever to love me for myself when all he sees is what my name can gain him? Men never see inside to the real me. They notice only that I'm a Stewart."
"Have you been reading those novels again?" Her mother sniffed and narrowed her gaze on Olivia. "Marriage is about making suitable connections. You owe it to your future children to consider the life you give them. Love comes from respect. I would find it quite difficult to respect someone who didn't have the gumption to make his way in the world. Besides, we need you to marry well. You're twenty-five years old and I've indulged your romantic notions long enough. Heaven knows your sister's marriage isn't what I had in mind, essential though it may be. Someone has to keep the family name in good standing."
Olivia knew what her duty demanded, but she didn't have to like it. "Do all the suitable men have to be in their dotage?"
Her mother's eyes sparked fire but before she spoke, Goldia appeared in the doorway. "Mr. Bennett is here, Mrs. Stewart."
Olivia straightened in her chair. "Show him in. He'll have news of Eleanor."
Bennett appeared in the doorway moments later. He shouldn't have been imposing. He stood only five-foot-three in his shoes, which were always freshly polished. He was slim, nearly gaunt, with a patrician nose and obsidian eyes. He'd always reminded Olivia of a snake about to strike. His expression never betrayed any emotion, and today was no exception. She'd never understood why her father entertained an acquaintance with the man let alone desired their families to be joined.
"Mr. Bennett." She rose and extended her hand and tried not to flinch as he brushed his lips across it.
"Miss Olivia," he said, releasing her hand. He moved to her mother's chair and bowed over her extended hand.
Olivia sank back into her chair. "What do you hear of my sister? I have received no answer to any of my letters."
He took a seat, steepled his fingers, and leaned forward. "That's the reason for our meeting today. I fear I have bad news to impart."
Her pulse thumped erratically against her ribcage. She wetted her lips and drew in a deep breath. "What news of Eleanor?" How bad could it be? Eleanor had gone to marry Harrison, a man she hardly knew. But she was in love with the idea of the Wild West, and therefore more than happy to marry the son of her father's business partner.
He never blinked. "I shall just have to blurt it out then. I'm sorry to inform you that Eleanor is dead."
Her mother moaned. Olivia stared at him. "I don't believe it," she said.
"I know, it's a shock."
There must have been some mistake. She searched his face for some clue that this was a jest. "What happened?"
He didn't hold her gaze. "She drowned."
"How?"
"No one knows. I'm sorry."
Her mother stood and swayed. "What are you saying?" Her voice rose in a shriek. "Eleanor can't be dead! Are you quite mad?"
He stood and took her arm. "I suggest you lie down, Mrs. Stewart. You're quite pale."
Her mother put her hands to her cheeks. "Tell me it isn't true," she begged. Then she keeled over in a dead faint.
#
Harrison Bennett tugged on his tie, glanced at his shoes to make sure no speck of dirt marred their perfection, then disembarked from his motorcar in front of the mansion. The cab had rolled up Nob Hill much too quickly for him to gather his courage to face the party. Electric lights pushed back the darkness from the curving brick driveway to the porch with its impressive white pillars. Doormen flanked the double doors at the entry. Through the large windows, he saw the ballroom. Ladies in luxurious gowns and gentlemen in tuxedos danced under glittering chandeliers, and their laughter tinkled on the wind.
His valet, Eugene, exited behind him. "I'll wait in the kitchen, sir."
Harrison adjusted his hat and strode with all the confidence he could muster to the front door. "Mr. Harrison Bennett," he said to the doorman.
The man scanned the paper in his hand. "Welcome, Mr. Bennett. Mr. Rothschild is in the ballroom."
Harrison thanked him and stepped into the opulent hall papered in gold foil. He went in the direction of the voices with a sense of purpose. This night could change his future. He glanced around the enormous ballroom, and he recognized no one among the glittering gowns and expensive suits. In subtle ways, these nobs would try to keep him in his place. It would take all his gumption not to let them. It was a miracle he'd received an invitation. Only the very wealthy or titled were invited to the Rothschilds' annual ball in San Francisco. Harrison was determined to do whatever was necessary to secure the contract inside his coat pocket.
A young woman in an evening gown fluttered her lashes at him over the top of her fan. When she lowered it, she approached with a coaxing smile on her lips. "Mr. Bennett, I'd hoped to see you here tonight."
He struggled to remember her name. Miss Kessler. She'd made her interest in him known at Eleanor's funeral. Hardly a suitable time. He took her gloved hand and bowed over it. "Miss Kessler. I wasn't expecting to see you here."
"I came when I heard you were on the guest list."
He ignored her brazen remark. "It's good to see you again. I have some business to attend to. Perhaps later?"
Her eyes darkened and she withdrew her hand. "I shall watch for you," she said.
And he'd do the same, with the intent to avoid her. "If you'll excuse me." He didn't wait for an answer but strolled through the crowd. He finally spied his host standing in front of a marble fireplace. A flame danced in the eight-foot hearth. Harrison stepped through the crowd to join the four men clustered around the wealthy Rothschild.
The man closest to Harrison was in his fifties and had a curling mustache. "They'll never get that amendment ratified," he said. "An income tax! It's quite ridiculous to expect us to pay something so outrageous."
A younger man in a gray suit shook his head. "If it means better roads, I'll gladly write them a check. The potholes outside of town ruined my front axels."
"We can take care of our own roads," Rothschild said. "I have no need of the government in my affairs. At least until we're all using flying machines." He snickered, then glanced at Harrison. "You look familiar, young man. Have we met?"
Flying machines. Maybe this meeting was something God had arranged. Harrison thrust out his hand. "Harrison Bennett."
"Claude's son?"'
Was that distaste in the twist of Rothschild's mouth? Harrison put confidence into his grip. "Yes, sir."
"How is your father?"
"Quite well. He's back in New York by now."
"I heard about your fiancée's death. I'm sorry for your loss."
Harrison managed not to wince. "Thank you." He pushed away his memories of that terrible day, the day he'd seen Eleanor Stewart for what she really was.
"Your father was most insistent I meet you. He seems to think you have a business proposition I might be interested in."
Harrison smiled and began to tell the men of the new diamond mines that Bennett and Bennett had found in Africa. A mere week after Mr. Stewart's passing, Mr. Bennett had renamed the venture to include Harrison. An hour later, he had appointments set up with three of the men as possible investors. His father would be pleased.
Harrison smiled and retraced his steps to toward the front door but was waylaid by four women in brightly colored silk. They swooped around him, and Miss Kessler took him by the hand and led him to a quiet corner.
"Let's not talk about anything boring like work," she said, her blue eyes sparkling. "Tell me what you love to do most."
He glanced at the other women clustered around. "I'm building an aeroplane. I'd like to have it in the air by the time Earth passes through the tail of Halley's Comet."
She gasped. "Do you have a death wish, Mr. Bennett? You would be breathing the poisonous fumes directly. No one even knows if the Earth will survive this."
He'd heard this before. "The scientists I've discussed this with believe we shall be just fine," Harrison said.
"I assume you've purchased comet pills?" the blonde closest to him said.
"I have no fear."
The brunette in red silk smiled. "If man were meant to fly, God would have given him wings. Or so I've heard the minister say."
He finally placed the brunette. Her uncle was Rothschild. No wonder she had such contempt for Harrison's tone. All the nobs cared for were trains and ships. "It's just a matter of perfecting the machine," Harrison said. "Someday aeroplanes will be the main mode of transcontinental transportation."
The brunette laughed. "Transcontinental? My uncle would call it balderdash."
He glanced at his pocket watch without replying. "I fear I must leave you lovely ladies. Thank you for the conversation."
He found Eugene in the kitchen and beckoned to his valet.
Eugene put down his coffee cup and followed. "You didn't stay long, sir," he said. "Is everything all right?"
Harrison stalked out the door and toward the car. "Are there no visionaries left in the country?"
Eugene followed a step behind. "You spoke of your flying machine?"
"The world is changing, Eugene, right under their noses—and they don't see it."
Eugene opened the door for Harrison. "You will show them the future, sir."
He set his jaw. "I shall indeed."
"I have a small savings set aside, Mr. Bennett. I'd like to invest in your company. With your permission, of course."
Eugene's trust bolstered Harrison's determination. "I'd be honored to partner with you, Eugene. We are going to change the world."
It is time for a
FIRST Wild Card Tour
book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
May 12, 2011
Excerpt - TARGETS DOWN by Bob Hamer
Camy here: Mucho thanks to B&H Publishing Group for sending me the ARC of this title. Here's the excerpt for your enjoyment!
TARGETS DOWN by Bob Hamer
Targets Down is the follow-up to retired FBI agent Bob Hamer's Enemies Among Us (on sale for just $0.99 for Kindle!), which Publishers Weekly hailed as "a page-turning roller coaster that feels like Jack Bauer's 24 without sailing over the top."
When an FBI wife is critically wounded and two people are found dead on a mountain pass, special agent Matt Hogan is tasked with identifying those responsible. The undercover assignment takes him into the shadow world of Russian organized crime, neo-Nazis, and the sex-slave industry. Matt's cover is almost blown twice—once by accident, once by incompetence within the FBI ranks—making violence appear to be his only solution. As he confronts evil, Hogan relies not only on the strength of his wife's faith but his own quest to find God. He also finds terror and terrorism on this heart-pounding journey.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter One
The powerful hand gripped the silenced Russian-made weapon, and the tattooed arm straightened. As the teenager talked to the killer's two associates in the darkened parking lot, she had no
idea she was about to be erased by the threat behind her. It was all so impersonal, but career criminals operated on a different plain. Morality was never an issue; expediency was. The Ukrainian girl was a liability and thus expendable.
The ever-constant traffic on Ventura Boulevard masked the sounds of the two muted gunshots fired in rapid succession. From just a few feet away, either shot to the back of the head was fatal. Before anyone exited the rear door to the Russian Veil, the three men threw the limp body into the bed of the pickup truck and were gone: another anonymous victim of Los Angeles street jus- tice, a judicial system lacking due process or fairness. Even a quest for freedom was a capital offense.
Matt Hogan stood in front of the mirror admiring his greased biker-hair look. His rugged battle-scarred features were in sharp contrast to the metrosexuals parading up and down the Sunset Strip on any Saturday evening. The undercover agent then sprayed a 70 percent solution of alcohol on the left side of his powerful neck. He carefully placed the Tinsley transfer, blotted the paper, waited a few seconds, and just as carefully removed the transfer. Satisfied with his work, he finished with a dash of baby powder to aid in drying the large prison-like tattoo. A movie studio German "SS" now complemented the stubble. But even clean shaven, Matt could be a menacing figure, a no-holds-barred, man's man.
If it's true, the hotter the fire the stronger the steel, then Hogan was as strong as they came. A member of the FBI's small cadre of undercover agents, he successfully played the role of contract killer, drug dealer, and when cleaned up, a sophisticated white- collar criminal. A psychologist described him as a "synthesist," a person who could void himself of his own personality and take on the characteristics, mind-set, and mannerisms of whatever the part required. Matt was good, maybe too good. Sometimes even he questioned who he was.
Working undercover meant more than a fake driver's license and a fictitious name. It was living life as a liar for hours, days, even months at a time. It meant becoming one of them without becoming one of them. Distance offered detachment, but when you went undercover, it became personal. It was getting close to people you will ultimately betray and probing the darkest side of humanity, including your own. Unlike Hollywood, there were no retakes; a botched line, a missed mark, a mistake could mean instant death. Matt Hogan walked in the flames many times; he experienced the fire.
As he began writing the letters H-A-T-E on the fingers of his right hand, Steve Barnett walked into the Joint Terrorism Task Force locker room.
"Well, if it isn't the Mary Kay of the FBI," said Steve. "You enjoy putting on makeup way too much. I hope you aren't switch- ing sides on me."
"Don't ask. Don't tell," said Matt concentrating on his artwork.
"Why don't you just pierce your ear and grow a ponytail, like every other undercover agent I know?"
"Caitlin won't let me. She's got a pretty strict dress code around the house. In fact, these biker undercover assignments keep me sleeping on the couch until I take a shower."
"I guess that's why she's been spending so many nights with me at my place."
"In your dreams big guy. I know for a fact she doesn't date the follicly challenged with a bad weave."
Steve pulled out a comb and began to rake his sparse locks styled in a weak comb-over. "That's how much you know. I'm a Hair Club for Men honor graduate, and she loves to run her fingers through these amber waves."
Matt didn't even look up, still writing on his fingers. "I'm surprised you're awake. Isn't this way past your bedtime?"
Steve looked in the mirror, moving his face even closer, carefully examining his skin, searching for tell-tale signs of aging, "These late nights are causing all kinds of wrinkles."
"I'm not sure eight hours of sleep or Mary Kay will help," said Matt without cracking a smile.
"What about Botox?"
"Yeah, that might fill in a few of those deep crevices around the eyes, but you still don't have a shot with any skirt rated higher than a three or four."
"You're probably right. I keep hoping my near-perfect shooting scores at the Leisure World pistol range will attract some blue-hair with money, but I'm even striking out there." Steve paused, turned serious, and then said almost in a whisper, "Dwayne said we're ready to start the briefing when you are."
An FBI office is like a locker room with the requisite jock snap- ping and sarcastic sniping. The thin-skinned need not apply. A sense of humor is almost a requirement, sometimes the sicker the better. Those on the outside would never understand or appreciate the need to talk or act the way grown men in law enforcement do. Those in the military understand. Those on the front lines fighting evil know the need. It brings a sense of relief from the tensions the real world throws at you every day, the constant reminders of your mortality. It also brings a sense of camaraderie. You can't count on judges, lawyers, lawmakers, or administrators. Like the combat soldier or Marine, you can only count on the man next to you on the urban battlefield.
Matt blew on his fingers to accelerate the drying time of the ink from the tattoo makeup pen and followed Steve to the room at the end of the long hallway.
Chapter Two
Darkness blanketed the hilltop road. This section of the mountain pass didn't burden taxpayers with streetlights, and only a faint glimmer of illumination from Los Angeles's San Fernando
Valley could be seen through the thick, damp fog. It was well past ten, and Lydia Mitchell was hopeful she could make it home by the eleven o'clock news. Her two young daughters would be asleep, and her macho FBI agent husband, exhausted from just a few hours of babysitting, would probably be stretched out on his favorite leather recliner in the family room. Lydia valued her volunteer work at the community food bank. She chaffed, however, at the late-evening committee meetings at various members' homes.
Her husband's Mustang sputtered as she pulled from the Laurel Hills development off Mulholland Drive, and now the car seemed even more irritated as she tried to accelerate up a small rise in the road. The twenty-eight-year-old brunette glanced at the fuel gauge. Of course it registered full; she just filled the tank earlier in the evening. Flip babied his car and always insisted on brand-name gasoline, but Lydia thought his obsession was silly—after all, gas is gas. The local independent dealer a few blocks from her home always beat the Mobil and the Shell on opposite corners by several pennies so she filled up, saving nearly ninety-seven cents. Now she wondered if her frugality was a mistake. Would cheap gas cause all this clanking? She wasn't looking forward to explain- ing to her husband why she entrusted his "precious pony" to off- brand fuel.
She rounded the bend of this two-lane road, and a fire team of coyotes greeted her. The animals stopped in the middle of the road, four pairs of eyes glowing in her headlights, and they stared as if telling the Mustang it had no right to be trespassing. When the engine sputtered, the animals raced into the roadside under- brush, giving way to the machine belching its dinner.
Lydia drove another mile, and the car continued to cough, more frequently as the trip progressed. Her efforts at variously giving it more gas and taking her foot off the pedal were ineffective. Eventually it died. She struggled to steer the vehicle to the side of the road, resting it just off the pavement. Frustration began to build.
Fishing through her purse, she found her cell phone lodged at the bottom hidden beneath her wallet, checkbook, and an assortment of cosmetics. She opened the door to activate the dome light, and the alarm signaled the keys were still in the ignition. The annoying sound only added to her frustration. She looked down at the phone pad and, using the speed dial feature, called home, hoping her husband could provide answers and a rescue. Closing the car door to silence the alarm, she waited for the sound of the familiar ring of her home phone. Nothing. She opened the door, the alarm sounded, and she tried again, speed dialing her home number. Her efforts were futile as she realized she was out of her cell phone provider's service area.
"Great!" she muttered, "Now what?"
She knew absolutely nothing about cars, so even raising the hood to examine the engine was a useless gesture. She tried the cell phone one more time but to no avail. The heavy fog was a mist-like rain, and the windows were quickly covered in moisture, obscuring her visibility even more.
Fear began to envelope her. She was unfamiliar with this section of town and had little idea of where to seek help. Was it safe to start walking in either direction? Maybe a cop would stop to help a stranded motorist, but this seldom-traveled section of the road offered little hope. She couldn't wait here all night. She knew somewhere on this road there were homes, but she could see no lights behind gated entrances. Her friend's home was several miles back. She hated the thought of walking that far in the dampness and the dark. Was it even safe to leave Flip's car? Maybe if she walked a little way in either direction she could at least get cell- phone coverage.
Just as she was about to exit the car, she saw the reflection of headlights in her rearview mirror. A chill ran down her spine. This seemed like a scene from a cheap Hollywood horror movie—a dark, lonely road, and a stranded female who became tomorrow's headline. Always the drama queen, as her husband liked to point out, she tried to squelch her fear.
She took a deep breath and watched the vehicle approach. Her heart began to pound; her palms began to sweat. Should she flag down the motorist? Before she could even decide, the car passed. At first it was a feeling of relief, then confusion, and finally irritation. She was safe but still stranded. As she began to capture a second thought, the car stopped and made a u-turn in the road. She watched the car slowly return. Her heart was almost pounding through her chest, and her hands were shaking.
The vehicle pulled alongside the Mustang. The driver's side win- dow of the dark blue Chrysler 300 retreated into the door frame, and a warm, black face appeared.
Lydia relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief. The driver was Benjamin Hobbs, a minister from a church in Baldwin Hills, who also worked at the food bank and was at tonight's meeting.
"Need some help?"
"Oh, thank God, it's you. My car stalled, and I can't get cell- phone coverage. I wasn't sure what to do."
"Let me pull over, and let's see if I can get it started," said Ben.
Lydia exited the Mustang as Ben pulled his car to the side of the road, parking near a large tree whose low-hanging branches almost concealed the Chrysler.
A tall, lean man with dark chocolate skin, Ben Hobbs played basketball in college in the mid-eighties. Still athletic, he bounded across the street to Lydia's car.
"Glad I turned around. I couldn't see inside the car but wanted to make sure no one was stranded. Course, wanted to be careful, thought I might find a couple attempting to violate the Seventh Commandment."
Lydia smiled as the mist fell gently on her shoulder-length hair. "I'm glad you took a chance. I think I got some bad gas this evening. My husband insists on brand names, but in the interest of good stewardship, I went cheap, and it may have cost me."
Ben laughed. "Maybe I can help. I know God wants to reward the wise steward."
Just as Lydia was about to hand him the keys to the Mustang, she spied a dark Dodge Ram Mega-Cab stop short a hundred yards from her location. She knew it was a Dodge because a similar model sat in her driveway at home. It was her husband's surveillance vehicle.
Three men exited the truck, grabbed a large limp object from the bed of the pickup, and heaved it over the side of the road. The men quickly returned to the truck and sped off, now heading toward Lydia and Ben, almost clipping them as they stood by the side of the road.
"Crazy kids," barked Ben.
Before Lydia could respond, the truck skidded to a stop. The driver threw the vehicle into reverse and raced back toward Lydia's car, tires spinning on the wet, slick pavement, water spitting in all directions. Three men jumped from the truck.
The driver was short and powerful. His head was shaved, and Lydia could see a tattoo on the left side of his neck. The other two were much taller, one muscular but both menacing, wearing dark knit caps, which they immediately pulled down over their faces as they exited the muddied pickup. Both arms of the largest of the three were covered in tattoos. The other wore a long-sleeve black Harley-Davidson shirt which would have concealed any markings.
Initially paralyzed with fear, Lydia stood by as the men moved with ferocious speed toward Benjamin Hobbs. She then screamed as the three men attacked and began to pummel Ben with their fists and feet. She watched as the minister attempted to fend them off, but following a blow to the windpipe, he quickly collapsed. The kicks were made with blinding speed; steel-toed Doc Marten boots their weapons of choice.
Ben curled his body into a fetal position, unable to protest, craving a breath, and attempting to ward off the blows.
Lydia's pleas for the men to stop fell on deaf ears; they evidenced no intention of stopping. She tried to intervene, grabbing the driver by the arm, but he used his free arm landing a devastating punch to her face, shattering her nose.
The men were too quick, too powerful, too many. When the driver's left foot landed a well-placed strike to the head, Ben's body went limp.
The brutal, random, and spontaneous assault took less than a minute. The largest of the three men grabbed a silenced 9 mm from his waistband and pumped two shots into the minister's dead body. He then walked over to Lydia and fired two more rounds.
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TARGETS DOWN by Bob HamerTargets Down is the follow-up to retired FBI agent Bob Hamer's Enemies Among Us (on sale for just $0.99 for Kindle!), which Publishers Weekly hailed as "a page-turning roller coaster that feels like Jack Bauer's 24 without sailing over the top."
When an FBI wife is critically wounded and two people are found dead on a mountain pass, special agent Matt Hogan is tasked with identifying those responsible. The undercover assignment takes him into the shadow world of Russian organized crime, neo-Nazis, and the sex-slave industry. Matt's cover is almost blown twice—once by accident, once by incompetence within the FBI ranks—making violence appear to be his only solution. As he confronts evil, Hogan relies not only on the strength of his wife's faith but his own quest to find God. He also finds terror and terrorism on this heart-pounding journey.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter One
The powerful hand gripped the silenced Russian-made weapon, and the tattooed arm straightened. As the teenager talked to the killer's two associates in the darkened parking lot, she had no
idea she was about to be erased by the threat behind her. It was all so impersonal, but career criminals operated on a different plain. Morality was never an issue; expediency was. The Ukrainian girl was a liability and thus expendable.
The ever-constant traffic on Ventura Boulevard masked the sounds of the two muted gunshots fired in rapid succession. From just a few feet away, either shot to the back of the head was fatal. Before anyone exited the rear door to the Russian Veil, the three men threw the limp body into the bed of the pickup truck and were gone: another anonymous victim of Los Angeles street jus- tice, a judicial system lacking due process or fairness. Even a quest for freedom was a capital offense.
Matt Hogan stood in front of the mirror admiring his greased biker-hair look. His rugged battle-scarred features were in sharp contrast to the metrosexuals parading up and down the Sunset Strip on any Saturday evening. The undercover agent then sprayed a 70 percent solution of alcohol on the left side of his powerful neck. He carefully placed the Tinsley transfer, blotted the paper, waited a few seconds, and just as carefully removed the transfer. Satisfied with his work, he finished with a dash of baby powder to aid in drying the large prison-like tattoo. A movie studio German "SS" now complemented the stubble. But even clean shaven, Matt could be a menacing figure, a no-holds-barred, man's man.
If it's true, the hotter the fire the stronger the steel, then Hogan was as strong as they came. A member of the FBI's small cadre of undercover agents, he successfully played the role of contract killer, drug dealer, and when cleaned up, a sophisticated white- collar criminal. A psychologist described him as a "synthesist," a person who could void himself of his own personality and take on the characteristics, mind-set, and mannerisms of whatever the part required. Matt was good, maybe too good. Sometimes even he questioned who he was.
Working undercover meant more than a fake driver's license and a fictitious name. It was living life as a liar for hours, days, even months at a time. It meant becoming one of them without becoming one of them. Distance offered detachment, but when you went undercover, it became personal. It was getting close to people you will ultimately betray and probing the darkest side of humanity, including your own. Unlike Hollywood, there were no retakes; a botched line, a missed mark, a mistake could mean instant death. Matt Hogan walked in the flames many times; he experienced the fire.
As he began writing the letters H-A-T-E on the fingers of his right hand, Steve Barnett walked into the Joint Terrorism Task Force locker room.
"Well, if it isn't the Mary Kay of the FBI," said Steve. "You enjoy putting on makeup way too much. I hope you aren't switch- ing sides on me."
"Don't ask. Don't tell," said Matt concentrating on his artwork.
"Why don't you just pierce your ear and grow a ponytail, like every other undercover agent I know?"
"Caitlin won't let me. She's got a pretty strict dress code around the house. In fact, these biker undercover assignments keep me sleeping on the couch until I take a shower."
"I guess that's why she's been spending so many nights with me at my place."
"In your dreams big guy. I know for a fact she doesn't date the follicly challenged with a bad weave."
Steve pulled out a comb and began to rake his sparse locks styled in a weak comb-over. "That's how much you know. I'm a Hair Club for Men honor graduate, and she loves to run her fingers through these amber waves."
Matt didn't even look up, still writing on his fingers. "I'm surprised you're awake. Isn't this way past your bedtime?"
Steve looked in the mirror, moving his face even closer, carefully examining his skin, searching for tell-tale signs of aging, "These late nights are causing all kinds of wrinkles."
"I'm not sure eight hours of sleep or Mary Kay will help," said Matt without cracking a smile.
"What about Botox?"
"Yeah, that might fill in a few of those deep crevices around the eyes, but you still don't have a shot with any skirt rated higher than a three or four."
"You're probably right. I keep hoping my near-perfect shooting scores at the Leisure World pistol range will attract some blue-hair with money, but I'm even striking out there." Steve paused, turned serious, and then said almost in a whisper, "Dwayne said we're ready to start the briefing when you are."
An FBI office is like a locker room with the requisite jock snap- ping and sarcastic sniping. The thin-skinned need not apply. A sense of humor is almost a requirement, sometimes the sicker the better. Those on the outside would never understand or appreciate the need to talk or act the way grown men in law enforcement do. Those in the military understand. Those on the front lines fighting evil know the need. It brings a sense of relief from the tensions the real world throws at you every day, the constant reminders of your mortality. It also brings a sense of camaraderie. You can't count on judges, lawyers, lawmakers, or administrators. Like the combat soldier or Marine, you can only count on the man next to you on the urban battlefield.
Matt blew on his fingers to accelerate the drying time of the ink from the tattoo makeup pen and followed Steve to the room at the end of the long hallway.
Chapter Two
Darkness blanketed the hilltop road. This section of the mountain pass didn't burden taxpayers with streetlights, and only a faint glimmer of illumination from Los Angeles's San Fernando
Valley could be seen through the thick, damp fog. It was well past ten, and Lydia Mitchell was hopeful she could make it home by the eleven o'clock news. Her two young daughters would be asleep, and her macho FBI agent husband, exhausted from just a few hours of babysitting, would probably be stretched out on his favorite leather recliner in the family room. Lydia valued her volunteer work at the community food bank. She chaffed, however, at the late-evening committee meetings at various members' homes.
Her husband's Mustang sputtered as she pulled from the Laurel Hills development off Mulholland Drive, and now the car seemed even more irritated as she tried to accelerate up a small rise in the road. The twenty-eight-year-old brunette glanced at the fuel gauge. Of course it registered full; she just filled the tank earlier in the evening. Flip babied his car and always insisted on brand-name gasoline, but Lydia thought his obsession was silly—after all, gas is gas. The local independent dealer a few blocks from her home always beat the Mobil and the Shell on opposite corners by several pennies so she filled up, saving nearly ninety-seven cents. Now she wondered if her frugality was a mistake. Would cheap gas cause all this clanking? She wasn't looking forward to explain- ing to her husband why she entrusted his "precious pony" to off- brand fuel.
She rounded the bend of this two-lane road, and a fire team of coyotes greeted her. The animals stopped in the middle of the road, four pairs of eyes glowing in her headlights, and they stared as if telling the Mustang it had no right to be trespassing. When the engine sputtered, the animals raced into the roadside under- brush, giving way to the machine belching its dinner.
Lydia drove another mile, and the car continued to cough, more frequently as the trip progressed. Her efforts at variously giving it more gas and taking her foot off the pedal were ineffective. Eventually it died. She struggled to steer the vehicle to the side of the road, resting it just off the pavement. Frustration began to build.
Fishing through her purse, she found her cell phone lodged at the bottom hidden beneath her wallet, checkbook, and an assortment of cosmetics. She opened the door to activate the dome light, and the alarm signaled the keys were still in the ignition. The annoying sound only added to her frustration. She looked down at the phone pad and, using the speed dial feature, called home, hoping her husband could provide answers and a rescue. Closing the car door to silence the alarm, she waited for the sound of the familiar ring of her home phone. Nothing. She opened the door, the alarm sounded, and she tried again, speed dialing her home number. Her efforts were futile as she realized she was out of her cell phone provider's service area.
"Great!" she muttered, "Now what?"
She knew absolutely nothing about cars, so even raising the hood to examine the engine was a useless gesture. She tried the cell phone one more time but to no avail. The heavy fog was a mist-like rain, and the windows were quickly covered in moisture, obscuring her visibility even more.
Fear began to envelope her. She was unfamiliar with this section of town and had little idea of where to seek help. Was it safe to start walking in either direction? Maybe a cop would stop to help a stranded motorist, but this seldom-traveled section of the road offered little hope. She couldn't wait here all night. She knew somewhere on this road there were homes, but she could see no lights behind gated entrances. Her friend's home was several miles back. She hated the thought of walking that far in the dampness and the dark. Was it even safe to leave Flip's car? Maybe if she walked a little way in either direction she could at least get cell- phone coverage.
Just as she was about to exit the car, she saw the reflection of headlights in her rearview mirror. A chill ran down her spine. This seemed like a scene from a cheap Hollywood horror movie—a dark, lonely road, and a stranded female who became tomorrow's headline. Always the drama queen, as her husband liked to point out, she tried to squelch her fear.
She took a deep breath and watched the vehicle approach. Her heart began to pound; her palms began to sweat. Should she flag down the motorist? Before she could even decide, the car passed. At first it was a feeling of relief, then confusion, and finally irritation. She was safe but still stranded. As she began to capture a second thought, the car stopped and made a u-turn in the road. She watched the car slowly return. Her heart was almost pounding through her chest, and her hands were shaking.
The vehicle pulled alongside the Mustang. The driver's side win- dow of the dark blue Chrysler 300 retreated into the door frame, and a warm, black face appeared.
Lydia relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief. The driver was Benjamin Hobbs, a minister from a church in Baldwin Hills, who also worked at the food bank and was at tonight's meeting.
"Need some help?"
"Oh, thank God, it's you. My car stalled, and I can't get cell- phone coverage. I wasn't sure what to do."
"Let me pull over, and let's see if I can get it started," said Ben.
Lydia exited the Mustang as Ben pulled his car to the side of the road, parking near a large tree whose low-hanging branches almost concealed the Chrysler.
A tall, lean man with dark chocolate skin, Ben Hobbs played basketball in college in the mid-eighties. Still athletic, he bounded across the street to Lydia's car.
"Glad I turned around. I couldn't see inside the car but wanted to make sure no one was stranded. Course, wanted to be careful, thought I might find a couple attempting to violate the Seventh Commandment."
Lydia smiled as the mist fell gently on her shoulder-length hair. "I'm glad you took a chance. I think I got some bad gas this evening. My husband insists on brand names, but in the interest of good stewardship, I went cheap, and it may have cost me."
Ben laughed. "Maybe I can help. I know God wants to reward the wise steward."
Just as Lydia was about to hand him the keys to the Mustang, she spied a dark Dodge Ram Mega-Cab stop short a hundred yards from her location. She knew it was a Dodge because a similar model sat in her driveway at home. It was her husband's surveillance vehicle.
Three men exited the truck, grabbed a large limp object from the bed of the pickup, and heaved it over the side of the road. The men quickly returned to the truck and sped off, now heading toward Lydia and Ben, almost clipping them as they stood by the side of the road.
"Crazy kids," barked Ben.
Before Lydia could respond, the truck skidded to a stop. The driver threw the vehicle into reverse and raced back toward Lydia's car, tires spinning on the wet, slick pavement, water spitting in all directions. Three men jumped from the truck.
The driver was short and powerful. His head was shaved, and Lydia could see a tattoo on the left side of his neck. The other two were much taller, one muscular but both menacing, wearing dark knit caps, which they immediately pulled down over their faces as they exited the muddied pickup. Both arms of the largest of the three were covered in tattoos. The other wore a long-sleeve black Harley-Davidson shirt which would have concealed any markings.
Initially paralyzed with fear, Lydia stood by as the men moved with ferocious speed toward Benjamin Hobbs. She then screamed as the three men attacked and began to pummel Ben with their fists and feet. She watched as the minister attempted to fend them off, but following a blow to the windpipe, he quickly collapsed. The kicks were made with blinding speed; steel-toed Doc Marten boots their weapons of choice.
Ben curled his body into a fetal position, unable to protest, craving a breath, and attempting to ward off the blows.
Lydia's pleas for the men to stop fell on deaf ears; they evidenced no intention of stopping. She tried to intervene, grabbing the driver by the arm, but he used his free arm landing a devastating punch to her face, shattering her nose.
The men were too quick, too powerful, too many. When the driver's left foot landed a well-placed strike to the head, Ben's body went limp.
The brutal, random, and spontaneous assault took less than a minute. The largest of the three men grabbed a silenced 9 mm from his waistband and pumped two shots into the minister's dead body. He then walked over to Lydia and fired two more rounds.
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May 10, 2011
Excerpt - Undercover Pursuit by Susan May Warren
Undercover Pursuit by
Susan May Warren
The only way to get security agent Luke Dekker to a wedding? An undercover mission as groomsman. He'll bust the groom, a drug cartel heir, before anyone can say "I do." Then Luke can escape all this love and romance nonsense—and the too pretty bridesmaid/agent assigned as his "fiancée" for the weekend. Until Luke discovers that sweet, vulnerable Scarlett Hanson isn't his contact. Isn't an agent. Isn't trained for the high-stakes mission now trapping them both. And worse, Luke's falling for her—which is not part of the assignment.
Excerpt of chapter one:
How could she have lost her sister's wedding dress?
Scarlett Hanson closed her eyes, willing herself not to leap across the customer service counter of AirMexico airlines and throttle the petite brunette airline representative in her cute light blue uniform and pigtails, typing a description of Scarlett's lost "suitcase" into her computer.
"It's not in a suitcase," Scarlett repeated. "It's a black, zippered hanging bag, with a pink ribbon on the handle, and please, please, my sister will kill me if you can't find it." Scarlett spread her sweaty hands on the cool smooth counter, aware of the line forming behind her. The rest of the passengers on Flight 2137 had already cleared customs, the officers at the customs desks now resuming conversations with their colleagues while the next bunch of tourists from the icy north herded through passport control. Beyond the glass doors, she spotted palm trees and cabbies in Hawaiian shirts, shorts and flip-flops, peddling freedom.
"Contents?"
"It's a wedding dress!" Oh, she hadn't meant to yell, but that's what sixteen hours of travel on nothing more than a bag of peanuts and a Diet Coke did. It didn't help that she'd had about six hours' notice before that to block out vacation time at her temp agency, pack, pick up her sister's dress—as well as her maid-of-honor dress—from a Nicollet Mall boutique in Minneapolis and catch her flight.
She just needed to calm down. Everything was going to be just fine. Hadn't her flight made it out before the storms across the nation had grounded other flights? If that wasn't divine providence—allowing her to make it onto the overbooked connection in Houston—then she didn't know what was.
See, just because she felt as if God had forgotten her didn't mean it was true. He did care about her, and she didn't have to be a high-maintenance, high-stress, center-of-the-world diva like Bridgett to prove it.
Although, having her sister's dress suddenly appear might prove God's attention to the details.
"Are you sure the bag isn't listed on the manifest?" She wanted to bang her head on the counter. Why hadn't she carried her sister's dress on the plane instead of checking it?
Or better, why hadn't Scarlett just let her sister's frantic phone call go to voice mail two days ago?
Maybe because, after the fiasco at the engagement party, she just wanted to make things right.
Scarlett's feet had begun to sweat in her Uggs. She should have left her ski jacket in the parking garage at the Minneapolis/St. Paul airport. Please let her have remembered her swimsuit—although knowing Bridgett, the bride wouldn't have scheduled beach time. Just lots of it's-all-about-Bridgett time.
Scarlett shed the jacket and shoved it into the expandable pocket of her carry-on bag.
"Oh, I found it!" Pigtails peered at the screen, squinting. "It's—oh, no…"
Scarlett gripped the counter, leaning forward, hoping for a glimpse of the screen. "What's 'oh, no'?"
"It's in…Detroit."
Detroit. Of course it was.
Maybe it wasn't too late to catch a return flight back to the States.
"We can have it here by tomorrow, probably, Saturday at the latest."
"She's getting married Saturday morning."
Pigtails smiled, white teeth against her beautifully tanned skin. "If you leave the name of your hotel, we can send it out to you when it arrives."
Perfect. Scarlett dug out her cell phone and scrolled down to the notes. "The Lost Breezes Hotel."
"You know that isn't actually in Cancun, right? You have to take a ferry out to the island." The woman glanced behind her at the clock. "Oh, you'd better hurry. The last ferry to the island leaves in thirty minutes."
Of course it did. Scarlett grabbed one of the business cards on the counter. "I'll call you when I get to the resort."
"We hope you enjoy your stay in Cancun," Pigtails said, her eyes already tracking to the complainer behind her.
At this point, Scarlett had her doubts.
She practiced some deep breathing, not glancing at the clock as she lined up to go through customs.
The agent seemed to pity her—or perhaps he just recognized a woman fraying as he released her and her carry-on bag into the country.
Welcome to Mexico. She passed the sign and entered a corridor, bordered by all manner of tourist services—
tropical-colored signs advertising tours of lost coves and white-sand beaches, luxury golf packages, deep-sea fishing charters. She trolleyed her bag, the one with the chipped wheel that made a clipping sound as she walked, ignoring the calls of eager agents hoping to sell her a chance to swim with dolphins, learn to scuba dive or cook Mexican cuisine.
Thanks, but she was here for one reason: erase that horrid moment at the engagement party when she'd accused Bridgett of stealing Duncan, the groom.
Stealing—had she really used that word? That was the last time she drank champagne. Ever. One glass and her mouth stopped listening to her brain.
Scarlett smiled at a group of taxi drivers lingering in the cool air-conditioning of the airport and exited out onto the sidewalk. Her sister said a marked taxi would be waiting to take her and the last of the groomsmen to the resort. Please, don't let Bridgett have set her up on a blind date. Scarlett could see right through Bridgett's pitiful attempts over the past six months to set her up, straight to the guilty conscience behind it. But there was no need for it. She and Duncan had never—not really—been a couple. Officially.
Regardless of the hours they spent hanging out after the church singles group events.
Regardless of the times they played tennis, or went cross-country skiing.
And, especially, regardless of what Scarlett may or may not have said at the engagement party.
No, she would be just fine at this wedding as a solo act. Singular. Dateless.
Sigh.
Scarlett had never seen palm trees. They lined the circular boulevard outside the airport. But she must have been miles from the ocean because she couldn't smell anything but exhaust.
Lost Breezes—there. She spotted a Hispanic man in a white silk shirt, jeans and flip-flops holding a laminated sign. "Lost Breezes?" she asked in English.
He smiled. "Si."
"Gracias." Finally, she might be able to use her four years of high-school Spanish.
He reached for her bag. Wait—hadn't she read something about people masquerading as cabbies and running off with carry-ons? She held her bag tighter. "I'll take it in the car with me," she said—or hoped she said—in Spanish.
He raised an eyebrow, then shrugged and opened the door of his sedan.
Indeed, the foreshadowed guest sat inside, waiting—impatiently, if she could read his body language. He looked over at her, his lips pursed, his eyes dark, sweat dampening the front of his white Oxford dress shirt. He wore a pair of jeans and black Converse sneakers, and made a feeble attempt to hide his irritation.
"Hi. Sorry I'm late." She set the carry-on on the floor then climbed in around it.
He gave her a tight smile. "Hi." He eyed her Uggs and possibly her turtleneck, but it was two degrees in Rochester, thank you very much. Just get her to a beach.
She sat back and noticed that, despite his perspiration, he didn't exactly smell bad. And, upon closer inspection, she might even call him cute—tousled dark blond hair, golden-brown eyes, and it seemed he might spend some time in the gym. There was confidence in his posture, despite his impatience, as if he expected the world to be on time. And dressed appropriately. Exactly the kind of guy who might be interested in Bridgett.
Or, the kind of guy who might be her sister's cast-off. Oh, no, please—
"I'm Luke. You must be my date." He offered his hand to her.
She knew it. For goodness' sake. She would kill Bridgett when she saw her.
"Okay. Well, I'm Scarlett. And I don't know what you were told, but I'm just here for the wedding. So, you're off the hook, pal. You don't have to be my plus-one." She gave him a tight smile, ignoring his hand.
He withdrew his hand and gave her a look. "Scarlett. Okay. I admit, I heard you like to work solo, but hey, I'm here to do a job, same as you. So, no, I don't think I'm off the hook, thanks."
Wow, that hurt. She liked to work solo? A job? What had her sister said to this guy? She liked a date just as much as the next girl. Just because she hadn't had one in…well, her friendship with Duncan had nixed any real offers. Still, being her date for the weekend was a "job?"
"Thanks, but I just want to get this over with as painlessly as possible. So, really, I don't need your help."
And she didn't. With the exception of the dress—which had to make it in on the next plane—she could handle this wedding with her eyes closed. Nothing short of a terrorist attack would keep her from making sure Bridgett had the wedding of her dreams, and paying the appropriate attention to her "date" would only dilute her focus. She put some sugar in her tone, however, because no man—especially one of Bridgett's pals—liked getting shut out. "Thanks for the offer, though. I'll give you a good report, I promise." Then, as the taxi pulled away from the curb into the mess of traffic, she winked at him. No hard feelings.
He stared at her as if she'd slapped him. "Wow. You really think you're something, don't you?"
"Uh."
"Well, guess what? You're not getting rid of me quite that easily. For the next three days, I'm your partner, whether you like it or not. So buckle up, honey."
Awesome. She'd landed her own personal hero. Just what she needed.
Luke Dekker hated working a mission with an operative he didn't know. He'd read Stacey—er, Scarlett, apparently, was the name she'd chosen for this op—Meyer's dossier on the plane on the way over, and while she seemed capable on paper, meeting her in person had him second-guessing the entire assignment. Really, I don't need your help.
And now she looked at him with unadulterated horror on her face, as if he'd just propositioned her.
Luke had been to Cancun before. The first time was a spring-break trip in high school that he barely remembered. Not that he really wanted to remember anything from those days. Still, he didn't recall the small houses amidst towering resort hotels, palm trees and cracked sidewalks, dusty children playing in dirt lots, but maybe no one saw the back alleys of Cancun unless they really looked.
"I really do know what I'm doing. This isn't my first time around the block." He smiled, trying to lighten things up. Somehow, he'd gotten off on the wrong foot with her. Maybe because he kept sticking the other one in his mouth.
She looked even more offended, her eyes blinking.
"Well, I'm sure it's not." Then she closed her mouth and turned away from him, shaking her head as if trying to dislodge his words.
What sort of penance was this? So maybe he shouldn't have mouthed off when his boss, Chet Stryker, asked for volunteers for a mission to Cancun. "Hey, I need a tan, Chet." Did the guy not know sarcasm when he heard it?
Only, maybe the joke was on him, because in the six-hour turnaround where he threw something that resembled swim trunks and wrinkled dress clothes from the back of his closet into his bag, he hadn't even considered he might end up working with a snow queen.
Hopefully she packed her sunscreen, because the woman wore the hue—and demeanor—of Minnesota in January.
But he wasn't here to be just an accessory, thanks. This was just as much his mission as hers. And, despite Miss I-Work-Alone's confidence, the woman needed someone to watch her back as she pretended to be a bridesmaid. She'd be busy enough inserting herself into the bridal party of Lucia Romero, bride to Benito Sanchez, nephew of Augusto Sanchez, wanted drug lord and human-trafficking terrorist—and esteemed member of the guest list.
Lucia, a former law student, had been playing loving girlfriend to Benito for three years just for the chance to apprehend Augusto. And now, someone was trying to kill her. She needed people around her who she could trust to keep an eye on things until Augusto showed up to the wedding and the good guys used the opportune rare appearance to swoop in and nab him.
Hence, Lucia had turned to her old friend Chet Stryker and his international-security team. But Stryker International needed a few more female operatives on its team, because its only official female member had a severe bout of morning sickness.
Although, Mae, Chet's wife, had nearly gotten on the plane with Luke this morning anyway. Even when Chet told her he'd brought in an accomplished freelancer to partner with Luke. A real pro, no problem. Stacey Meyer.
A pro who preferred to work solo, according to her file. Her description, however, hadn't quite done her justice. Sure, the woman beside him didn't exactly qualify as striking, but she had a prettiness about her, something simple and muted that could probably get her in and out of countries unnoticed. She wore her brown hair in a messy ponytail, some of it waterfalling around her face, and her intense green eyes suggested she could turn a person cold with a look. The way she seemed to scrutinize everything, from the driver to the landscape to Luke, as if taking in every detail…yes, he had no doubt she knew how to do her job alone. But too bad. "Listen, I know this isn't your first choice. Frankly, it's not mine, either—"
"What, there were other choices? A lottery?"
"No. I mean, I volunteered. But I was also the only one available."
"Nice. I didn't realize you guys were in such demand."
What had Chet gotten him into? "I stay pretty busy."
She widened her eyes a moment, a flare of something he might normally peg as panic.
"Please, just stay away from me." She looked down at the space between them, then scooted more toward the window and crossed her arms and legs. A knot of offended female pride.
Or…maybe this was about the job. She probably feared that he'd take advantage of his role as her fiancé.
Staying away might be a little difficult if they hoped to pull off this charade. Yet, because she was still staring out the window, still shaking her head in a sort of disbelief, he lowered his voice. "Listen, I'm a good guy, really, and I won't take advantage. And I know I'm not who you expected, but I'm not interested in anything but doing my job. We'll just get it done and go home."
She turned, and just for a moment she looked as if she might slap him. "How can I thank you for that ever-so-sweet warning, and for being willing to do this oh-so-offensive job? What would the world do without heroes like you?" Ow.
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