Camy Tang's Blog, page 157
February 23, 2011
Street Team Book List excerpt - OPERATION BONNET by Kimberly Stuart
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 Operation Bonnet David C. Cook; New edition (February 1, 2011) by Kimberly Stuart
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Kimberly says:
I am a writer of comedic fiction, and would like to suggest that you laugh regularly when reading my books. Let's also try for one to two teary moments. If you are crying more than that, you don't understand my sense of humor and should move on to another author.
I grew up in a book-loving home. Actually, that's not entirely accurate. My mom loves books. My dad loves to read the first chapters of books and then make us all listen as he recites his favorite passages. I, however, enjoy reading books in their entirety and came into writing as a result of book-love. After earning two fancy degrees in education and Spanish, I promptly let the thinking part of my brain take a breather and instead became pregnant. (I'm sure a lot of other things happened between early literacy and pregnancy but I don't really remember any of that. If you also have shared your uterus with another human, you understand.)
In an effort to author a book that would entertain my sassy, irreverent, breast-feeding/drooping friends, I wrote my first novel, Balancing Act. People were so nice to me after that, I decided to continue with writing. Also, I can't craft, knit, or scrapbook, so what else was a nice, Christian girl to do?
In addition to writing books to make my friends laugh and cry, I observe the chaos at the home I share with my unfailingly supportive husband and three offspring. We're doing our best and so far, no one's been to prison.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Twenty-year-old Nellie Monroe has a restless brilliance that makes her a bit of an odd duck. She wants to be a private investigator, even though her tiny hometown offers no hope of clients. Until she meets Amos Shetler, an Amish dropout carrying a torch for the girl he left behind.
So Nellie straps on her bonnet and goes undercover to get the dish. But though she's brainy, Nellie is clueless when it comes to real life and real relationships. Soon she's alienated her best friend, angered her college professor, and botched her case.
Operation Bonnet is a comedy of errors, a surprising take on love, and a story of grace.
Watch the book video trailer:
Excerpt of chapter one:
Coming soon
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing Operation Bonnet David C. Cook; New edition (February 1, 2011) by Kimberly Stuart
ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Kimberly says:
I am a writer of comedic fiction, and would like to suggest that you laugh regularly when reading my books. Let's also try for one to two teary moments. If you are crying more than that, you don't understand my sense of humor and should move on to another author.
I grew up in a book-loving home. Actually, that's not entirely accurate. My mom loves books. My dad loves to read the first chapters of books and then make us all listen as he recites his favorite passages. I, however, enjoy reading books in their entirety and came into writing as a result of book-love. After earning two fancy degrees in education and Spanish, I promptly let the thinking part of my brain take a breather and instead became pregnant. (I'm sure a lot of other things happened between early literacy and pregnancy but I don't really remember any of that. If you also have shared your uterus with another human, you understand.)
In an effort to author a book that would entertain my sassy, irreverent, breast-feeding/drooping friends, I wrote my first novel, Balancing Act. People were so nice to me after that, I decided to continue with writing. Also, I can't craft, knit, or scrapbook, so what else was a nice, Christian girl to do?
In addition to writing books to make my friends laugh and cry, I observe the chaos at the home I share with my unfailingly supportive husband and three offspring. We're doing our best and so far, no one's been to prison.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Twenty-year-old Nellie Monroe has a restless brilliance that makes her a bit of an odd duck. She wants to be a private investigator, even though her tiny hometown offers no hope of clients. Until she meets Amos Shetler, an Amish dropout carrying a torch for the girl he left behind. So Nellie straps on her bonnet and goes undercover to get the dish. But though she's brainy, Nellie is clueless when it comes to real life and real relationships. Soon she's alienated her best friend, angered her college professor, and botched her case.
Operation Bonnet is a comedy of errors, a surprising take on love, and a story of grace.
Watch the book video trailer:
Excerpt of chapter one:
Coming soon
February 22, 2011
Excerpt - A Deadly Game by Virginia Smith
A Deadly Game
by
Virginia Smith
After discovering her boss's dead body, Susanna Trent receives an unusual package from him filled with strange metal tokens and odd clues. Then Susanna, who is the guardian of her three-year-old niece, starts getting anonymous phone calls taunting her with thinly veiled threats. Worried for her life and that of her sister's child, Susanna struggles to trust the one man who can help: wealthy executive Jack Townsend. As they work together to solve the mysterious puzzle, Jack and Susanna are led into a dangerous game neither knows how to play. But they do know the stakes—life or death.
Excerpt of chapter one:
The moment she rounded the corner of the building, Susanna Trent knew something was wrong. To her right, darkness shrouded the wooded area that ran the length of the building housing Ingram Industries. Tiny frozen daggers of sleet sliced through the nighttime sky to fall onto the crowded evergreen branches, the contact goading the trees into an eerie dance. To her left, slivers of light peeked through the cracks of closed blinds in the floor-to-ceiling office windows. Sleet stung her cheeks and slapped at the nylon hood of her jacket as she skidded to a halt on the sidewalk.
Behind her, Jack Townsend didn't stop quite as quickly. He bumped into her, and almost knocked her off her feet.
Jack slipped a strong hand under her arm to steady her. "Sorry about that."
Susanna acknowledged the apology with an absent nod, her stare fixed on the windows. A finger of disquiet tapped at the edges of her mind. She'd expected to see her boss standing there, waiting for her to arrive with his new Corvette. Mr. Ingram had been ecstatic when she called him after the auction ended to tell him that she'd succeeded in buying the car he wanted. Why wasn't he watching for the moment she arrived, ready to dash outside to see it? Something definitely wasn't right here.
Jack's head turned as he followed her gaze. "Is something wrong?"
Susanna shook her head, as much to dislodge the uneasy feelings as to answer. "It's just that the blinds are closed. They're never closed."
"Maybe he wanted some privacy."
"From what?" She pointed toward the desolate woods. "Nobody ever comes back here except him and me."
Jack peered into the ice-covered evergreens, then shrugged. "Why don't we ask him?"
His smile tilted sideways, and Susanna couldn't help but admire the guy's strong jaw, chiseled nose and short-cropped dark hair. They'd just met a few hours ago, at the car auction, and she'd noted his wholesome good looks right off. Normally she would have found him attractive, but Jack Townsend was exactly the kind of man she made a point of avoiding. He shared too much in common with someone she hoped she'd never have to see again.
Still, he was doing Mr. Ingram a favor by delivering the new Corvette. She had to admit that was a nice gesture, especially when he had been bidding against her for the same car. Unusual, too. In Susanna's experience, the sons of billionaires were far too self-centered to do something nice for someone else.
She glanced again at the closed blinds and couldn't completely dismiss the feeling of foreboding that bloomed. Hurrying to the heavy metal door, she shrugged the strap of her voluminous handbag from her shoulder. The cavernous interior of the purse held a wealth of useful personal items, with plenty of room for the envelope containing the papers for Mr. Ingram's new car. But it also ate keys. She rummaged inside, shaking to listen for the telltale jingle. Finally, she found them. Her gloved fingers fumbled to locate the right one, and she shoved it into the lock.
The hallway inside was empty, but it would be at this time of night. Susanna led Jack down the short corridor and around the corner. A quick glance toward the front of the building showed that the main lights were off in the accounting department. Stillness filled the office, normally bustling in the daytime. A few safety lights cast a dim glow over the empty desks.
She didn't pause when she entered her own work space, but hurried across the carpeted floor, past her tidy desk. The door to Mr. Ingram's private office had been pulled almost closed. Was he on a phone call, maybe? She halted for a moment, but didn't hear any noise from inside.
"Mr. Ingram?" She tapped on the wood, the sound muted by her gloves. "I'm here with your car."
No answer. Alarm crept like spider legs up the back of Susanna's neck. Something was wrong; she could feel it. She exchanged a glance with Jack, whose brows had drawn together over eyes dark with concern.
"Mr. Ingram? Is everything okay?"
Susanna laid a gloved hand on the solid door and gave a gentle push. It swung inward, and she slipped through the enlarged opening. The desk chair was empty, but her gaze was drawn to the floor.
A body lay halfway hidden behind the big wooden desk. But the head was visible. The image seared into Susanna's brain like a hot brand, and she knew she would remember it as long as she lived. Mr. Ingram's face was purple, his eyes bulging from their sockets to stare at something no living person could see.
A scream tore from her throat.
While the police officer took his statement, Jack tried not to look toward Ingram's open office door. From the corner of his eye he saw a flash from the investigator's camera as it photographed the body. He suppressed a shudder and glanced in the opposite direction, where Susanna sat huddled in a chair, her face hidden behind a curtain of blond hair. The horrified sound of her scream still echoed in his ears. She spoke quietly into a cell phone, which she held cupped to the side of her head with one hand while she massaged her temples with the thumb and forefinger of the other. Something about the way her drooping shoulders gave an occasional heave, as if she was holding back sobs, made Jack want to cross the room and place a comforting arm around her.
The thought brought a sour taste to his mouth. An offer of compassion might be viewed as an invitation, and he wasn't about to get himself any more involved with Susanna Trent than he already was. They'd known each other only a few hours, and already the gruesome specter of a dead body had polluted any budding relationship they might have enjoyed. That, and the fact that she knew who he was. The name Townsend cast a long shadow in Lexington, Kentucky.
"Thank you for answering our questions, Mr. Townsend." Jack pulled his attention away from Susanna and focused on the police detective. The man, who had identified himself as Detective Rollins, gave a quick smile. "If you don't mind, we'd like to get an address and phone number where we can reach you in case something comes up that we need to clarify."
"Of course." Jack slid his wallet out of his jeans pocket and extracted a card.
Rollins took it out of his hand and studied it. "Vice President of Supply for Townsend Steakhouses, Inc." The detective didn't bother to hide the fact that he was impressed. "That sounds like an important job."
"Yes, it certainly does." Jack worded his answer carefully, and hoped his smile was sincere.
The detective's expression turned quizzical, but he didn't pursue the matter. "Well, we may be in touch. In the meantime, if you think of anything that could be helpful, give us a call."
Rollins handed the card to the uniformed officer standing next to him, who began copying information from it. With another quick smile, this time in dismissal, the detective headed for Ingram's office.
Apparently Jack was free to leave. He glanced toward Susanna, who had not moved from her chair and was still speaking quietly into her phone. Hopefully she was talking to someone who would offer her the support she needed. A boyfriend, maybe. Though he felt a twinge of guilt at leaving her to face the detective's questions alone, he had his own call to make. He'd put it off long enough.
Jack extracted his cell phone from his pocket and pressed the power button as he stepped from the building into the cold evening air. He hurried down the sidewalk toward his truck, which still had the big covered car trailer hitched to the back. The sleet had stopped for the moment, but his breath froze in visible puffs as he scrolled down the listings in his cell phone address book to the entry for his father, R. H. Townsend. When Jack came to work in the office of Townsend Steakhouses, his father had insisted that he stop being childish and address him as R.H., like all the other management employees. In Jack's mind, he'd been R.H. for years anyway. Giving that cold man the title Father had felt wrong for a long time.
The time read just past nine, which meant that R.H. would be in his home office, working for several more hours before he went to bed. Jack pictured him behind his desk, reading from a neat stack of papers, jotting notes on the yellow legal pad he kept nearby at all times to record the not-infrequent ideas that kept the research and development department at Townsend Steakhouses in a perpetual state of flustered activity.
The phone didn't finish the first ring.
"I've been trying to call you for hours. Did you get the car?" No greeting. R. H. Townsend rarely wasted time on pleasantries.
"I'm afraid not. The b—"
"What?"
A string of foul language polluted the airspace between Jack's phone and his father's. Jack set his teeth together and endured the tirade. If the frigid air had turned blue around him, he wouldn't have been surprised. His father's language was rarely appropriate for Sunday school, but this outburst went on longer than usual.
When he paused for a breath, Jack jumped in to defend himself. "Wait a minute. If you'll just listen—"
"Listen? That's what I expected you to do—listen to me, and do as you were told. But I guess it was asking too much to expect you to follow one simple request."
The scorn in his father's words was all too familiar. It was a tone Jack had heard many times since his boyhood.
"Who bought it?"
Jack squeezed his eyes shut before he said the name. "Tom Ingram's secretary."
"You let a secretary buy my car out from under your nose?"
Another tirade followed, and Jack let it run dry before he offered his explanation. "The car sold for thirty thousand dollars. I checked a whole list of comparables before I left for the auction, so I know that's more than it was worth.
But I located another red Corvette up near Indianapolis, and it's in even b—"
"Just forget it. I don't want to hear your excuses."
With iron control, Jack bit back the words that threatened to shoot out of his mouth. His chest expanded slowly as he drew icy air into his lungs. He'd long ago given up trying to defend his actions to his father.
Besides, he had another blow to deliver, and there was no way to soften it. His father and Thomas Ingram had been friends.
Jack kept his tone even as he spoke. "R.H., I have something to tell you that may come as a shock." He drew another breath, then broke the news. "Tom Ingram is dead."
"Dead? Don't tell me he wrecked the car as soon as he got it."
Jack arrived at the pickup, and unlocked the door with a click of the remote. "No, it wasn't an accident. He was killed. Murdered, right in his office."
Silence on the line. Jack opened the door and climbed into the driver's seat. A trace of warmth still lingered in the cab from his ninety-minute drive after the auction. He pictured his father, seated in his high-backed chair, digesting the news. He and Ingram were among a small group of wealthy businessmen who'd been in the habit of getting together for a monthly poker game for the past several years. Ingram's death would be a blow to them all.
"That's…terrible. Just terrible. Where did you hear about it? Is it on the radio?"
"No, I don't think the press has gotten wind of the news yet. After his secretary bought the car, she couldn't find a transport company to deliver it tonight. They were all booked solid for several days. Since I had taken an empty trailer with me anyway, I offered to bring the Corvette back to Lexington for her. We found the body when we got here."
"Wait a minute. First you let someone else buy my car, and then you delivered it for her?"
Jack stiffened at the outrage in his father's voice. "Maybe you didn't hear me. I just told you that your friend has been killed—murdered—and I found the body. And all you can think about is a car?"
"I said it was terrible. What more do you want me to say?" Jack heard a quick intake of breath. "What's going to happen to the car now? Ingram certainly doesn't need it anymore."
He shook his head, unable to answer for a moment. Obviously he'd been wrong to describe Ingram as his father's friend. R.H. had no friends. He had social acquaintances, business associates and employees, but certainly no one in whom he would confide as a friend. Jack had heard the lecture many times growing up—confidences were an act of weakness. Why would you tell someone your thoughts and give them a weapon that might be used against you later? Being too open with people was one of the many things for which R. H. Townsend faulted his son.
Still, a man had been murdered. Jack had known his father rarely wasted time on sentimentality, but to express an interest in the Corvette this soon? It was downright callous.
If that's what being a successful businessman leads to, Lord, then save me from success.
There was no use trying to convince his father that the question was inappropriate. The man was a brusque, uncaring businessman through and through, and he wasn't likely to change his attitude anytime soon.
Jack finally managed an even response. "I overheard his secretary tell the police that Ingram has two daughters.
The car probably belongs to them now. Maybe they'd be willing to sell it to you."
"How long do you think that would take?"
Jack closed his eyes. "I really don't know."
"Check on it then."
A click, and the call disconnected. For a long time, Jack sat staring at the phone. He'd seen his father make some harsh business decisions with little regard for the people whose lives he had affected. He'd watched him sign away the jobs and livelihood of hundreds of employees with the flourish of a pen, without even a passing thought to their welfare. Heard him more than once berate midlevel managers with language that should have resulted in lawsuits. And he'd been on the receiving end of that famous Townsend temper more times than he could count. He thought nothing the man could do would surprise him anymore. But this reaction to Tom Ingram's death plunged to a new depth. R.H. had proven himself to be completely heartless.
The cab lost the last of its warmth, and a circle of breath frosted on the inside of the windshield. Jack shook himself free of his thoughts and jumped out of the truck. He'd better go back inside and find out how to contact Ingram's daughters about the Corvette. If he didn't, R.H. would do it himself. At least Jack could try to handle the situation tactfully.
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by
Virginia Smith
After discovering her boss's dead body, Susanna Trent receives an unusual package from him filled with strange metal tokens and odd clues. Then Susanna, who is the guardian of her three-year-old niece, starts getting anonymous phone calls taunting her with thinly veiled threats. Worried for her life and that of her sister's child, Susanna struggles to trust the one man who can help: wealthy executive Jack Townsend. As they work together to solve the mysterious puzzle, Jack and Susanna are led into a dangerous game neither knows how to play. But they do know the stakes—life or death.
Excerpt of chapter one:
The moment she rounded the corner of the building, Susanna Trent knew something was wrong. To her right, darkness shrouded the wooded area that ran the length of the building housing Ingram Industries. Tiny frozen daggers of sleet sliced through the nighttime sky to fall onto the crowded evergreen branches, the contact goading the trees into an eerie dance. To her left, slivers of light peeked through the cracks of closed blinds in the floor-to-ceiling office windows. Sleet stung her cheeks and slapped at the nylon hood of her jacket as she skidded to a halt on the sidewalk.
Behind her, Jack Townsend didn't stop quite as quickly. He bumped into her, and almost knocked her off her feet.
Jack slipped a strong hand under her arm to steady her. "Sorry about that."
Susanna acknowledged the apology with an absent nod, her stare fixed on the windows. A finger of disquiet tapped at the edges of her mind. She'd expected to see her boss standing there, waiting for her to arrive with his new Corvette. Mr. Ingram had been ecstatic when she called him after the auction ended to tell him that she'd succeeded in buying the car he wanted. Why wasn't he watching for the moment she arrived, ready to dash outside to see it? Something definitely wasn't right here.
Jack's head turned as he followed her gaze. "Is something wrong?"
Susanna shook her head, as much to dislodge the uneasy feelings as to answer. "It's just that the blinds are closed. They're never closed."
"Maybe he wanted some privacy."
"From what?" She pointed toward the desolate woods. "Nobody ever comes back here except him and me."
Jack peered into the ice-covered evergreens, then shrugged. "Why don't we ask him?"
His smile tilted sideways, and Susanna couldn't help but admire the guy's strong jaw, chiseled nose and short-cropped dark hair. They'd just met a few hours ago, at the car auction, and she'd noted his wholesome good looks right off. Normally she would have found him attractive, but Jack Townsend was exactly the kind of man she made a point of avoiding. He shared too much in common with someone she hoped she'd never have to see again.
Still, he was doing Mr. Ingram a favor by delivering the new Corvette. She had to admit that was a nice gesture, especially when he had been bidding against her for the same car. Unusual, too. In Susanna's experience, the sons of billionaires were far too self-centered to do something nice for someone else.
She glanced again at the closed blinds and couldn't completely dismiss the feeling of foreboding that bloomed. Hurrying to the heavy metal door, she shrugged the strap of her voluminous handbag from her shoulder. The cavernous interior of the purse held a wealth of useful personal items, with plenty of room for the envelope containing the papers for Mr. Ingram's new car. But it also ate keys. She rummaged inside, shaking to listen for the telltale jingle. Finally, she found them. Her gloved fingers fumbled to locate the right one, and she shoved it into the lock.
The hallway inside was empty, but it would be at this time of night. Susanna led Jack down the short corridor and around the corner. A quick glance toward the front of the building showed that the main lights were off in the accounting department. Stillness filled the office, normally bustling in the daytime. A few safety lights cast a dim glow over the empty desks.
She didn't pause when she entered her own work space, but hurried across the carpeted floor, past her tidy desk. The door to Mr. Ingram's private office had been pulled almost closed. Was he on a phone call, maybe? She halted for a moment, but didn't hear any noise from inside.
"Mr. Ingram?" She tapped on the wood, the sound muted by her gloves. "I'm here with your car."
No answer. Alarm crept like spider legs up the back of Susanna's neck. Something was wrong; she could feel it. She exchanged a glance with Jack, whose brows had drawn together over eyes dark with concern.
"Mr. Ingram? Is everything okay?"
Susanna laid a gloved hand on the solid door and gave a gentle push. It swung inward, and she slipped through the enlarged opening. The desk chair was empty, but her gaze was drawn to the floor.
A body lay halfway hidden behind the big wooden desk. But the head was visible. The image seared into Susanna's brain like a hot brand, and she knew she would remember it as long as she lived. Mr. Ingram's face was purple, his eyes bulging from their sockets to stare at something no living person could see.
A scream tore from her throat.
While the police officer took his statement, Jack tried not to look toward Ingram's open office door. From the corner of his eye he saw a flash from the investigator's camera as it photographed the body. He suppressed a shudder and glanced in the opposite direction, where Susanna sat huddled in a chair, her face hidden behind a curtain of blond hair. The horrified sound of her scream still echoed in his ears. She spoke quietly into a cell phone, which she held cupped to the side of her head with one hand while she massaged her temples with the thumb and forefinger of the other. Something about the way her drooping shoulders gave an occasional heave, as if she was holding back sobs, made Jack want to cross the room and place a comforting arm around her.
The thought brought a sour taste to his mouth. An offer of compassion might be viewed as an invitation, and he wasn't about to get himself any more involved with Susanna Trent than he already was. They'd known each other only a few hours, and already the gruesome specter of a dead body had polluted any budding relationship they might have enjoyed. That, and the fact that she knew who he was. The name Townsend cast a long shadow in Lexington, Kentucky.
"Thank you for answering our questions, Mr. Townsend." Jack pulled his attention away from Susanna and focused on the police detective. The man, who had identified himself as Detective Rollins, gave a quick smile. "If you don't mind, we'd like to get an address and phone number where we can reach you in case something comes up that we need to clarify."
"Of course." Jack slid his wallet out of his jeans pocket and extracted a card.
Rollins took it out of his hand and studied it. "Vice President of Supply for Townsend Steakhouses, Inc." The detective didn't bother to hide the fact that he was impressed. "That sounds like an important job."
"Yes, it certainly does." Jack worded his answer carefully, and hoped his smile was sincere.
The detective's expression turned quizzical, but he didn't pursue the matter. "Well, we may be in touch. In the meantime, if you think of anything that could be helpful, give us a call."
Rollins handed the card to the uniformed officer standing next to him, who began copying information from it. With another quick smile, this time in dismissal, the detective headed for Ingram's office.
Apparently Jack was free to leave. He glanced toward Susanna, who had not moved from her chair and was still speaking quietly into her phone. Hopefully she was talking to someone who would offer her the support she needed. A boyfriend, maybe. Though he felt a twinge of guilt at leaving her to face the detective's questions alone, he had his own call to make. He'd put it off long enough.
Jack extracted his cell phone from his pocket and pressed the power button as he stepped from the building into the cold evening air. He hurried down the sidewalk toward his truck, which still had the big covered car trailer hitched to the back. The sleet had stopped for the moment, but his breath froze in visible puffs as he scrolled down the listings in his cell phone address book to the entry for his father, R. H. Townsend. When Jack came to work in the office of Townsend Steakhouses, his father had insisted that he stop being childish and address him as R.H., like all the other management employees. In Jack's mind, he'd been R.H. for years anyway. Giving that cold man the title Father had felt wrong for a long time.
The time read just past nine, which meant that R.H. would be in his home office, working for several more hours before he went to bed. Jack pictured him behind his desk, reading from a neat stack of papers, jotting notes on the yellow legal pad he kept nearby at all times to record the not-infrequent ideas that kept the research and development department at Townsend Steakhouses in a perpetual state of flustered activity.
The phone didn't finish the first ring.
"I've been trying to call you for hours. Did you get the car?" No greeting. R. H. Townsend rarely wasted time on pleasantries.
"I'm afraid not. The b—"
"What?"
A string of foul language polluted the airspace between Jack's phone and his father's. Jack set his teeth together and endured the tirade. If the frigid air had turned blue around him, he wouldn't have been surprised. His father's language was rarely appropriate for Sunday school, but this outburst went on longer than usual.
When he paused for a breath, Jack jumped in to defend himself. "Wait a minute. If you'll just listen—"
"Listen? That's what I expected you to do—listen to me, and do as you were told. But I guess it was asking too much to expect you to follow one simple request."
The scorn in his father's words was all too familiar. It was a tone Jack had heard many times since his boyhood.
"Who bought it?"
Jack squeezed his eyes shut before he said the name. "Tom Ingram's secretary."
"You let a secretary buy my car out from under your nose?"
Another tirade followed, and Jack let it run dry before he offered his explanation. "The car sold for thirty thousand dollars. I checked a whole list of comparables before I left for the auction, so I know that's more than it was worth.
But I located another red Corvette up near Indianapolis, and it's in even b—"
"Just forget it. I don't want to hear your excuses."
With iron control, Jack bit back the words that threatened to shoot out of his mouth. His chest expanded slowly as he drew icy air into his lungs. He'd long ago given up trying to defend his actions to his father.
Besides, he had another blow to deliver, and there was no way to soften it. His father and Thomas Ingram had been friends.
Jack kept his tone even as he spoke. "R.H., I have something to tell you that may come as a shock." He drew another breath, then broke the news. "Tom Ingram is dead."
"Dead? Don't tell me he wrecked the car as soon as he got it."
Jack arrived at the pickup, and unlocked the door with a click of the remote. "No, it wasn't an accident. He was killed. Murdered, right in his office."
Silence on the line. Jack opened the door and climbed into the driver's seat. A trace of warmth still lingered in the cab from his ninety-minute drive after the auction. He pictured his father, seated in his high-backed chair, digesting the news. He and Ingram were among a small group of wealthy businessmen who'd been in the habit of getting together for a monthly poker game for the past several years. Ingram's death would be a blow to them all.
"That's…terrible. Just terrible. Where did you hear about it? Is it on the radio?"
"No, I don't think the press has gotten wind of the news yet. After his secretary bought the car, she couldn't find a transport company to deliver it tonight. They were all booked solid for several days. Since I had taken an empty trailer with me anyway, I offered to bring the Corvette back to Lexington for her. We found the body when we got here."
"Wait a minute. First you let someone else buy my car, and then you delivered it for her?"
Jack stiffened at the outrage in his father's voice. "Maybe you didn't hear me. I just told you that your friend has been killed—murdered—and I found the body. And all you can think about is a car?"
"I said it was terrible. What more do you want me to say?" Jack heard a quick intake of breath. "What's going to happen to the car now? Ingram certainly doesn't need it anymore."
He shook his head, unable to answer for a moment. Obviously he'd been wrong to describe Ingram as his father's friend. R.H. had no friends. He had social acquaintances, business associates and employees, but certainly no one in whom he would confide as a friend. Jack had heard the lecture many times growing up—confidences were an act of weakness. Why would you tell someone your thoughts and give them a weapon that might be used against you later? Being too open with people was one of the many things for which R. H. Townsend faulted his son.
Still, a man had been murdered. Jack had known his father rarely wasted time on sentimentality, but to express an interest in the Corvette this soon? It was downright callous.
If that's what being a successful businessman leads to, Lord, then save me from success.
There was no use trying to convince his father that the question was inappropriate. The man was a brusque, uncaring businessman through and through, and he wasn't likely to change his attitude anytime soon.
Jack finally managed an even response. "I overheard his secretary tell the police that Ingram has two daughters.
The car probably belongs to them now. Maybe they'd be willing to sell it to you."
"How long do you think that would take?"
Jack closed his eyes. "I really don't know."
"Check on it then."
A click, and the call disconnected. For a long time, Jack sat staring at the phone. He'd seen his father make some harsh business decisions with little regard for the people whose lives he had affected. He'd watched him sign away the jobs and livelihood of hundreds of employees with the flourish of a pen, without even a passing thought to their welfare. Heard him more than once berate midlevel managers with language that should have resulted in lawsuits. And he'd been on the receiving end of that famous Townsend temper more times than he could count. He thought nothing the man could do would surprise him anymore. But this reaction to Tom Ingram's death plunged to a new depth. R.H. had proven himself to be completely heartless.
The cab lost the last of its warmth, and a circle of breath frosted on the inside of the windshield. Jack shook himself free of his thoughts and jumped out of the truck. He'd better go back inside and find out how to contact Ingram's daughters about the Corvette. If he didn't, R.H. would do it himself. At least Jack could try to handle the situation tactfully.
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Join my Street Team! Lots of prizes!
Captain's Log, Stardate 02.22.2011
For those of you who don't know, I've started a Street Team of people who give out my bookmarks and help promote my books. In return, for every batch of bookmarks they give out, they can pick free books from my Street Team Book List.
(From now until April 1st, instead of two free books, Street Team members can pick THREE free books every time they give away a batch of bookmarks!)
It's actually a lot of fun. Here's some places and people Street Team members have given away bookmarks:
At a community fair
Random people
Family members (who don't live with them)
To doctors, dentists, etc.
In Paperback Swap books
In letters and cards to people
Students
Friends
Coworkers
Library patrons
Bookstore patrons
Teachers
Other parents
Book Club members
Writing groups
I'm sure I've missed some. My Street Team members are crazy creative!
When I get my author copies of my latest book (usually 2 months ahead of the release date), it will go on my Street Team Book List so that Street Team members get first crack at winning a copy. All they have to do is give away their batch of bookmarks and then let me know they want my latest release as one of their free books.
Every so often, I'll also have mini contests and challenges with bonus prizes. I have a great lineup of WAY cool prizes for 2011. In April I'll be offering a REALLY awesome prize for Street Team members!
Sound fun? Want to win free books and other prizes? Join my Street Team! Click here for more information.
For current Street Team members: I just added new books to my Street Team Book List! Go check it out!
For those of you who don't know, I've started a Street Team of people who give out my bookmarks and help promote my books. In return, for every batch of bookmarks they give out, they can pick free books from my Street Team Book List.
(From now until April 1st, instead of two free books, Street Team members can pick THREE free books every time they give away a batch of bookmarks!)
It's actually a lot of fun. Here's some places and people Street Team members have given away bookmarks:
At a community fair
Random people
Family members (who don't live with them)
To doctors, dentists, etc.
In Paperback Swap books
In letters and cards to people
Students
Friends
Coworkers
Library patrons
Bookstore patrons
Teachers
Other parents
Book Club members
Writing groups
I'm sure I've missed some. My Street Team members are crazy creative!
When I get my author copies of my latest book (usually 2 months ahead of the release date), it will go on my Street Team Book List so that Street Team members get first crack at winning a copy. All they have to do is give away their batch of bookmarks and then let me know they want my latest release as one of their free books.
Every so often, I'll also have mini contests and challenges with bonus prizes. I have a great lineup of WAY cool prizes for 2011. In April I'll be offering a REALLY awesome prize for Street Team members!
Sound fun? Want to win free books and other prizes? Join my Street Team! Click here for more information.
For current Street Team members: I just added new books to my Street Team Book List! Go check it out!
February 21, 2011
Street Team Book list excerpt - SAVE THE DATE by Jenny B. Jones
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 Save The Date Thomas Nelson (February 1, 2011) by Jenny B. Jones
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
I write Christian fiction with a few giggles, quite a bit of sass, and lots of crazy. My novels include the Katie Parker Production series and So Not Happening. I would also like to take credit for Twilight , but somewhere I think I read you're not supposed to lie.
When I'm not typing my heart out (or checking email), I teach at a super-sized high school in Arkansas.
My students are constantly telling me how my teaching changes their lives and turned them away from drugs, gangs, and C-SPAN.
Okay, that's not exactly true.
Some facts that are true include:
I've always been refined!
A. I got my camera confiscated by big boys with guns at the American Embassy in Europe this past summer. O la la!
B. I once worked in a seed mill office and cleaned out mice on a regular basis. Ew.
C. I'm a former drama teacher.
D. I didn't pass my drivers test the first time. Or the second…
E. I attract stray animals like a magnet.
F. I used to assemble and test paint ball guns for a local factory...
Since my current job leaves me with very little free time, I believe in spending my spare hours in meaningful, intellectual pursuits such as:
-watching E!
-updating my status on Facebook
-catching Will Ferrell on YouTube and
-writing my name in the dust on my furniture
I'd love to hear about you, so drop me a note. Or check me out on Facebook.
ABOUT THE BOOK
You're invited to the engagement of the most unlikely couple of the year.
When the funding for Lucy's non-profit job is pulled, she is determined to find out why. Enter Alex Sinclair, former professional football star and heir of Sinclair Enterprises—the primary donor to Lucy's Saving Grace organization. Alex Sinclair has it all . . . except for the votes he needs to win his bid for Congress. Both Lucy and Alex have something the other wants. Despite their mutual dislike, Alex makes Lucy a proposition: pose as his fiancée in return for the money she desperately needs. Bound to a man who isn't quite what he seems, Lucy finds her heart – and her future – on the line.
Save the Date is a spunky romance that will have readers laughing out loud as this dubious pair try to save their careers, their dreams . . . and maybe even a date.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Prologue
It was a good night to get engaged.
The moon was full. The candles lit. And Lucy Wiltshire wore a new black sheath that would have made Audrey Hepburn jealous. Her friends might say it was just another old find from the secondhand shop, but Lucy had known from the moment she'd spied the dress that it had been something more. Found on a tightly crammed rack between an avocado peacoat and an acid-washed denim skirt that had seen one too many Bon Jovi concerts, the dress had just called out to her. Buy me. I'm yours. We belong together.
And buy it she did. Despite the fact that the bodice was a bit tight, and she'd had to let out the waist a few inches, the dress just felt right. It made Lucy want to twirl in her tiny kitchen, letting her kitten heels slide across the gray tile floor.
It was the perfect outfit to wear when getting proposed to. She had dreamed of this day since she was six and had thrown a wedding for Barbie. And now her own Ken doll was four feet away, acting nervous as a man with marriage on his mind and a solitaire in his pocket.
Matthew tugged his navy tie loose and sat down at the kitchen table. "Good day?" Lucy asked, as she put some garlic bread in the oven, humming to herself.
"It was fine." His voice was distracted, his focus on the stack of mail she had yet to move. "What's this?" He held up a gold embellished card.
She glanced his way then quickly turned back to the oven. "It's nothing."
"It looks like a class reunion invitation. I thought you didn't graduate in Charleston."
Her childhood in South Carolina was the last thing she wanted to discuss tonight. Or ever. "Obviously it's a mistake on someone's part." Or a cruel joke. The daughter of a maid, Lucy had been on the very bottom of the social food chain at the elite Montrose Academy. Her mother had cleaned the homes of her classmates. And they had never let her forget Lucy wasn't one of them. But now, back in Charleston, life couldn't be sweeter.
"Or maybe they just want to see you."
Lucy sat down and stared at the man who had asked her out one year ago today. Matt's fingers drumming next to his plate seemed out of sync for someone who was normally as calm as a morning sunrise. She adored his predictability. His sandy-blond hair always parted to the left. His white shirts starched and perfectly creased in the sleeves.
The timer over the stove dinged, and Lucy jumped up to take out the bread. "I hope you're hungry. I made your favorites."
"I noticed."
Lucy threw the bread in a basket and placed it on the table. Grabbing his plate, she loaded it with her homemade noodles, her own secret-recipe marinara sauce, and a salad—easy on the dressing, just like he liked. Lucy could envision them sitting together thirty years from now, sharing a meal and talking about their day.
"Maybe you should go to the reunion." Matt neatly placed his napkin in his lap. "If you're wanting to start that girls' home, you're going to need to rub elbows with as many people in the community as you can."
Lucy watched him as she sat down. "I'll get the funding from somewhere else. That's what federal grants are for. And besides, it's the same night as your award ceremony."
Matt was going to be honored for his charity work with senior citizens. An accountant, he had donated countless hours helping the older folks in Charleston with their taxes and providing free financial counseling. Every day she gave God a big "thank you" for sending Matt her way. He was . . . perfect.
He called his mother twice a week. He led a Bible study and played on a baseball league at church. He read autobiographies and watched CNBC. The guy drove a Volvo. What more could she ask for?
"Lucy?" Matt's face was taut as he reached for her hand.
This was it. She was going to become Mrs. Matthew Campbell. She hoped her lip gloss was still on. And where had she put that camera? If any occasion called for a "extend arm and take your own photo," this was it.
He swallowed and folded his fingers over hers. "I have something I need to talk to you about."
Her vision blurred with unshed tears. They would have a boy and a girl. They'd name the girl Anna, after her mother. He could name the boy. It didn't really matter to her. As long as it wasn't Maynard. After that uncle he liked so much.
"Lucy, we've been together a while now."
"A year," she said. "Our first date was a year today." Which was all part of his thoughtful plan.
His grip loosened on her hand. "And it's been great. I've enjoyed our time together. And I think you are one incredible person."
Matt reached into his pocket.
The ring. He was going for the ring. Marquis, pear, princess, round—she didn't care.
"Matt"—Lucy sniffed—"I want you to know I'm so happy God put you in my life and—"
He opened his hand.
And placed a business card on the table.
Lucy's pink lips clamped tight. Those were not wedding bells pealing in her head right now.
"What is this?" She picked up the card. "Matthew Campbell, senior accountant, Digby, Wallace, and Hinds?"
His smile was hesitant. "I got a job offer."
"Offer?" She ran her finger over his embossed name. "Looks like you've already progressed beyond that. When were you going to tell me?"
"I've tried." He pushed his plate aside. "You've just been so busy with the shelter."
"Residential home," she corrected. "Saving Grace is a residential home."
"You've been so occupied with getting that started, I haven't been able to get your attention lately."
"You've got it now." Something was very wrong here. "What's going on? I've never heard of these people. Are they new?"
His green eyes focused on the candle in the center of the table. "No. They're quite old, in fact. Very prestigious."
"And where are they old and prestigious?" She couldn't relocate. He knew that. Not with mere months before Saving Grace opened. Was he going to move—without her?
"In Dallas."
Lucy's heart fell somewhere to the vicinity of her shoes. "When are you leaving?"
He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Lucy."
"You're going to have to do better than that."
"I think we've been moving too fast."
Lucy thought of the bridal magazines under her bed. "Then let's slow it down. I'm okay with that. I think if we just—"
"I'm leaving next week. This is an opportunity I can't pass up." He spoke low and patiently, as if talking to a child. "I think we need to take a break. My relocating is the perfect opportunity to give ourselves some space and see what happens."
The white-picket fence was collapsing before her. Was it too much to ask, God? Was it too much to want a family of my own? To finally have that home? For the first time in her life, she had let herself believe she could have it all.
Her laugh sounded pitiful and strained. "Can you believe"— tears clogged her throat—"that I thought you were going to propose tonight?"
Matt stood up, walked over to her, and kissed her forehead. "I think I should probably go."
She grabbed his hand as he leaned away. "Is it me?" Because wasn't it always her?
Reaching out, he pushed a stray curl behind her ear. "No. I know you're ready for a permanent commitment, but I have to put my career first now—whether I want to or not."
The smells in the room—the food, her life decaying—made her want to throw up. "I could wait, you know. We could do the long distance thing."
"I'm sorry." He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. "For what it's worth, I believe you're the right girl—it's just not the right time."
Two minutes later Lucy stood in her living room and watched Matt drive away.
No ring. No engagement.
No happily ever after.
She walked upstairs to her bedroom.
Sucked it in as she unzipped the Audrey Hepburn dress.
Peeled it off her body.
And threw it out the window.
This week, the Christian Fiction Blog Alliance is introducing Save The Date Thomas Nelson (February 1, 2011) by Jenny B. Jones
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
I write Christian fiction with a few giggles, quite a bit of sass, and lots of crazy. My novels include the Katie Parker Production series and So Not Happening. I would also like to take credit for Twilight , but somewhere I think I read you're not supposed to lie.
When I'm not typing my heart out (or checking email), I teach at a super-sized high school in Arkansas.
My students are constantly telling me how my teaching changes their lives and turned them away from drugs, gangs, and C-SPAN.
Okay, that's not exactly true.
Some facts that are true include:
I've always been refined!
A. I got my camera confiscated by big boys with guns at the American Embassy in Europe this past summer. O la la!
B. I once worked in a seed mill office and cleaned out mice on a regular basis. Ew.
C. I'm a former drama teacher.
D. I didn't pass my drivers test the first time. Or the second…
E. I attract stray animals like a magnet.
F. I used to assemble and test paint ball guns for a local factory...
Since my current job leaves me with very little free time, I believe in spending my spare hours in meaningful, intellectual pursuits such as:
-watching E!
-updating my status on Facebook
-catching Will Ferrell on YouTube and
-writing my name in the dust on my furniture
I'd love to hear about you, so drop me a note. Or check me out on Facebook.
ABOUT THE BOOK
You're invited to the engagement of the most unlikely couple of the year. When the funding for Lucy's non-profit job is pulled, she is determined to find out why. Enter Alex Sinclair, former professional football star and heir of Sinclair Enterprises—the primary donor to Lucy's Saving Grace organization. Alex Sinclair has it all . . . except for the votes he needs to win his bid for Congress. Both Lucy and Alex have something the other wants. Despite their mutual dislike, Alex makes Lucy a proposition: pose as his fiancée in return for the money she desperately needs. Bound to a man who isn't quite what he seems, Lucy finds her heart – and her future – on the line.
Save the Date is a spunky romance that will have readers laughing out loud as this dubious pair try to save their careers, their dreams . . . and maybe even a date.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Prologue
It was a good night to get engaged.
The moon was full. The candles lit. And Lucy Wiltshire wore a new black sheath that would have made Audrey Hepburn jealous. Her friends might say it was just another old find from the secondhand shop, but Lucy had known from the moment she'd spied the dress that it had been something more. Found on a tightly crammed rack between an avocado peacoat and an acid-washed denim skirt that had seen one too many Bon Jovi concerts, the dress had just called out to her. Buy me. I'm yours. We belong together.
And buy it she did. Despite the fact that the bodice was a bit tight, and she'd had to let out the waist a few inches, the dress just felt right. It made Lucy want to twirl in her tiny kitchen, letting her kitten heels slide across the gray tile floor.
It was the perfect outfit to wear when getting proposed to. She had dreamed of this day since she was six and had thrown a wedding for Barbie. And now her own Ken doll was four feet away, acting nervous as a man with marriage on his mind and a solitaire in his pocket.
Matthew tugged his navy tie loose and sat down at the kitchen table. "Good day?" Lucy asked, as she put some garlic bread in the oven, humming to herself.
"It was fine." His voice was distracted, his focus on the stack of mail she had yet to move. "What's this?" He held up a gold embellished card.
She glanced his way then quickly turned back to the oven. "It's nothing."
"It looks like a class reunion invitation. I thought you didn't graduate in Charleston."
Her childhood in South Carolina was the last thing she wanted to discuss tonight. Or ever. "Obviously it's a mistake on someone's part." Or a cruel joke. The daughter of a maid, Lucy had been on the very bottom of the social food chain at the elite Montrose Academy. Her mother had cleaned the homes of her classmates. And they had never let her forget Lucy wasn't one of them. But now, back in Charleston, life couldn't be sweeter.
"Or maybe they just want to see you."
Lucy sat down and stared at the man who had asked her out one year ago today. Matt's fingers drumming next to his plate seemed out of sync for someone who was normally as calm as a morning sunrise. She adored his predictability. His sandy-blond hair always parted to the left. His white shirts starched and perfectly creased in the sleeves.
The timer over the stove dinged, and Lucy jumped up to take out the bread. "I hope you're hungry. I made your favorites."
"I noticed."
Lucy threw the bread in a basket and placed it on the table. Grabbing his plate, she loaded it with her homemade noodles, her own secret-recipe marinara sauce, and a salad—easy on the dressing, just like he liked. Lucy could envision them sitting together thirty years from now, sharing a meal and talking about their day.
"Maybe you should go to the reunion." Matt neatly placed his napkin in his lap. "If you're wanting to start that girls' home, you're going to need to rub elbows with as many people in the community as you can."
Lucy watched him as she sat down. "I'll get the funding from somewhere else. That's what federal grants are for. And besides, it's the same night as your award ceremony."
Matt was going to be honored for his charity work with senior citizens. An accountant, he had donated countless hours helping the older folks in Charleston with their taxes and providing free financial counseling. Every day she gave God a big "thank you" for sending Matt her way. He was . . . perfect.
He called his mother twice a week. He led a Bible study and played on a baseball league at church. He read autobiographies and watched CNBC. The guy drove a Volvo. What more could she ask for?
"Lucy?" Matt's face was taut as he reached for her hand.
This was it. She was going to become Mrs. Matthew Campbell. She hoped her lip gloss was still on. And where had she put that camera? If any occasion called for a "extend arm and take your own photo," this was it.
He swallowed and folded his fingers over hers. "I have something I need to talk to you about."
Her vision blurred with unshed tears. They would have a boy and a girl. They'd name the girl Anna, after her mother. He could name the boy. It didn't really matter to her. As long as it wasn't Maynard. After that uncle he liked so much.
"Lucy, we've been together a while now."
"A year," she said. "Our first date was a year today." Which was all part of his thoughtful plan.
His grip loosened on her hand. "And it's been great. I've enjoyed our time together. And I think you are one incredible person."
Matt reached into his pocket.
The ring. He was going for the ring. Marquis, pear, princess, round—she didn't care.
"Matt"—Lucy sniffed—"I want you to know I'm so happy God put you in my life and—"
He opened his hand.
And placed a business card on the table.
Lucy's pink lips clamped tight. Those were not wedding bells pealing in her head right now.
"What is this?" She picked up the card. "Matthew Campbell, senior accountant, Digby, Wallace, and Hinds?"
His smile was hesitant. "I got a job offer."
"Offer?" She ran her finger over his embossed name. "Looks like you've already progressed beyond that. When were you going to tell me?"
"I've tried." He pushed his plate aside. "You've just been so busy with the shelter."
"Residential home," she corrected. "Saving Grace is a residential home."
"You've been so occupied with getting that started, I haven't been able to get your attention lately."
"You've got it now." Something was very wrong here. "What's going on? I've never heard of these people. Are they new?"
His green eyes focused on the candle in the center of the table. "No. They're quite old, in fact. Very prestigious."
"And where are they old and prestigious?" She couldn't relocate. He knew that. Not with mere months before Saving Grace opened. Was he going to move—without her?
"In Dallas."
Lucy's heart fell somewhere to the vicinity of her shoes. "When are you leaving?"
He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry, Lucy."
"You're going to have to do better than that."
"I think we've been moving too fast."
Lucy thought of the bridal magazines under her bed. "Then let's slow it down. I'm okay with that. I think if we just—"
"I'm leaving next week. This is an opportunity I can't pass up." He spoke low and patiently, as if talking to a child. "I think we need to take a break. My relocating is the perfect opportunity to give ourselves some space and see what happens."
The white-picket fence was collapsing before her. Was it too much to ask, God? Was it too much to want a family of my own? To finally have that home? For the first time in her life, she had let herself believe she could have it all.
Her laugh sounded pitiful and strained. "Can you believe"— tears clogged her throat—"that I thought you were going to propose tonight?"
Matt stood up, walked over to her, and kissed her forehead. "I think I should probably go."
She grabbed his hand as he leaned away. "Is it me?" Because wasn't it always her?
Reaching out, he pushed a stray curl behind her ear. "No. I know you're ready for a permanent commitment, but I have to put my career first now—whether I want to or not."
The smells in the room—the food, her life decaying—made her want to throw up. "I could wait, you know. We could do the long distance thing."
"I'm sorry." He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. "For what it's worth, I believe you're the right girl—it's just not the right time."
Two minutes later Lucy stood in her living room and watched Matt drive away.
No ring. No engagement.
No happily ever after.
She walked upstairs to her bedroom.
Sucked it in as she unzipped the Audrey Hepburn dress.
Peeled it off her body.
And threw it out the window.
February 20, 2011
Excerpt - A DAD OF HIS OWN by Gail Gaymer Martin
A Dad of His Ownby
Gail Gaymer Martin
With his Dreams Come True foundation, Ethan Fox turns wishes into reality. Amazing trips. Meeting heroes. But Ethan has come to care deeply for a sick boy whose dream is…a dad. And not just any dad: Ethan. Though little Cooper has a great chance of getting well, widowed Ethan can't chance loving—and losing—again. Yet he's spending time with the sweet boy and his lovely, strong single mother, Lexie Carlson. Could a little boy's wish for a dad of his own come true after all?
Excerpt of chapter one:
Lexie Carlson peeked into the meeting room of Mothers of Special Kids. She hated being late, and the reason for her delay had plunged her spirit to the pits. Despite trying to slip in unnoticed, her friend Kelsey Rhodes, the meeting moderator, spotted her. She sidled the few steps to Lexie's side, a frown etched on her face. "Something wrong?"
Lexie shook her head, uncomfortable with Kelsey's attention, especially with the intriguing guest speaker standing nearby. A grin curved his full lips, and smile lines crinkled the edge of his gray eyes canopied by the thick blond lashes. His honey-colored hair glinted with copper highlights.
As much as she wanted to shift the focus, she leaned closer to Kelsey, managing as pleasant a look as she could. "No. Just a phone call." Hoping to end the questions, she slipped into a nearby chair and turned to the front.
Thank goodness Kelsey had moved away, relief spreading across her face. Relief. Lexie welcomed the expression from women like her who faced life with seriously ill children. Their support brought her here weekly and had become her mainstay.
"As I was saying," Kelsey said, sending a teasing smile her way, "I'm glad so many of you are here today since we have a special guest." She motioned toward the good-looking man a few feet away from Lexie.
Something about him captured Lexie's attention. His gray eyes glided past her with a twinkle that matched his grin. A giddy feeling swept over her, causing her to grin back. The ridiculous reaction unsettled her.
Kelsey beamed at the women. "This is Ethan Fox, who sits on the board of Dreams Come True Foundation, and he's here to tell us about a wonderful opportunity for you and your family."
He swung his hand in a brief wave. "Happy to be here." The women applauded.
Lexie liked his voice, warm and rich as a cinnamon bun fresh from the oven. Guilty pleasure swept over her at the thought of the sugary treat. It was one of her vices.
Kelsey motioned Ethan forward. He strode to the center, slipping one hand into his pocket while the other clutched what appeared to be a stack of brochures. His shirt had thin blue stripes on a white background. Lexie liked the way he coordinated his attire with his beige and navy tie. He looked like a spit-polished executive minus the suit jacket.
Ethan's gaze locked with hers and he smiled.
A flush warmed her neck, and Lexie glanced away, but the look hadn't escaped her friend. She ambled closer to Lexie and arched a brow. Lexie drew in a breath and gave a quick shake of her head, immediately wishing she hadn't responded to Kelsey's implication.
"I hope most of you have heard about the Dreams Come True Foundation." Ethan scanned the group of women.
His comment yanked Lexie's attention. She'd never heard of his organization. She surveyed her peers to see how many had. Only a few women nodded. Most gave Ethan blank looks that probably matched hers.
He shook his head. "I'm disappointed. I had hoped most of you knew about Dreams Come True, but this makes me especially pleased that I'm here today." He handed Kelsey a stack of brochures and refocused on the women.
Kelsey stood at the end of the first row of chairs and counted out the brochures, but Lexie didn't keep her attention on her friend for long. She studied Ethan Fox.
"Dreams Come True is a foundation that provides children who are surviving a serious illness with the means to reach a dream. By this, I mean the foundation plans, arranges and finances your child's dream. This is not a national organization, but one founded in South Oakland County by an anonymous donor. He doesn't serve on the board, and he is contacted solely through an attorney."
Kelsey appeared, slipped a brochure into her lap and settled into the empty chair beside Lexie. She avoided Kelsey's direct look. She wanted no more arched eyebrows. Instead she scanned the brochure as she listened to Ethan.
Sincerity always captured her attention, and she suspected the man had a love for what he did for kids, but the foundation sounded like a fairytale, where happy endings were the norm. Long ago Lexie had given up wishing on a star and singing down a well. Her prince had galloped right past, taking the glass slipper with him, and at this point in her life, she didn't expect another heroic knight to pass by.
Ava Darnell's hand shot up.
Lexie liked Ava, although her curiosity sometimes took precedence over wisdom. Ava's son and hers shared a similar disease. They'd both experienced the ups and downs of cancer, and being alone, Lexie empathized with Ava's struggle as a single mom.
Ethan gave her an acknowledging nod, and Ava lowered her hand. "Does the donor live in the area?"
Ethan lifted his shoulders. "I don't know for sure, but I suspect he does."
"Do you think he's a teacher or something? Someone who knows—"
"Those of us on the board have no other information. As I said, he's an anonymous donor." A frown flashed across his face. "But that doesn't diminish the wonderful opportunity that you have as parents to apply for one of these gifts."
Ava lowered her head, but her mumble could still be heard. "But why? I don't get it."
Kelsey rose from her chair and took a step closer to Ethan. "It's difficult for us to imagine such kindness from a stranger, someone who doesn't know our children, but we appreciate learning about this wonderful charity."
Lexie tried to cover her grin. Kelsey served as the meetings troubleshooter even when she wasn't the moderator. Lexie wished she had Kelsey's knack to calm a crisis and soothe people's hearts, but she approached trouble with common sense. Avoid emotion. That's how she'd survived.
Ethan's expression relaxed. He gave Kelsey a pleasant nod as she settled back in her seat. "It is a charity of a sort, but please don't think that your family's income is considered. This donor wants to give a sick child something to look forward to. To experience something that seems—or seemed—impossible. It's more than a charity. You have all been faced with family adversity, watching your children suffer from a variety of serious illnesses. The Bible tells us to be imitators of God and live a life of love, just as Christ loved us." His gaze scanned the women. "I think that's what the donor has done. He wants to bring unexpected joy into your children's lives and into yours."
Tears welled in Lexie's eyes. Though she had never been a person of faith, what he said made sense. Sick children deserved happiness. So did their parents, but most of all, the point he made struck her. Charity was more than generosity. It was giving from the heart as an act of love. That's what parents did for their sick children. They gave, never expecting any repayment except to see their children well and happy. That was payment enough.
Surprised by her reaction, she brushed tears from her eyes, and when she focused again, Ethan's expression alerted her he'd noticed. The man seemed tuned to people's needs. Though the attribute was admirable, it didn't set well with her. She liked to keep her problems private. Lexie dropped her musing. What difference did it make what he thought?
Another hand shot up. "What kind of dreams are you talking about?"
Ethan's eyes sparkled. "Glad you asked. Some kids want to meet a sports figure or a popular singer or band. Young girls often want to meet Hanson or the Jonas Brothers, for example. And vacations. Many children want to see the ocean or mountains or even go on a Caribbean cruise. Others want to visit a popular amusement park. It can be anything."
"And you can arrange that?"
Ethan grinned at the woman, a newcomer, in the front row.
Lexie's pulse zinged.
Ethan's gaze swept the audience. "We sure can. Sometimes the dream is as simple as learning to ride a horse or riding on a fire truck. Every dream, no matter how simple or elaborate, we do our best to make it come true."
Murmurs rose from the women, including Kelsey, who joked about her dream to have her bills paid. Lexie liked that dream herself.
While other women posed their questions, Lexie sank into her own thoughts. She pictured Cooper asking her if he could go to school today. That was his dream, and it hurt to tell him no once again. He was in the second grade. Time flew. It seemed only yesterday he'd been a toddler. She ached thinking of how much school Cooper had missed since his diagnosis. She'd asked herself why so often, but no answer came, and she didn't expect one. Her life had been filled with unanswered questions, but she wasn't one to pity herself, and she didn't plan to start feeling that way now.
Cooper was her joy. Her son. No illness could take that away. A wave of shame rolled through her. She'd made the worst mistake of her life falling in love with his father, and afterward she'd dealt with more than her share of sorrow before Cooper's birth. But once she looked into her son's face, she melted and knew she'd made the right choice. Even now with everything that had happened.
Lexie flipped open the brochure. Thoughts of taking Cooper on a trip to one of the major amusement parks or to the pyramids in Egypt struck her as impossible. Yes, she loved to dream, too, but dreams only led to disappointment. Oh, how she knew that. She pressed her lips together, forcing back the sudden surge of emotion that caught in her throat.
More random questions were posed while Lexie sank deeper into her thoughts. She envisioned Cooper healthy and happy, having all his dreams come true. Her longing sizzled to frustration. She'd asked herself many times if Cooper's illness had been punishment for her bad choices. What about Jesus? What about the loving God she'd heard so much about? Would God hurt a child to get even with a parent? A loving God would not. She forced her thoughts away from her eternal struggle as her pulse slowed. Time to cling to her optimism. She coped better that way.
"If there are no more questions, let's give Mr. Fox a round of applause for coming here to share this wonderful opportunity."
Kelsey's voice jerked her to the present. Surprised that she'd returned to the front of the room without her awareness, Lexie's dropped the brochure to her lap and clapped her hands with the other women, her gaze on the man with the engaging smile.
Kelsey stepped away as a few members surrounded Ethan, and drawing up her shoulders, Lexie rose and slipped the leaflet into her shoulder bag. She glanced at her watch, thinking how quickly the time had passed before she remembered she'd been late for the meeting. She'd missed the women's time to share their weekly ups and downs. Today she appreciated not having to add their emotional needs to her own.
As she reached for her bag, she felt Kelsey's hand rest against her shoulder. "Interesting idea?"
Her mind pulled itself from her muddle of thoughts. "What idea?"
"Dreams Come True."
A moment passed before she found a response. "For some, it is." She grabbed her purse and then looked up. "Cooper's not well enough yet."
Kelsey's face sank to a frown, but as her expression flickered, her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh, Lexie, I should have guessed. The phone call. Was it bad news?"
"No worse than usual. It was the doctor, but nothing drastic. Just discouraging. Cooper's last treatment didn't show any improvement. His white cells are still too low." Saying it made it too real. Her chest emptied of air, but she grasped the positive. It could have been worse. The test could have shown he'd regressed and it hadn't.
"I'm sorry the news wasn't better."
"It's part of life, right?" She curled her arm around Kelsey's back. "How's Lucy doing?"
"So far so good. Tumors are shrinking. You know how it is. It all takes time." She gave Lexie a squeeze and lowered her arm. "Speaking of time, it's shopping day for me. Groceries. Pharmacy. Service station." Her head bobbed as she listed
her tasks. "So I need to run, and…" A playful grin curved her mouth. "Sure you do."
"Maybe you could wait until Ethan's finished before leaving. I hate to rush off without seeing him out of the building."
"Good planning, Kelsey." Lexie shook her head at her friend's obvious plot.
"Thanks." Kelsey wiggled her fingers in a silly goodbye. "I saw the eye contact." The words flew over her shoulder.
Before Lexie could rebut the insinuation, she'd vanished beyond the doorway.
Lexie tossed the strap of her bag over her shoulder and rocked back on her heels, eyeing Ethan as he spoke to the last woman. They seemed so eager for information, and part of her wished she could be as enthusiastic.
Turning her back on them, she dealt with her feelings as she dug into her shoulder bag for her car keys. Brain tumors. Leukemia. Heart disorders. So many illnesses were part of life for the people who attended. Yet some had higher hopes than others. Some children were in remission. Some weren't—like Cooper. But Cooper could be worse, and she had to remember that. No progress was better than his exacerbating. Big strides were wonderful, but small steps moved them forward. She'd learned to find joy in small steps. Each time she looked into Cooper's face her heart filled with the same kind of happiness.
When she found her keys, Lexie stepped back and smacked against someone. As she spun around to apologize, her shoulder bag slipped down her arm and dropped to the floor beside a pair of men's shoes.
"Sorry about that." Ethan bent to retrieve her purse. He smiled as he rose. "What do you carry in that thing? A wrench?"
Lexie gathered her composure and managed a friendly smile. "You never know when you'll need one."
Ethan chuckled and returned her bag. "You're a woman after my own heart. Always be prepared."
If only she were. Lexie's pulse escalated. "Thanks, and it was my fault, you know." She slid her bag onto her shoulder again, realizing it was heavy.
"Michigan has the no-fault ruling."
"That's for cars." Silly talk, but she enjoyed it.
Ethan rested his hand on the back of a chair. "No men in this group, I see."
"The M in MOSK stands for mothers. Mothers of Special Kids." Still, he'd made a point. She studied his face, wondering why support for men interested him. "A number of us are single mothers, and the married women haven't asked." But the question did arouse her curiosity. "You're a man. Do you think—"
"Glad you noticed." A twinkle lit his eyes.
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February 18, 2011
Excerpt - Keeping Guard by Christy Barritt
Keeping Guard by
Christy Barritt
"You can't hide from me."
Her anonymous stalker's threats are getting scarier and scarier. Now Kylie Summers fears for her life. She flees her home for the protection of a former military man in a small Virginia town. But her brother's handsome best friend already has a long list of obligations. Kylie knows she's intruding on Nate Richardson's life. Even though he promises to keep her safe, Nate's keeping her at arm's length emotionally. Until her stalker emerges from the shadows, forcing Nate to choose between keeping guard over his wary heart—or Kylie.
Excerpt of chapter one:
The cold rain felt like daggers penetrating Kylie Summers's skin. She tried to escape its torrent, but the drops kept chasing her, even as she retreated under the awning of the brick-fronted restaurant.
She pounded on the glass door again, desperate to get out of the storm. "Hello?"
The red neon sign above read The Revolutionary Grill. Yes, this was the place where her brother had instructed her to come to hide out. So where was Nate Richardson, her brother's best friend and the restaurant's owner? She shielded her eyes from the overhead streetlight and peered through the door. Inside, the place looked dead. Lights out, chairs on tables, staff gone.
It was almost midnight. She sighed and kicked the door. What now? She knew no one else in the historic town. She'd dropped her cell phone in a puddle of water two rest stops ago and she had exactly twenty-six dollars in her wallet.
A chill that had nothing to do with the weather crawled up her arms, an all too familiar feeling. She swung around, her wet hair slapping her in the face. She backed up against the rough brick wall that flanked the door. Her gaze frantically searched the black nighttime landscape. Lightning streaked across the sky over the river beyond the parking lot. Thunder boomed. A lone pier stretched like a decrepit arm into the night. Lights from houses across the water stared at her.
Kylie pushed herself harder against the wall, wishing she could sink into it. Her gaze continued to dart across the landscape. What if the man who'd given her nightmares for the past six months was out there? The darkness and rain might cloak him, make him disappear. He could have followed her.
He always followed her.
Fear clenched her spine. Her breathing became rapid, uneven. She couldn't have another panic attack. Not now. Not here.
She had to find another entrance to this building. She had to figure out a way to find Nate. That, or she'd spend the night soaking wet in her car.
Nate had been expecting her to arrive three hours ago, a reasonable time for stores and businesses to still be open. But the treacherous weather had put her behind schedule, and he must have closed up shop and headed home for the night. She couldn't blame him.
March rain pelted her as she darted from the front of the building. Her foot sank into a deep puddle, splashing icy water up her pant leg. Her shivers intensified. An alleyway lurked between the restaurant and gift shop next door. If she could cut through, maybe she'd find a back entrance to the grill.
Her throat went dry at the thought. Still, she had no choice.
Besides, the man couldn't have followed her here. She would have noticed.
Right?
She stepped onto the cobblestone street, dodging past trash cans, old buckets and a ladder.
She looked behind her. No one. Her heart continued to race.
Maybe all of this had been a bad idea. She should have stayed in Kentucky.
But she'd been hunted there and felt like a deer in the middle of an open field. No, her old life had to be put on hold. She couldn't continue living as she'd been for the past few months. Yet even here in Virginia she couldn't shake the feeling of unseen eyes watching her every move.
Pictures of the man flashed through her head in sync with the lightning around her. Pictures of his shadowed face, his hooded profile.
Her heart rate quickened. She tried to push the thoughts aside.
The end of the alleyway neared. She picked up her pace. Sheets of rain plastered her hair to her face.
She rounded the corner and spotted a black door with an alcove. She ducked into the space and pounded her fist against the door. Please be there, Nate! The thought of going through that alley again caused fear to slither up her spine.
She waited. The only sound she heard was that of the rain hitting the ground like bullets. Occasionally, thunder shook the air.
Nothing.
She knocked again. Why wasn't he answering? She needed a Plan B. Only she didn't have one. She barely had a Plan A.
She clenched her eyes closed. How could one person control her life like this? Why did she let him have this power?
She waited in silence, hoping—praying—Nate would hear her.
He didn't. No one did. Not even God lately, it seemed.
She'd have to run back to her car, her only shelter. She could do that. She had to. Once protected behind locked doors, she'd figure out a plan. She took a tentative step into the rain.
A figure appeared around the corner from the alley. A hood concealed his face. A hood. It couldn't be…
He had found her.
The man who'd haunted her nightmares for months had finally caught her. Alone.
Nate Richardson spotted the woman at his back door. His relief instantly turned to a mix of worry and irritation. He'd been expecting her three hours ago and she hadn't bothered to call or answer her cell phone. About thirty minutes ago, he'd called her brother, and now Bruce sounded ready to drive out to Virginia himself.
"Kylie." Nate stepped forward, keeping his hood over his forehead so his face would at least stay semidry.
The woman's eyes widened and she shrank back. "Stay away from me."
The rain poured onto his face, washing into his eyes. Nate stepped forward, trying to get out of the downpour. He needed to get her inside, to call her brother.
"I mean it! Stay back!" Her hands shot out in front of her.
"What are you—"
Before he could finish his sentence, Kylie darted across the parking lot.
Bruce had said his sister needed help. He didn't tell him that the woman was a mental case. What exactly had he gotten himself into by promising Bruce this woman could stay here and help him at his restaurant?
Nate watched her retreat for a moment while contemplating his next move. Chasing her might further freak her out. But allowing her to run across the pothole-filled parking lot in this weather could cause her to twist an ankle or worse.
What would Bruce want him to do?
He sighed and began a steady jog to catch her. Rain sloshed in his face. He let his sweatshirt hood drop behind him. Rain soaked his clothing now, so the covering did him no good.
Nate saw Kylie glance back at him and then speed up. Her long hair appeared plastered to her blue blouse and her heels looked impossible to run in.
Then what Nate had feared would happen happened. Her body lurched forward and she sprawled on the asphalt.
He was only a few steps away from helping her. He quickened his pace.
Kylie turned toward him, panic clearly written in her wide eyes and oval-shaped mouth. "No! Stay away!" She tried to army-crawl forward, away from him.
The woman was a fighter. He'd give her credit for that. He just didn't know what she was fighting against.
"Kylie, stop freaking out. I just want to help."
"Stay away from me."
"Kylie, it's me—"
As soon as the words left his mouth, something hard came down across his head. His world began to spin and then went black.
Kylie glanced at the white-haired woman who glared down at her while slapping a rolling pin in her hand. Kylie closed her eyes as tension drained away. Maybe God was watching out for her after all.
"Thank you," Kylie whispered, before realizing she couldn't be heard over the rainfall. She wiped some moisture from her face and said, a little louder, "Thank you!"
The woman continued to stare down at the man, knocked out flat on the ground, and shook her head. "I looked out my window and saw you being chased. I had to help."
Kylie gawked at the man, seeing his face for the first time since this whole ordeal began. She'd never imagined the man who'd given her so many nightmares would be handsome. In her mind, he'd had a long, crooked nose, tangled teeth, hollow eyes. This man had square, even features, sandy-colored hair. Kylie couldn't be sure in the darkness, but he might even be tanned.
She pulled her eyes away—at least she tried to. She needed to call the police. Let them know that this man should be arrested. Maybe she could finally live again. Go back to Kentucky. Focus on her business. Rebuild her life.
Kylie's attention turned to the woman with the rolling pin. She continued to stand over the man, shaking her head as if she pitied the poor soul who tried to mess with her. The woman might have white hair but obviously she had an iron will.
If only Kylie could be that strong.
The woman glanced at her with a perceptive gaze that made Kylie instantly trust her. "I never thought Nate Richardson would be the type to do this," the woman said. "He always seemed like such a nice young man. Of course, I guess that's what everyone says about criminals."
Kylie sprang from the ground, adrenaline—and panic—rushing through each limb. "Nate Richardson? Did you say Nate Richardson?"
"Why, yes, I did. Nate Richardson." The woman nodded down to the man. "He owns the Revolutionary Grill. I was making pies for tomorrow's dessert menu when I saw him chasing you. That's why I had my rolling pin handy. A good thing, huh?"
Kylie squeezed her eyes shut. What was wrong with her? Was she so paranoid that she'd just allowed her brother's best friend to be assaulted? She might as well just leave her bags in the car and find somewhere else to hide. This man wouldn't want her to be around anymore after this.
"Are you okay, dear?" The kindly, grandmother-like figure peered at her.
Kylie shook her head. "I'm afraid there's been a terrible misunderstanding. This man was trying to help me. I just didn't realize it."
"That sounds more like the Nate I know." The woman nodded, not appearing the least bit ruffled. "He seems tough on the outside but inside, he's sweeter than my shoofly pie."
Kylie's hand clamped over her mouth, muffling the urge to cry in horror or let her mouth drop open in shock. She had no idea what to do next. Or where to go. Or how to break the news to her brother, Bruce.
"Let's get him out of the rain until he regains consciousness." The woman tucked her rolling pin under her arm and bent down as if she were going to haul him away herself.
Yes, they did need to get him out of the rain, but just how they'd do that perplexed Kylie. The man probably weighed two hundred pounds. The rolling pin mercenary couldn't weigh half that, even out in this storm soaking wet, and Kylie's own one hundred pounds wouldn't offer much help.
"I'm Darlene, by the way." The woman seemed to think better of pulling the man by herself and extended her hand toward Kylie.
Kylie shook it briefly. "My brother is a friend of Nate's. I'm Kylie."
"I just live right there." Darlene pointed to a white clapboard home only a few feet away. "So let's take him inside. I'll get my husband, Harvey, to help. It may take a moment. He'll have to put his dentures in first."
As the woman retreated inside, the rain began to taper.
Kylie knelt down beside Nate and flinched at the nasty bruise on his forehead. She should have known the man was Nate. But his hood had brought back so many bad memories. Fear had conquered her thoughts, as it often did lately.
Kylie closed her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Nate."
"You should be."
Her eyes snapped open in time to see Nate's eyelids flicker. He rubbed his forehead and attempted to sit up, the sudden lines around his eyes revealing his discomfort. Once he propped himself up on one elbow, his eyes narrowed at her.
"What's wrong with you? Kylie, I presume?"
Kylie opened her mouth, tried to form words. But how did one explain to a stranger the events of the last six months? How could she summarize the terror she'd felt without looking crazy?
"I know it will sound insane, but—" "Wait till I tell the guys at Bible study about this." A man interrupted as he approached them, lumbering along beside
Darlene, a huge grin stretched across his face. "Nate Richardson getting conked in the head by a girl."
Must be Harvey. Kylie looked closer. The man had teeth—nice, white, straight ones. He must have put his dentures in.
Darlene swatted him on the arm. "Harvey, don't give the boy a hard time. It's not his fault that I'm stealth-like."
"Stealth-like? You couldn't sneak up on an elephant. Beats me how someone who weighs so little can make so much noise stomping around the house all the time."
Harvey stuck his hand out to Kylie. "You must be the girl that Nate's fallen for."
"Just give me a hand, Harvey, and drop the comedy routine for a few minutes, will you?" Nate reached his hand up, grimacing at the movement.
Harvey still grinned as he pulled the broad ex-Coast Guardsman from the sopping ground. Nate's free hand still grasped his head and his eyes locked on Darlene and her rolling pin.
Darlene shook her head and raised her hands in the air in innocence. "Don't give me a dirty look. I was only trying to help the poor girl you were chasing. How was I to know it was a misunderstanding?"
"I just want to get out of this rain and lie down. Do you mind?" The commanding look in his eyes left little room for argument—from any one of the three.
Kylie shrank back and nodded. "Getting out of the rain sounds like a good idea to me, too."
Nate raised a finger as if he were going to lecture her, but then pressed his lips together and shook his head. "Right this way."
He took a step and stopped. His hands went to his temple.
"I better walk you back," Harvey said. "You need to go to the hospital?"
"No, I just need some aspirin and a rewind button."
"I can help with the aspirin but that's about it." Harvey squeezed his shoulder. "You'll have to get that rewind button from your magic genie." He paused and pretended to rub an imaginary genie lamp.
Nate put his hand on Harvey's shoulder. "If only I had one, Harv."
Kylie wrapped her arms over her chest and tried to will her teeth to stop chattering. They wouldn't. Nor would her limbs stop shaking. This whole night was just too much. Yes, she'd take one of those rewind buttons also. If only they existed.
Nate knew he shouldn't snap at the woman. She hadn't been the one to hit him over the head with a rolling pin. But if she had waited just a moment to have a logical conversation then maybe she would never have run away and caused this whole fiasco. To Nate, logic and reasoning were the solution to…well, just about everything.
Still, he couldn't deny that Kylie looked just about as skittish as a cornered cat. Maybe he should have just let her run. Maybe he shouldn't have gone after her.
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February 17, 2011
Excerpt - 10 Lessons from a Former Fat Girl by Amy Parham
Camy here:: I really liked this book! The book addresses weight loss and weight management from both a practical and deeply spiritual standpoint. Her writing style is chatty and easy to read, like a friend talking to you. Anyone wanting a lifestyle change will appreciate this book and the truths inside--both about weight loss and also dependence upon God.
Today's Wild Card author is:
Amy Parham
and the book:
10 Lessons from a Former Fat Girl
Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Christianne Debysingh, Senior Publicist, Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Amy Parham co-authored with her husband, Phil, The 90-Day Fitness Challenge and The 90-Day Fitness Challenge DVD. She and Phil were contestants on Season 6 of NBC's The Biggest Loser. Over a seven-month period, they recorded the highest percentage of weight loss of any couple in the program's history. Married for more than 20 years, they live in South Carolina with their three boys, Austin, Pearson, and Rhett.
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Former fat girl Amy Parham offers a practical, proven plan for changing not only the fat-girl body but also the fat-girl mentality. Focusing on the mental ,emotional, and spiritual aspects of our relationship with food and exercise, Amy shows how readers can make this a healthy partnership that brings permanent change.
Product Details:
List Price: $11.99
Paperback: 192 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736938656
ISBN-13: 978-0736938655
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
We All Have an Empty Place
We're all searching for something to fill up what I like to call that big, God-shaped hole in our souls. Some people use alcohol, or sex, or their children, or food, or money, or music, or heroin. A lot of people even use the concept of God itself. I could go on and on. I used to know a girl who used shoes. She had over two-hundred pairs. But it's all the same thing, really. People, for some stupid reason, think they can escape their sorrows.
— Tiffanie DeBartolo, God-Shaped Hole
My earliest memories were such happy ones. Mom had dinner on the table when Dad came home from work, and my two sisters and I laughed and talked about our day with our parents. It was the best feeling. Everything about our family felt so right and secure. I remember Mom walking me to kindergarten every day at a church around the corner from my house. In that same church parking lot, my dad taught me how to ride a bike without training wheels. He also taught me to fly a kite, and with his help, I won a blue ribbon in a kite-flying competition at my school.
I had my own bedroom with a yellow gingham canopy bed and a playhouse in the backyard. There was also a dogwood tree that I climbed all the time. My best friend, Teresa, lived across the street, and my grandparents lived nearby. Life was good and felt normal, but when I turned eight years old, my seemingly perfect life changed forever.
A Growing Hole
Dad quit his longtime job at a local radio station in South Carolina to pursue a job at another radio station in West Palm Beach, Florida. We had to sell our house immediately and move to what seemed to me to be a different planet. I will never forget the image of Teresa and me standing by the "For Sale" sign in our front yard. We bawled our eyes out and held each other so tight because we knew we might not ever see each other again.
When we got to Florida, the five of us moved into a tiny apartment. There was nothing wrong with the apartment, but I was uncomfortable because I was used to living in a larger space and having a big yard to play in. My sisters and I barely had enough room to squeeze past each other on the way to the bathroom. My new school was huge compared to the one I attended in South Carolina. But the worst thing was that while everyone knew and loved me at my old school, I was now the new girl at school, and I got ridiculed for it. I felt insecure, unsure of myself, and alone. I wanted to go back to my happy, carefree life.
This was the first time I remember being unhappy and having no control over my circumstances. I was deeply sad, and it felt like I had an empty hole in my soul. Thankfully, we only stayed in Florida for one year, but things would never go back to how they were before. I would never regain the sense of normalcy I had so desperately craved.
When we came back to South Carolina, we moved to a different city, and my parents bought a restaurant and ice-cream parlor. It was hard work building a new business, and the stress took a toll on Mom and Dad. They began to fight all the time about money and other issues. It got so bad that they divorced.
When my parental situation turned upside down, I found myself in a world that lacked security and stability. Suddenly, I was being raised by a single mother, and as the oldest daughter at ten years old, there was a lot of pressure on me to help my mom care for my two sisters. She worked very hard (sometimes up to 18 hours a day), and I know she did her best to keep food on the table and clothes on our backs. She usually had no time to tuck us in at night and tell us bedtime stories because she worked such long hours.
My sisters (who were four and six years old) and I spent a lot of time at home alone. As much as we tried to pick up after ourselves, you can imagine how messy three kids can be. I felt terrible when my mother would come home, tired from working so much, and be cranky because the house was such a disaster. I never felt like I could do enough to make Mom happy or fix our broken home life.
Many mornings she had to get to work at the crack of dawn and woke us up at three in the morning to take us to the restaurant. She made us a makeshift bed on the concrete floor in the back room and let us sleep there while she worked. This was not an ideal environment for kids, but she was doing the best she could.
It wasn't her fault. The problem was me. I felt the hole inside my heart growing bigger and bigger, and I desperately needed something to fill it.
Enter the Banana Split
I remember one particular day when I was playing outside the restaurant and decided to go visit the couple who worked at the dry cleaners next door. The owners were in their late twenties and had no children of their own. They were kind enough to let me hang out with them sometimes, and it made me feel good.
In my mind, I felt "less than" because my life had changed so drastically in only two years. I was nothing like the other kids at school and always felt out of place. This couple welcomed, accepted, and loved me just the way I was. They talked to me like I was one of their peers, and I appreciated the kindness and warmth they showed me.
This day was like any other day that I would drop by for a visit. I had been sitting at the counter and talking to the wife for about 20 minutes when her husband walked in. He abruptly told me that it was time for me to go. He said that their business was no place for children and that I shouldn't hang out there so much.
I was hurt to my core and very embarrassed. I thought they were my friends, but they were abandoning me. I tried my best to maintain my composure and make myself believe that it didn't matter. I reassured myself that I didn't need them and was fine on my own. I remember announcing to them that I was leaving, anyway, to go to make a banana split for myself.
I guess in my own childlike way, I was trying to hold on to my self-respect by pointing out that I could have a banana split anytime I wanted one. Maybe it seems silly, but for me that moment was a turning point because it concerned food. I ended up making myself that banana split and hoping it would fill some of the rejection and the emptiness I had been feeling for so long. It was the first time I used food for comfort, but it would definitely not be the last time.
Bigger and Bigger
As I got older, I gained weight and came under the attack of my grandmother who constantly told me I was chubby. My two sisters were in this weight battle with me. What else would anyone expect from kids who ate fast food and ice cream every day for years? Being overweight compounded our problems in school. Not only were we still the new kids on the block, but we had also become the fat kids.
My youngest sister had an especially hard time with children teasing her. To this day, she talks about the negative memories — one of which was having to shop for clothes in the husky department at Sears — that have haunted her through the years. Not only did she suffer from a kidney problem that made her gain even more weight, she also had an eye condition and had to wear coke-bottle glasses. She felt like such an outcast, and it broke my heart. At this point, I had taken on the role of surrogate mother for my sisters. I felt responsible for them and believed it was my job to protect them. I hated to see them suffer so much.
I don't say all of this to blame my parents. I know they both loved us girls very much and did their best at the time, but the fact was I felt very alone and abandoned. While my mom worked long hours to support us, my father took up a new life. He started dating a woman soon after the divorce. We didn't realize how serious the relationship was until we found out they had gotten married. My sisters and I weren't even invited to the wedding.
Yet again, I felt I was left behind as he started a whole new life without my sisters and me. This feeling was further reinforced when he purchased a two-seater sports car. I remember thinking that there wasn't enough room for my sisters and me. Where were we going to fit in? To me, the car was a symbol of how we weren't a part of Dad's life anymore.
My void grew deeper with each passing day. As I shoved more food into my mouth to soothe the pain that wouldn't go away, my weight crept up.
When I was eleven years old, my friend Beth invited me to attend her church youth group one night. My grandfather was a Pentecostal preacher, and church was a big part of our lives. We visited many churches through the years and spent many weeks during the summers at different vacation Bible schools, which were hosted by local congregations. I had even accepted Christ into my heart at a young age.
Since moving back to South Carolina, however, our family had stopped going to church. I missed it. The thought of visiting one with my friend absolutely thrilled me. When I arrived at the service, I immediately felt as if I belonged. I was in a wonderful place where people loved and cared about each other. It felt like I was home again. Church became my refuge. I especially felt drawn to the youth pastor, Sam. He quickly became a father figure to me, and I felt like I could tell him anything.
This reconnection with church sparked the beginning of a deepening relationship with God. Every Tuesday night, the church bus would drive to my house and take me to church. It was there that I experienced overwhelming love from others, and I discovered that God wanted to fill up the empty hole inside of my heart.
My faith commitment didn't mean that my problems were suddenly solved. I didn't ride off into the sunset of my new, happily-ever-after future. It just meant that for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had a lifeline. I had hope. My heart had a chance to become whole.
By learning about God's love for me, I realized that because we are all human, we all carry with us a certain measure of hurt and pain. This is a part of the sin nature of humankind. But that was not all. I also discovered that God created us with a space that only He can fill. He wanted to be the one to fill my voids and heal my hurts. The pain I was trying to mask with ice cream was a pain that only He could mend.
The Fat Girl Thinks She Is in Control
I want you to know that emptiness is normal. If you feel as if you need to numb the pain or soothe your soul with something outside of yourself, you are not alone. We all endure suffering from time to time. It's a normal process of living in a sinful world.
While emptiness is normal, it is how you fill the emptiness that will determine whether you are a fat girl or a fit girl. These two chicks cope with problems in different ways. The fit girl chooses God. The fat girl chooses unhealthy addictions. The fat girl can use many different ways to try to heal the hurt on the inside. Some abuse food, drugs, or alcohol or become addicted to work, hobbies, or unhealthy relationships. It might be hard to believe, but some folks can even abuse exercise to an addictive level.
Let me tell you something. The hole that is formed inside of us is not shaped like an ice-cream cone, a vodka bottle, a cigarette, or a good-looking guy. The hole is shaped like the Holy Spirit, the Comforter. He is the one who is meant to fill our empty places and heal our hurts.
I like to think about it this way. We have been created like puzzles with a missing piece. That piece is a relationship with God. He wants us to invite Him into our hearts. The closer we walk with God, the less we will search for other things to fill the hole. This is something the fit girl knows and understands.
I will be honest with you. There have been many times in my life, especially as a fat girl, when I have drifted away from my relationship with the Lord. I'm not a psychiatrist, but I believe that because of the instability I felt as a result of my parent's divorce, I made a decision as a little girl that when I became an adult, I would be self-sufficient. I would take care of myself so that bad things would never happen to me again.
As most of us know, life usually doesn't turn out as smooth as we hope it will. Bad things happen to everyone. Here's a reality check. In life, people will disappoint us one way or another. If you have never been hurt or offended by someone, then you just might be an alien from outer space. The fact is none of us can measure up to perfection, and since we can't, then certainly life will never be perfect.
My sense of independence severely impaired me when it came to trusting God with my life. I voiced my commitment to Him, but when things got tough or trials came my way, I wanted to take back my commitment. I wanted to do things my way instead of His way. When I turned away from God, that original hole in my heart would reappear, and I temporarily filled it with something. My choices were usually food, of course, and sometimes alcohol or the attention of the opposite sex. None of those things ever gave me true contentment because nothing outside of God could fulfill me.
A significant time I pulled away from God was when my son Rhett was diagnosed with autism. I was 35 at the time, and Rhett was 3. Autism is a spectrum disorder that presents different social and psychological abnormalities in some children. The main challenges we had with Rhett were that he screamed nonstop and was very sensitive to certain sounds. He also had a high threshold for pain. If he was hurting, he didn't know how to tell us, and so my husband and I were always afraid that he might be sick and we would never know.
We faced other obstacles with our son. Rhett acted as if he had no fear. He was always jumping off the top of the sliding board, and one time he even climbed out of his bedroom window and onto the roof. He exhibited destructive behaviors, colored on the walls, overfilled the bathroom sink or tub with water, and broke things around the house at random. Because he couldn't communicate in a normal manner, he was easily frustrated.
It was a very sad and dark time in our lives. I was utterly exhausted. I couldn't believe that God would allow my child to be this way, especially because I tried to live a good Christian life. For goodness sake, I even served Him in ministry at church! Why me? This was the question I constantly asked myself whenever I threw a pity party, which was quite often. This should not happen to someone like me, I thought.
I determined that if my son could suffer from autism when God was supposed to be in control, then maybe I should take back the reins of my life and chart my own course. I would figure out how to fix Rhett. I would find a way to make him better by myself. Who needed God? I was pretty sure I could handle things on my own.
As I focused on being in control, guess what happened? That's right. The hole that formed when my family fell apart grew bigger. And that's when the fat girl came out in full force. When it came time for bed, I was so exhausted from trying to do everything on my own that I would fall into a heap on the sofa. I spent many nights with my new comforters—a bowl of ice cream or a bag of chips. Oh, I still had conversations with God, but they were more like yelling matches. I would demand that He fix Rhett in the spirit of "You got me into this mess, God, so You'd better get me out of it."
One day as I was driving down the road and screaming at God yet again, He gently put me in my place. A still, small voice spoke quietly to my heart and said, "Amy, you aren't perfect, and I love you. Why does Rhett have to be perfect for you to love him?" Talk about getting hit right between the eyes! I knew that God was absolutely right. I was definitely not perfect, and instead of loving Rhett for who he was and dealing with the situation at hand, I had been focusing on making him normal (whatever that even means). At that moment I shifted my focus and asked God to forgive me. I asked Him to help me trust Him with Rhett and the other challenges in my life.
I quickly came to the realization that when I controlled my life, I only made more of a mess of it. It was a lesson I would continue to learn even after I lost the weight and transformed into a fit girl. (By the way, you'll quickly find out that the fit girl is always learning!)
A week later, I was at church, and as I listened to the sermon, the pastor stopped in the middle of what he was saying and told the congregation that he felt led to say something specific. He said that there was someone in the service who didn't know how much longer they could hang on, and that they should be encouraged because God was about to perform a miracle in their life.
I was stunned. Only a few days earlier, I mumbled something to myself about not being able to take these problems anymore. Not only was I dealing with my weight — I was 230 pounds at that point — and Rhett's autism diagnosis, but my husband, Phillip, and I had also lost a business right after we had purchased a home that needed thousands of dollars worth of renovations. I was emotionally drained by these problems. It seemed I couldn't get a break.
I felt as if the pastor was talking to me. It was the encouragement I needed to hear. Maybe my life would get better! Within days, the miracles started happening. First, we found out about a therapy called "audio integration" that proved to be a miracle cure for Rhett. It stopped his sensitivity to sound and his constant screaming. We were able to catch and keep his attention for a long period of time, and for the first time, I felt he could actually begin to learn. Second, our financial situation started to turn around as we found new careers in real estate.
When things started changing for the better, Phil and I specifically realized we had been feeding our physical bodies instead of filling our spiritual bodies. In the process, we had become morbidly obese. It was time to begin the journey to lose the weight. For me, it was time to say good-bye to the fat girl and hello to the fit girl.
What about you? What's your story? I have met people all over the country who have stories that make mine seem like a walk in the park. One such lady that I met recently told me that her problems with her weight began right after her husband committed suicide. That in itself is a horrifying traumatic event, and now this woman is left to pick up the pieces of a family torn apart by tragedy. This affected her and her family emotionally, mentally, and financially. Five years later this lady is obese, depressed, and struggling to support her family. My heart goes out to people like this because I see the magnitude of their holes and how they are desperately trying to fill them.
Pascal wrote, "What else does this craving, and this helplessness, proclaim but that there was once in man a true happiness, of which all that now remains is the empty print and trace? This he tries in vain to fill with everything around him, seeking in things that are not there the help he cannot find in those that are, though none can help, since this infinite abyss can be filled only with an infinite and immutable object; in other words by God himself." In this he describes the search that is familiar to the fat girl. So many people are on this journey to fill that hole in their hearts.
Another time I met a beautiful young woman with an incredible singing talent. She is tall and blonde and beautiful in spite of the more than 100 pounds she wants to lose. She shared with me that when she was in high school, her stepfather was murdered. Before that she had never had a weight problem, but that event threw her into such a depression that she could hardly get out of bed in the morning. Her grades suffered, and she had to drop out of school for a while. She began eating to comfort herself in her grief.
These people suffered a pain that pierced their hearts like a bullet and left a hole that couldn't be healed. They needed the Comforter to heal them, but instead they turned to food. Does this sound familiar? Have your fat-girl tendencies to heal yourself left you more depressed and burdened with extra weight? Have you suffered in a way that you feel no one can understand? Do you feel that there is no way out of the pain that plagues you day and night? It's time to become the fit girl.
What a Fit Girl Knows
Fit girls know that making the right nutrition choices and getting regular exercise are only half the battle. The real key to losing weight and keeping it off is in fighting a spiritual and mental battle. When I lost all the weight while on The Biggest Loser, I found that many issues from my past reappeared. When it was time for the fit girl to deal with her internal fears and let go of the crutches the fat girl held on to for dear life, I felt like a scared kid curled up in a corner in a fetal position. I had to give that scared little girl permission to rise up and be strong. Why? Because fit girls are strong and are not afraid to face challenges, obstacles, or their fears. I had to show the fat girl what a fit girl is capable of.
As a fat girl, I focused on naming things I couldn't do. After I started losing weight, I was on a mission to prove the fat girl wrong. I climbed mountains, kayaked rivers, hiked the Grand Canyon, and endured physical challenges that I never thought I could face. Being able to witness my own strength for the first time in my life and overcome the impossible was just the beginning of my fit-girl transformation. Healing my heart on the inside would prove to be a bigger challenge than climbing the biggest mountain I could find, but it was only when my heart healed that I was able to find the fit girl.
You may be asking, "Who is the fit girl?" The fit girl is you when you discover that the hole on the inside of you is designed to be filled by God, your heavenly Father and the Creator of the universe. The fit girl is you when you realize that the compulsion to fill an internal void with food, alcohol, or other stuff is futile because only God can fill that place. The fit girl is you when you realize that you don't need to comfort yourself with anything but God because you know He loves you very much and wants nothing but the best for your life.
The Bible says that "faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen" (see Hebrews 11:1 nkjv). Faith in God is the belief that He is the substance you need for the life you dream of but have yet to see. For the fit girl, a life worth dreaming about is one where she doesn't have to fill the empty places in her life with things outside of God when pressures get to her.
Remember how I said I would continue to learn this lesson? Well, when I was going through the process of losing weight, I faced different kinds of temptations to fill the void. My new alternatives to filling the void were worse than the food addiction.
For instance, as I got thinner, I was getting attention from men other than my husband. I hadn't experienced that kind of attention in years, and to be honest, I liked it. In fact, I liked it so much that I realized that even though I was a happily married woman, I still sought after male attention to prove that I was attractive. I liked it when other men thought I was pretty, and so I didn't discourage harmless flirtations. As you can imagine, my husband didn't find this behavior an acceptable replacement for my food cravings.
Before I knew it, I found myself switching from one addiction to another. I stopped caring about welcoming glances from men and started drinking red wine. That occasional one glass of wine quickly turned into two or three glasses a few nights a week. Obviously the fat girl wasn't just an outside issue but an issue of the heart. I had a heart problem, and I needed a healer.
So once again I turned to the Lord and asked Him to heal me and be my guide. I asked Him to fill me with His Holy Spirit and show me how to change my heart. I asked Him to reveal to me the keys to change my reactions to life and its challenges and pressures. It was then that God, once again, asked me to have faith in Him and trust Him with my life. He didn't want to be my acquaintance. He wanted to be my Lord. Thankfully, I said yes to that process. I haven't looked back since.
What about you? Have you noticed that your struggles are similar to mine? Do you have a hole in your heart that you are trying to fill up with addictive behaviors like compulsive shopping, drinking too much, or smoking cigarettes? Have you lost weight and found yourself holding on to things that have replaced a food addiction? What's your new drug of choice?
Often weight can be a security blanket to keep from having to deal with sensitive things going on in the heart, and uncovering those hurts can be a painful process. Know this: God loves you and wants you to be whole and fit. He wants to build a relationship with you so that you can allow Him to fill every part of your life. It's not enough to occasionally chat with Him through a prayer. God wants to be your partner and your friend. He wants to transform you from the inside out! He wants you to be a fit girl.
For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else. — Ralph Waldo Emerson
Transformation Tips
I want you to do something for me. Find a really quiet place and go there by yourself. I know this might be hard if you have little kids or a busy schedule, but carve out some time to sit in the quiet and set your daily routine aside for a while. This is important. (By the way, finding a few minutes alone to meditate and pray is a great thing to do at the end of each of these lessons.)
During this quiet time, pray and ask God to reveal some things that may be holding you back from being the fit girl He made you to be. He may bring things to your mind that you haven't thought about in years. You may have buried feelings, situations, or experiences you didn't want to deal with back then — things God wants you to uncover today. God can show you these things through dreams or even nightmares. Identify whatever comes to your mind and write them down in a journal.
Here is a list of questions that will help you with this process and show you some things that may be keeping the fit girl at bay. Take some time to meditate on these questions and pray about your answers. Ask God to speak into your heart.
What are my earliest childhood memories? Are they happy ones? Sad ones?
How have these memories shaped my life?
Are there people from my past who I need to forgive or ask to forgive me?
What role does God have in my life? Can I draw closer to Him?
In my relationships with others, does the way I act cause hurt feelings? Concerning myself, does my behavior cause harm or is it self-destructive?
These might be hard questions for you to think about, but it's what you have to do if you want to transform yourself into a fit girl. Finally, I want you to pray about each revelation and ask God to show you how to make changes in the areas that need some work. Trust that He will give you the strategies to heal the places that need healing.
Commit to having a closer relationship with God and listening more closely when He speaks to your heart. He may ask you to call someone and ask them to forgive you for being angry with them. He may tell you that you are going to have to end relationships in your life that are unhealthy. Whatever it is you feel He is leading you to do, do it. This is the beginning of the healing journey and finding the fit girl in you!
Your Prayer
Father, please help me realize that only You can fulfill me, and that I need only You to fill the empty spaces inside me. Help me turn away from the temptation to fill my empty spaces with anything else. I pray that You would give me the strength to continually make the choice to relinquish control of my life to You. In Jesus' name I pray. Amen.
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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Amy Parham
and the book:
10 Lessons from a Former Fat Girl
Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Christianne Debysingh, Senior Publicist, Harvest House Publishers for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Amy Parham co-authored with her husband, Phil, The 90-Day Fitness Challenge and The 90-Day Fitness Challenge DVD. She and Phil were contestants on Season 6 of NBC's The Biggest Loser. Over a seven-month period, they recorded the highest percentage of weight loss of any couple in the program's history. Married for more than 20 years, they live in South Carolina with their three boys, Austin, Pearson, and Rhett.
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
Former fat girl Amy Parham offers a practical, proven plan for changing not only the fat-girl body but also the fat-girl mentality. Focusing on the mental ,emotional, and spiritual aspects of our relationship with food and exercise, Amy shows how readers can make this a healthy partnership that brings permanent change.
Product Details:
List Price: $11.99
Paperback: 192 pages
Publisher: Harvest House Publishers (January 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0736938656
ISBN-13: 978-0736938655
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
We All Have an Empty Place
We're all searching for something to fill up what I like to call that big, God-shaped hole in our souls. Some people use alcohol, or sex, or their children, or food, or money, or music, or heroin. A lot of people even use the concept of God itself. I could go on and on. I used to know a girl who used shoes. She had over two-hundred pairs. But it's all the same thing, really. People, for some stupid reason, think they can escape their sorrows.
— Tiffanie DeBartolo, God-Shaped Hole
My earliest memories were such happy ones. Mom had dinner on the table when Dad came home from work, and my two sisters and I laughed and talked about our day with our parents. It was the best feeling. Everything about our family felt so right and secure. I remember Mom walking me to kindergarten every day at a church around the corner from my house. In that same church parking lot, my dad taught me how to ride a bike without training wheels. He also taught me to fly a kite, and with his help, I won a blue ribbon in a kite-flying competition at my school.
I had my own bedroom with a yellow gingham canopy bed and a playhouse in the backyard. There was also a dogwood tree that I climbed all the time. My best friend, Teresa, lived across the street, and my grandparents lived nearby. Life was good and felt normal, but when I turned eight years old, my seemingly perfect life changed forever.
A Growing Hole
Dad quit his longtime job at a local radio station in South Carolina to pursue a job at another radio station in West Palm Beach, Florida. We had to sell our house immediately and move to what seemed to me to be a different planet. I will never forget the image of Teresa and me standing by the "For Sale" sign in our front yard. We bawled our eyes out and held each other so tight because we knew we might not ever see each other again.
When we got to Florida, the five of us moved into a tiny apartment. There was nothing wrong with the apartment, but I was uncomfortable because I was used to living in a larger space and having a big yard to play in. My sisters and I barely had enough room to squeeze past each other on the way to the bathroom. My new school was huge compared to the one I attended in South Carolina. But the worst thing was that while everyone knew and loved me at my old school, I was now the new girl at school, and I got ridiculed for it. I felt insecure, unsure of myself, and alone. I wanted to go back to my happy, carefree life.
This was the first time I remember being unhappy and having no control over my circumstances. I was deeply sad, and it felt like I had an empty hole in my soul. Thankfully, we only stayed in Florida for one year, but things would never go back to how they were before. I would never regain the sense of normalcy I had so desperately craved.
When we came back to South Carolina, we moved to a different city, and my parents bought a restaurant and ice-cream parlor. It was hard work building a new business, and the stress took a toll on Mom and Dad. They began to fight all the time about money and other issues. It got so bad that they divorced.
When my parental situation turned upside down, I found myself in a world that lacked security and stability. Suddenly, I was being raised by a single mother, and as the oldest daughter at ten years old, there was a lot of pressure on me to help my mom care for my two sisters. She worked very hard (sometimes up to 18 hours a day), and I know she did her best to keep food on the table and clothes on our backs. She usually had no time to tuck us in at night and tell us bedtime stories because she worked such long hours.
My sisters (who were four and six years old) and I spent a lot of time at home alone. As much as we tried to pick up after ourselves, you can imagine how messy three kids can be. I felt terrible when my mother would come home, tired from working so much, and be cranky because the house was such a disaster. I never felt like I could do enough to make Mom happy or fix our broken home life.
Many mornings she had to get to work at the crack of dawn and woke us up at three in the morning to take us to the restaurant. She made us a makeshift bed on the concrete floor in the back room and let us sleep there while she worked. This was not an ideal environment for kids, but she was doing the best she could.
It wasn't her fault. The problem was me. I felt the hole inside my heart growing bigger and bigger, and I desperately needed something to fill it.
Enter the Banana Split
I remember one particular day when I was playing outside the restaurant and decided to go visit the couple who worked at the dry cleaners next door. The owners were in their late twenties and had no children of their own. They were kind enough to let me hang out with them sometimes, and it made me feel good.
In my mind, I felt "less than" because my life had changed so drastically in only two years. I was nothing like the other kids at school and always felt out of place. This couple welcomed, accepted, and loved me just the way I was. They talked to me like I was one of their peers, and I appreciated the kindness and warmth they showed me.
This day was like any other day that I would drop by for a visit. I had been sitting at the counter and talking to the wife for about 20 minutes when her husband walked in. He abruptly told me that it was time for me to go. He said that their business was no place for children and that I shouldn't hang out there so much.
I was hurt to my core and very embarrassed. I thought they were my friends, but they were abandoning me. I tried my best to maintain my composure and make myself believe that it didn't matter. I reassured myself that I didn't need them and was fine on my own. I remember announcing to them that I was leaving, anyway, to go to make a banana split for myself.
I guess in my own childlike way, I was trying to hold on to my self-respect by pointing out that I could have a banana split anytime I wanted one. Maybe it seems silly, but for me that moment was a turning point because it concerned food. I ended up making myself that banana split and hoping it would fill some of the rejection and the emptiness I had been feeling for so long. It was the first time I used food for comfort, but it would definitely not be the last time.
Bigger and Bigger
As I got older, I gained weight and came under the attack of my grandmother who constantly told me I was chubby. My two sisters were in this weight battle with me. What else would anyone expect from kids who ate fast food and ice cream every day for years? Being overweight compounded our problems in school. Not only were we still the new kids on the block, but we had also become the fat kids.
My youngest sister had an especially hard time with children teasing her. To this day, she talks about the negative memories — one of which was having to shop for clothes in the husky department at Sears — that have haunted her through the years. Not only did she suffer from a kidney problem that made her gain even more weight, she also had an eye condition and had to wear coke-bottle glasses. She felt like such an outcast, and it broke my heart. At this point, I had taken on the role of surrogate mother for my sisters. I felt responsible for them and believed it was my job to protect them. I hated to see them suffer so much.
I don't say all of this to blame my parents. I know they both loved us girls very much and did their best at the time, but the fact was I felt very alone and abandoned. While my mom worked long hours to support us, my father took up a new life. He started dating a woman soon after the divorce. We didn't realize how serious the relationship was until we found out they had gotten married. My sisters and I weren't even invited to the wedding.
Yet again, I felt I was left behind as he started a whole new life without my sisters and me. This feeling was further reinforced when he purchased a two-seater sports car. I remember thinking that there wasn't enough room for my sisters and me. Where were we going to fit in? To me, the car was a symbol of how we weren't a part of Dad's life anymore.
My void grew deeper with each passing day. As I shoved more food into my mouth to soothe the pain that wouldn't go away, my weight crept up.
When I was eleven years old, my friend Beth invited me to attend her church youth group one night. My grandfather was a Pentecostal preacher, and church was a big part of our lives. We visited many churches through the years and spent many weeks during the summers at different vacation Bible schools, which were hosted by local congregations. I had even accepted Christ into my heart at a young age.
Since moving back to South Carolina, however, our family had stopped going to church. I missed it. The thought of visiting one with my friend absolutely thrilled me. When I arrived at the service, I immediately felt as if I belonged. I was in a wonderful place where people loved and cared about each other. It felt like I was home again. Church became my refuge. I especially felt drawn to the youth pastor, Sam. He quickly became a father figure to me, and I felt like I could tell him anything.
This reconnection with church sparked the beginning of a deepening relationship with God. Every Tuesday night, the church bus would drive to my house and take me to church. It was there that I experienced overwhelming love from others, and I discovered that God wanted to fill up the empty hole inside of my heart.
My faith commitment didn't mean that my problems were suddenly solved. I didn't ride off into the sunset of my new, happily-ever-after future. It just meant that for the first time in a long time, I felt like I had a lifeline. I had hope. My heart had a chance to become whole.
By learning about God's love for me, I realized that because we are all human, we all carry with us a certain measure of hurt and pain. This is a part of the sin nature of humankind. But that was not all. I also discovered that God created us with a space that only He can fill. He wanted to be the one to fill my voids and heal my hurts. The pain I was trying to mask with ice cream was a pain that only He could mend.
The Fat Girl Thinks She Is in Control
I want you to know that emptiness is normal. If you feel as if you need to numb the pain or soothe your soul with something outside of yourself, you are not alone. We all endure suffering from time to time. It's a normal process of living in a sinful world.
While emptiness is normal, it is how you fill the emptiness that will determine whether you are a fat girl or a fit girl. These two chicks cope with problems in different ways. The fit girl chooses God. The fat girl chooses unhealthy addictions. The fat girl can use many different ways to try to heal the hurt on the inside. Some abuse food, drugs, or alcohol or become addicted to work, hobbies, or unhealthy relationships. It might be hard to believe, but some folks can even abuse exercise to an addictive level.
Let me tell you something. The hole that is formed inside of us is not shaped like an ice-cream cone, a vodka bottle, a cigarette, or a good-looking guy. The hole is shaped like the Holy Spirit, the Comforter. He is the one who is meant to fill our empty places and heal our hurts.
I like to think about it this way. We have been created like puzzles with a missing piece. That piece is a relationship with God. He wants us to invite Him into our hearts. The closer we walk with God, the less we will search for other things to fill the hole. This is something the fit girl knows and understands.
I will be honest with you. There have been many times in my life, especially as a fat girl, when I have drifted away from my relationship with the Lord. I'm not a psychiatrist, but I believe that because of the instability I felt as a result of my parent's divorce, I made a decision as a little girl that when I became an adult, I would be self-sufficient. I would take care of myself so that bad things would never happen to me again.
As most of us know, life usually doesn't turn out as smooth as we hope it will. Bad things happen to everyone. Here's a reality check. In life, people will disappoint us one way or another. If you have never been hurt or offended by someone, then you just might be an alien from outer space. The fact is none of us can measure up to perfection, and since we can't, then certainly life will never be perfect.
My sense of independence severely impaired me when it came to trusting God with my life. I voiced my commitment to Him, but when things got tough or trials came my way, I wanted to take back my commitment. I wanted to do things my way instead of His way. When I turned away from God, that original hole in my heart would reappear, and I temporarily filled it with something. My choices were usually food, of course, and sometimes alcohol or the attention of the opposite sex. None of those things ever gave me true contentment because nothing outside of God could fulfill me.
A significant time I pulled away from God was when my son Rhett was diagnosed with autism. I was 35 at the time, and Rhett was 3. Autism is a spectrum disorder that presents different social and psychological abnormalities in some children. The main challenges we had with Rhett were that he screamed nonstop and was very sensitive to certain sounds. He also had a high threshold for pain. If he was hurting, he didn't know how to tell us, and so my husband and I were always afraid that he might be sick and we would never know.
We faced other obstacles with our son. Rhett acted as if he had no fear. He was always jumping off the top of the sliding board, and one time he even climbed out of his bedroom window and onto the roof. He exhibited destructive behaviors, colored on the walls, overfilled the bathroom sink or tub with water, and broke things around the house at random. Because he couldn't communicate in a normal manner, he was easily frustrated.
It was a very sad and dark time in our lives. I was utterly exhausted. I couldn't believe that God would allow my child to be this way, especially because I tried to live a good Christian life. For goodness sake, I even served Him in ministry at church! Why me? This was the question I constantly asked myself whenever I threw a pity party, which was quite often. This should not happen to someone like me, I thought.
I determined that if my son could suffer from autism when God was supposed to be in control, then maybe I should take back the reins of my life and chart my own course. I would figure out how to fix Rhett. I would find a way to make him better by myself. Who needed God? I was pretty sure I could handle things on my own.
As I focused on being in control, guess what happened? That's right. The hole that formed when my family fell apart grew bigger. And that's when the fat girl came out in full force. When it came time for bed, I was so exhausted from trying to do everything on my own that I would fall into a heap on the sofa. I spent many nights with my new comforters—a bowl of ice cream or a bag of chips. Oh, I still had conversations with God, but they were more like yelling matches. I would demand that He fix Rhett in the spirit of "You got me into this mess, God, so You'd better get me out of it."
One day as I was driving down the road and screaming at God yet again, He gently put me in my place. A still, small voice spoke quietly to my heart and said, "Amy, you aren't perfect, and I love you. Why does Rhett have to be perfect for you to love him?" Talk about getting hit right between the eyes! I knew that God was absolutely right. I was definitely not perfect, and instead of loving Rhett for who he was and dealing with the situation at hand, I had been focusing on making him normal (whatever that even means). At that moment I shifted my focus and asked God to forgive me. I asked Him to help me trust Him with Rhett and the other challenges in my life.
I quickly came to the realization that when I controlled my life, I only made more of a mess of it. It was a lesson I would continue to learn even after I lost the weight and transformed into a fit girl. (By the way, you'll quickly find out that the fit girl is always learning!)
A week later, I was at church, and as I listened to the sermon, the pastor stopped in the middle of what he was saying and told the congregation that he felt led to say something specific. He said that there was someone in the service who didn't know how much longer they could hang on, and that they should be encouraged because God was about to perform a miracle in their life.
I was stunned. Only a few days earlier, I mumbled something to myself about not being able to take these problems anymore. Not only was I dealing with my weight — I was 230 pounds at that point — and Rhett's autism diagnosis, but my husband, Phillip, and I had also lost a business right after we had purchased a home that needed thousands of dollars worth of renovations. I was emotionally drained by these problems. It seemed I couldn't get a break.
I felt as if the pastor was talking to me. It was the encouragement I needed to hear. Maybe my life would get better! Within days, the miracles started happening. First, we found out about a therapy called "audio integration" that proved to be a miracle cure for Rhett. It stopped his sensitivity to sound and his constant screaming. We were able to catch and keep his attention for a long period of time, and for the first time, I felt he could actually begin to learn. Second, our financial situation started to turn around as we found new careers in real estate.
When things started changing for the better, Phil and I specifically realized we had been feeding our physical bodies instead of filling our spiritual bodies. In the process, we had become morbidly obese. It was time to begin the journey to lose the weight. For me, it was time to say good-bye to the fat girl and hello to the fit girl.
What about you? What's your story? I have met people all over the country who have stories that make mine seem like a walk in the park. One such lady that I met recently told me that her problems with her weight began right after her husband committed suicide. That in itself is a horrifying traumatic event, and now this woman is left to pick up the pieces of a family torn apart by tragedy. This affected her and her family emotionally, mentally, and financially. Five years later this lady is obese, depressed, and struggling to support her family. My heart goes out to people like this because I see the magnitude of their holes and how they are desperately trying to fill them.
Pascal wrote, "What else does this craving, and this helplessness, proclaim but that there was once in man a true happiness, of which all that now remains is the empty print and trace? This he tries in vain to fill with everything around him, seeking in things that are not there the help he cannot find in those that are, though none can help, since this infinite abyss can be filled only with an infinite and immutable object; in other words by God himself." In this he describes the search that is familiar to the fat girl. So many people are on this journey to fill that hole in their hearts.
Another time I met a beautiful young woman with an incredible singing talent. She is tall and blonde and beautiful in spite of the more than 100 pounds she wants to lose. She shared with me that when she was in high school, her stepfather was murdered. Before that she had never had a weight problem, but that event threw her into such a depression that she could hardly get out of bed in the morning. Her grades suffered, and she had to drop out of school for a while. She began eating to comfort herself in her grief.
These people suffered a pain that pierced their hearts like a bullet and left a hole that couldn't be healed. They needed the Comforter to heal them, but instead they turned to food. Does this sound familiar? Have your fat-girl tendencies to heal yourself left you more depressed and burdened with extra weight? Have you suffered in a way that you feel no one can understand? Do you feel that there is no way out of the pain that plagues you day and night? It's time to become the fit girl.
What a Fit Girl Knows
Fit girls know that making the right nutrition choices and getting regular exercise are only half the battle. The real key to losing weight and keeping it off is in fighting a spiritual and mental battle. When I lost all the weight while on The Biggest Loser, I found that many issues from my past reappeared. When it was time for the fit girl to deal with her internal fears and let go of the crutches the fat girl held on to for dear life, I felt like a scared kid curled up in a corner in a fetal position. I had to give that scared little girl permission to rise up and be strong. Why? Because fit girls are strong and are not afraid to face challenges, obstacles, or their fears. I had to show the fat girl what a fit girl is capable of.
As a fat girl, I focused on naming things I couldn't do. After I started losing weight, I was on a mission to prove the fat girl wrong. I climbed mountains, kayaked rivers, hiked the Grand Canyon, and endured physical challenges that I never thought I could face. Being able to witness my own strength for the first time in my life and overcome the impossible was just the beginning of my fit-girl transformation. Healing my heart on the inside would prove to be a bigger challenge than climbing the biggest mountain I could find, but it was only when my heart healed that I was able to find the fit girl.
You may be asking, "Who is the fit girl?" The fit girl is you when you discover that the hole on the inside of you is designed to be filled by God, your heavenly Father and the Creator of the universe. The fit girl is you when you realize that the compulsion to fill an internal void with food, alcohol, or other stuff is futile because only God can fill that place. The fit girl is you when you realize that you don't need to comfort yourself with anything but God because you know He loves you very much and wants nothing but the best for your life.
The Bible says that "faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen" (see Hebrews 11:1 nkjv). Faith in God is the belief that He is the substance you need for the life you dream of but have yet to see. For the fit girl, a life worth dreaming about is one where she doesn't have to fill the empty places in her life with things outside of God when pressures get to her.
Remember how I said I would continue to learn this lesson? Well, when I was going through the process of losing weight, I faced different kinds of temptations to fill the void. My new alternatives to filling the void were worse than the food addiction.
For instance, as I got thinner, I was getting attention from men other than my husband. I hadn't experienced that kind of attention in years, and to be honest, I liked it. In fact, I liked it so much that I realized that even though I was a happily married woman, I still sought after male attention to prove that I was attractive. I liked it when other men thought I was pretty, and so I didn't discourage harmless flirtations. As you can imagine, my husband didn't find this behavior an acceptable replacement for my food cravings.
Before I knew it, I found myself switching from one addiction to another. I stopped caring about welcoming glances from men and started drinking red wine. That occasional one glass of wine quickly turned into two or three glasses a few nights a week. Obviously the fat girl wasn't just an outside issue but an issue of the heart. I had a heart problem, and I needed a healer.
So once again I turned to the Lord and asked Him to heal me and be my guide. I asked Him to fill me with His Holy Spirit and show me how to change my heart. I asked Him to reveal to me the keys to change my reactions to life and its challenges and pressures. It was then that God, once again, asked me to have faith in Him and trust Him with my life. He didn't want to be my acquaintance. He wanted to be my Lord. Thankfully, I said yes to that process. I haven't looked back since.
What about you? Have you noticed that your struggles are similar to mine? Do you have a hole in your heart that you are trying to fill up with addictive behaviors like compulsive shopping, drinking too much, or smoking cigarettes? Have you lost weight and found yourself holding on to things that have replaced a food addiction? What's your new drug of choice?
Often weight can be a security blanket to keep from having to deal with sensitive things going on in the heart, and uncovering those hurts can be a painful process. Know this: God loves you and wants you to be whole and fit. He wants to build a relationship with you so that you can allow Him to fill every part of your life. It's not enough to occasionally chat with Him through a prayer. God wants to be your partner and your friend. He wants to transform you from the inside out! He wants you to be a fit girl.
For everything you have missed, you have gained something else, and for everything you gain, you lose something else. — Ralph Waldo Emerson
Transformation Tips
I want you to do something for me. Find a really quiet place and go there by yourself. I know this might be hard if you have little kids or a busy schedule, but carve out some time to sit in the quiet and set your daily routine aside for a while. This is important. (By the way, finding a few minutes alone to meditate and pray is a great thing to do at the end of each of these lessons.)
During this quiet time, pray and ask God to reveal some things that may be holding you back from being the fit girl He made you to be. He may bring things to your mind that you haven't thought about in years. You may have buried feelings, situations, or experiences you didn't want to deal with back then — things God wants you to uncover today. God can show you these things through dreams or even nightmares. Identify whatever comes to your mind and write them down in a journal.
Here is a list of questions that will help you with this process and show you some things that may be keeping the fit girl at bay. Take some time to meditate on these questions and pray about your answers. Ask God to speak into your heart.
What are my earliest childhood memories? Are they happy ones? Sad ones?
How have these memories shaped my life?
Are there people from my past who I need to forgive or ask to forgive me?
What role does God have in my life? Can I draw closer to Him?
In my relationships with others, does the way I act cause hurt feelings? Concerning myself, does my behavior cause harm or is it self-destructive?
These might be hard questions for you to think about, but it's what you have to do if you want to transform yourself into a fit girl. Finally, I want you to pray about each revelation and ask God to show you how to make changes in the areas that need some work. Trust that He will give you the strategies to heal the places that need healing.
Commit to having a closer relationship with God and listening more closely when He speaks to your heart. He may ask you to call someone and ask them to forgive you for being angry with them. He may tell you that you are going to have to end relationships in your life that are unhealthy. Whatever it is you feel He is leading you to do, do it. This is the beginning of the healing journey and finding the fit girl in you!
Your Prayer
Father, please help me realize that only You can fulfill me, and that I need only You to fill the empty spaces inside me. Help me turn away from the temptation to fill my empty spaces with anything else. I pray that You would give me the strength to continually make the choice to relinquish control of my life to You. In Jesus' name I pray. Amen.
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!
February 16, 2011
Excerpt - Body of Evidence by Lenora Worth
Body of Evidenceby
Lenora Worth
When Texas Ranger Anderson Michaels goes undercover at an animal rescue farm in Texas Hill Country, he lands right in owner Jennifer Rodgers's path. Before long, he realizes that tracking down his target—a deadly drug-trafficking ring that was responsible for the murder of his captain—may be easier than winning this jaded woman's trust. Experience has taught Jennifer to keep her distance from adventure seekers. But her life will depend on her ability to push aside her fears—and trust Anderson to keep her safe.
Excerpt of chapter one:
She was caught between a hungry alligator named Boudreaux and a tall drink of water named Anderson. And they both had way too much attitude.
Jennifer Rodgers had had better days.
And worse ones, too, come to think of it. Someone didn't want her to build her alligators a fancy new pen. Maybe that was why the handsome Ranger, who'd discreetly flashed his badge for her eyes only, was here.
Deciding to do things in the order of greatest urgency, she ignored Mr. Tall, Blond and Texas while she finished feeding chunks of raw chicken to cranky old Boudreaux. It didn't take long for the younger alligator sharing this temporary pen with Boudreaux to slide toward the evening meal.
"C'mon, Bobby Wayne," Jennifer called. Tossing some of the meat toward shy Bobby Wayne, she smiled. "Don't worry, Boudreaux will save you a bite or two. I hope."
Boudreaux didn't seem worried about his buddy. He was too busy tearing at the meal. Jennifer threw the last of the bucket of stinky meat into the water hole then turned on the nearby spigot and pulled the big water hose toward the bucket to give it a good rinse. Then she pulled off the heavy rubber gloves she always wore to feed her animals and tossed them in the bucket. She'd soap the whole thing down later.
After she got rid of the Texas Ranger waiting a little too impatiently to talk to her.
Ranger Anderson Michaels used the time waiting at the Rodgers Exotic Animal Rescue Farm to analyze both the place and the woman running the big compound.
Jennifer Rodgers was cute and just about as exotic as some of her animals. Her long curly dark brown hair was caught up in a haphazard ponytail that kept shifting around to her face each time she leaned over. She was fit, her figure almost boyish, but Anderson could tell she was all woman even if she did have on grungy khaki pants and an old brown work shirt. Her brown eyes gave away her feminine charm. So did the way she grinned at that nasty-looking alligator lunging toward the meat she held down over the rickety old fence.
Surprised to see yet another gator opening his snout to snap at the raw chicken, Anderson strolled closer to the chain links surrounding the makeshift pond.
"Do they stay in there?" he asked, wondering if he could outrun old Boudreaux. He'd always heard an alligator could get up to forty miles per hour in speed. Anderson didn't want to test that theory.
Jennifer laughed, then turned to wipe her wet hands on a towel draped over a post. After pulling a small bottle of hand sanitizer out of the deep pocket of her baggy pants, she squirted some on her hands and rubbed them together. The fruity scent of the sanitizer filled the crisp October air while her laughter filled Anderson's head.
"Boudreaux is too old and lazy to even try and get out, but Bobby Wayne…well, let's just say he doesn't like surprises. Even though he's shy and reclusive at times, he's been known to turn aggressive if you look at him the wrong way."
Her expression challenged Anderson to do just that. And suggested she might do the same thing as the gator.
"I'll keep that in mind," Anderson said, grinning at her. "But right now, I need to talk to you."
Jennifer nodded, then started up the dirt lane toward the long square log cabin where, according to his notes, she worked and lived. "Is this about the incident with the fence on the back end of my property?"
Anderson's radar went up. "Has something happened back there already?"
She frowned. "Yes. I thought maybe that was why you were here. The local authorities said there wasn't much I could do but fix the fence."
Anderson's gut tightened. Had the cartel and the Lions already made her a target?
He glanced around, then pushed at his tan cowboy hat. A teenaged boy and a middle-age woman were working down a hill inside the goat pen and a few curious visitors milled around watching and asking questions about the "Closed for Renovations" sign. No one was paying him much attention. He'd purposely changed out of his official uniform into a sportscoat and jeans and his own hat. "Could we talk somewhere private?"
"Sure. I was just finishing up for the day, anyway." She nodded toward where the two other workers were busy with the goats. "That's Jacob—he's my part-timer and the woman with him is a volunteer. They'll close up and leave when they finish up with the goats." Giving him another bold stare, she said, "C'mon in and I'll pour you a cup of coffee."
Anderson looked toward the approaching orange-red sunset. "Sounds good. Now that the sun is setting, it's kind of nippy out here."
She pushed at the double screen doors on the long back porch, then guided him up a hall past the big open oak door that had a sign saying "Office". "Yep, after that rain earlier in the week, it's a little cool for October. Those two fellows out there will go into a kind of hibernation if it gets any colder. We've just started building them a new pond, so I hope to get them moved before winter sets in. That is, if I can stop whoever it is that keeps damaging what we've already built."
She motioned toward another open door. "This way. Coffee's in the kitchen. Oh, and I have a very old dog in here, but he probably won't move a muscle to bark at you." Pointing to the sand-colored dog on a plaid bed by the fireplace, she said, "Roscoe, this is Anderson. Say hi."
Roscoe opened his doleful brown eyes and grunted. "Some watchdog."
"He used to be the best. But he's arthritic and ornery now. My dad gave him to me when I was a teenager. He keeps me company."
After offering Roscoe his knuckles to sniff, Anderson noted that the place wasn't all that secure. No alarm system that he could see. And standard windows and doors that creaked and groaned each time the wind hit them. Everything looked a little frayed and run-down, but the place was clean. Looking through the big open door toward the front, he noticed long shelves of supplies along with pamphlets about various animal causes lining the wall behind the battered desk. A standing sign gave the cost of daily tours, stating that all students got in free.
His advance research on her website mentioned an aviary, a turtle house and pond and several other outbuildings and animal shelters, including a barn and stables. And as she'd mentioned, he had discovered she was building a bigger, better pond for the alligators. Obviously, Jennifer Rodgers was as dedicated to protecting animals as her famous late father Martin had been.
But even though her site indicated donations were always needed and welcome, it looked like she was struggling to keep things going on this remote compound.
Anderson hated to add to her troubles, but she had to know she might be in danger, especially if someone had already messed with a fence. Her rescue farm was located in an isolated spot just off I-10, about twenty miles from San Antonio. A perfect location for a drop site in drug trafficking, just like the suspect they had in custody had claimed. And he wondered now if that new alligator compound was being built too close to the alleged drop site.
Jennifer poured two cups of coffee, then motioned to the rectangular dining table on one side of the big den behind the office room. "Take a load off. And start talking, Ranger."
Anderson watched as she turned her own chair around so she could straddle it, her hands dropping over the high back, her dark eyes centered on him.
Her fingernails were painted a brilliant candy-apple red.
Interesting. And distracting.
Taking off his hat, he ran a hand over his hair and pulled out a chair. "Ah, well, I'm here because we have reason to believe some suspicious activity has been transpiring on the south end of your property, Miss Rodgers."
She nodded. "Yes. The brand-new fence around the pond we're building back there was cut. It needs to be redone before we can get on with the construction. We just started last week, so I'm not happy about being set back already. I saw a man with a mustache running away, but I didn't get a good look at him."
"I'm not here about that, specifically," he said. "But this could be connected to my reasons for being here, Miss Rodgers. Did the man see you?"
"He glanced back at me, then ran." Her expression went still. "Call me Jennifer. And talk in plain English—not Ranger-speak, if you don't mind. What kind of suspicious activity?"
Anderson didn't need to tell her everything but he had to make her see this was important. And urgent. He only knew how to do that in Ranger-speak. But he tried to use layman's terms. "Our captain was murdered last month. You might have heard about it—Gregory Pike?"
"I read about it in the paper and saw the story on the news. His daughter found him, right?"
"Right. Corinna interrupted the murder and found another man unconscious beside her father. That man is still in a coma in the hospital but we've released his photo to the media, hoping to get a lead on his identity."
Pulling a copy of the picture out, he showed it to Jennifer. "Have you ever seen this man?"
She squinted toward the grainy picture of the unconscious dark-haired man with a scar on his face. "No. He looks rough. Hard to say. I don't think that's the man I saw the other day."
Anderson decided to go on that for now. Maybe she'd remember something once they got into the particulars.
Jennifer took a drink of her black coffee. "I'm sorry about your captain and that man in the picture. But I don't think it has anything to do with whoever cut my fence."
Anderson saw the impatience in her expression. He'd have to talk fast, he reckoned. "We managed to bring in a suspect, Eddie Jimenez, who was captured after breaking into Corinna Pike's house. He gave us information regarding a drop site—a designated meeting place where, allegedly, some Texas citizens are conspiring with a Mexican drug cartel. But he couldn't identify anybody. Or so he said."
Jennifer held out her hand. "Wait a minute. Are you saying what I think you're saying? Do you believe this drop site is on my property? That these drug runners are the ones trespassing back there? Are they the ones who messed up my fence?"
Anderson tried to answer all of her questions with one statement. "If someone's tampered with your fence, you can bet it's probably these criminals, yes, ma'am. And if that man thinks you saw him, he might come back."
She hit a palm on the table, causing Roscoe to open one eye. "And that's why you're here? Do you think I have something to do with all of this? I'm the one who called the local authorities but the deputy sheriff didn't seem all that concerned. Now you show up—obviously very concerned."
Anderson didn't think she was a suspect, but that couldn't be ruled out. "No, we don't think you're involved, but your property could be part of some illegal activity, and that activity could lead us to the man who murdered my captain. We need to keep tabs on your land, see who's coming and going. And that means I need to be on site for a few days. I'll call the sheriff and compare notes. I'll need a list of everyone who works with you and volunteers for you or any returning visitors who might seem suspicious."
Her eyebrows lifted like dark velvet butterfly wings. "As in—you want to hang around and…spy?"
Anderson wasn't one to mince words. "As in—I need to work here with you—undercover—until I can find out what's going on in the back forty."
She held so tight to her chair, Anderson thought she might snap the wood. "Say that again?"
"I need to go undercover, here on your compound, twenty-four-seven, for the next few days. I've been assigned to find out anything I can, based on the information the suspect taken into custody gave us. Which wasn't a whole lot, by the way. But if we couple that with your recent vandalism, I'd say something's going on here and we're on the right track."
She put one hand on the table then moved the other over her tousled ponytail. "So when you say go undercover, you mean you want to stay here and pretend to work for me while you're watching this property?"
Hadn't he just told her that? "That's it, yes, ma'am."
"Stop with the ma'am stuff, okay?"
"Okay, ma—" He smiled. "Okay, Jennifer. I noticed you have a bunkhouse for volunteers. I can stay there."
"We aren't using it right now, but yeah, you'd better believe you'll stay there. I don't like people underfoot."
Anderson could tell that. Her whole stance practically shouted for him to go away. "Are you here alone after hours?"
"I have the part-time helper you saw earlier—the kid who comes in after school. And a rotating list of volunteers. And we have a local vet who comes by about twice a week. Our work hours vary according to the animals' needs, of course." She shrugged. "But yes, for the most part, I'm here alone after hours. Just me and Roscoe there."
He noted the sadness and the resolve tracing through her eyes. "I'm sorry about what happened to your daddy in the Amazon. My mom used to watch his local show on one of the cable channels."
"Thank you." Jennifer looked down at the wooden table. "My father loved what he did and he taught me to feel the same way. I'm planning to honor his dream of making this place into a full-fledged exotic animal haven, with lots of hands-on teaching. You know, children touring the place, volunteers being able to educate people on endangered animals and how to protect them. We can learn a lot from nature and that was my dad's greatest hope.
"He wanted people to respect nature and abide by the laws set up to protect animals and he was well on his way to becoming known the world over for his work, but.now it's up to me. He left me a little money and I used part of it to buy up the acreage behind this place. Like I said earlier, I've already started clearing that area so we can build a better-equipped pen for the gators. I guess the drug runners beat me to it, but that—and a little vandalism—won't stop me from building my alligator preserve."
Anderson saw the passion and the sincerity in her eyes. She would work hard to complete her father's dream. And she might even do that at the risk of everything else, including her own safety.
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February 7, 2011
I'm done with my book!
Captain's Log, Stardate 02.07.2011
DONE! DONE! DONE! DONE! DONE! DONE!
DONE! DONE! DONE! DONE! DONE! DONE!
February 2, 2011
Street Team book list excerpt - WORDS by Ginny Yttrup
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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Ginny Yttrup
and the book:
Words
B&H Books (February 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Julie Gwinn, Trade Book Marketing, B&H Publishing Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Ginny L. Yttrup is an accomplished freelance writer, speaker, and life coach who also ministers to women wounded by sexual trauma. Her blogs include Fiction Creator, My Daily Light, and Crossings Life Coaching. She has two grown sons and lives in California. Words is her first novel.
Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
"I collect words. I keep them in a box in my mind. Whenever I wanted, I'd open the box and pick up the papers, reading and feeling the words all at once. Then I could hide the box. But the words are safer in my mind. There, he can't take them."
Ten-year old Kaylee Wren doesn't speak. Not since her drug-addled mother walked away, leaving her in a remote cabin nestled in the towering redwoods-in the care of a man who is as dangerous as he is evil. With silence her only refuge, Kaylee collects words she might never speak from the only memento her mother left behind: a dictionary.
Sierra Dawn is thirty-four, an artist, and alone. She has allowed the shame of her past to silence her present hopes and chooses to bury her pain by trying to control her circumstances. But on the twelfth anniversary of her daughter's death, Sierra's control begins to crumble as the God of her childhood woos her back to Himself.
Brought together by Divine design, Kaylee and Sierra will discover together the healing mercy of the Word—Jesus Christ.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: B&H Books (February 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1433671700
ISBN-13: 978-1433671708
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
"In the beginning was the Word."
John 1:1
"All those things for which we have no words are lost. The mind—the culture—has two little tools, grammar and lexicon: a decorated sand bucket and a matching shovel. With these we bluster about the continents and do all the world's work. With these we try to save our very lives."
Annie Dillard
Chapter One
Kaylee
I collect words.
I keep them in a box in my mind. I'd like to keep them in a real box, something pretty, maybe a shoe box covered with flowered wrapping paper. I'd write my words on scraps of paper and then put them in the box. Whenever I wanted, I'd open the box and pick up the papers, reading and feeling the words all at once. Then I could hide the box.
But the words are safer in my mind. There, he can't take them.
The dictionary is heavy on my lap. I'm on page 1,908. I'm reading through the Ss. When I finish the Zs, I'll start all over again.
Su-per-flu-ous.
I like that word. It means something extra, something special, something you don't need. It's super. But you don't need super. You just need good enough.
How does it sound when someone says it?
I didn't really think about how words sound until I stopped talking. I didn't mean to stop talking, it just sort of happened.
My mom left.
I got scared.
And the words got stuck.
Now I just read the words and then listen for them on the little radio in the kitchen, the only superfluous thing we have.
As I read, my hair falls across my eyes. I push it out of the way, but it falls back. I push it out of the way again, but this time my fingers catch in a tangle. I work for a minute trying to separate the hairs and smooth them down.
When my mom was here, she combed my hair most mornings. Our hair is the same. "Stick straight and dark as soot." That's what she used to say.
It hurt when she pulled the comb through my hair. "Kaylee, stop squirming," she'd tell me. "It'll pull more if you move."
Sometimes I'd cry when the comb caught in a knot and she'd get impatient and tell me to stop whining.
Maybe that's why she left. Maybe she got tired of my whining.
That's what he says. He tells me she didn't love me anymore—that she wanted out. But I don't believe him. I think something happened to her, an accident or something.
She probably has amnesia. I read that word in the dictionary.
That's when you hit your head so hard on something that you pass out and have to go to the hospital and when you wake up, you don't remember anything. Not even your name.
Not even that you have a daughter.
I think that's what happened to my mom. When she remembers, she'll come back and get me.
So I just wait. I won't leave. If I leave, she won't know where to find me.
And when she comes back, I'll be good. I won't whine anymore.
I was nine when she left. Now, I'm ten. I'll be eleven the day after Christmas. I always know it's near my birthday when they start playing all the bell songs on the radio. I like Silver Bells. I like to think about the city sidewalks and all the people dressed in holiday style. But Jingle Bells is my favorite. Dashing through the snow on a one-horse open sleigh sounds fun.
It's not near my birthday yet. It's still warm outside.
As the sun sets, the cabin gets dark inside, too dark to read. He didn't pay the electric bill, again. I hope he pays it before Christmas or I won't hear the songs on the radio.
Before I put the dictionary away, I turn to the front page and run my fingers across the writing scribbled there. "Lee and Katherine Wren. Congratulations.
Lee and Katherine are my parents. Were my parents. Are my parents. I'm not sure.
My mom told me that the dictionary was a gift from her Aunt Adele. Mom thought it was kind of a funny wedding gift, but she liked it and kept it even after Lee left. We used it a lot. Sometimes when I'd ask her a question about what something was or what something meant, she'd say, "Go get the dictionary Kaylee, we'll look it up." Then she'd show me how to find the word, and we'd read the definition. Most of the time she'd make me sound out the words and read them to her. Only sometimes did she read them to me. But most of the time when I asked her a question, she told me to be quiet. She liked it best when I was quiet.
I miss my mom. But the dictionary makes me feel like part of her is still here. While she's gone, the dictionary is mine. I have to take care of it. So just like I always do before I put the book away, I ask a silent favor: Please don't let him notice it. Please don't let him take it.
I put the dictionary back under the board that makes up a crooked shelf. The splintered wood pricks the tip of one finger as I lift the board and shove the dictionary under. The shelf is supported on one end by two cinderblocks and by one cinderblock and three books on the other end.
I remember the day she set up the shelf. I followed her out the front door and down the steps, and then watched her kneel in the dirt and pull out three concrete blocks she'd found under the steps. She dusted dirt and cobwebs from the cracks and then carried each block inside. She stacked two blocks one on top of the other at one end of the room and then spaced the last block at the other end of the room, under the window.
"Kaylee, hand me a few books from that box. Get big ones."
I reached into the box and pulled out the biggest book—the dictionary. Then I handed her the other two books. She stacked them on top of the block and then laid a board across the books and blocks.
Even at seven, I knew what she was doing. We'd move in with a boyfriend and Mom would get us "settled" which meant she'd move in our things—our clothes, books, and a few toys for me. She'd rearrange the apartment, or house—or this time, the cabin—and make it "homey."
After she made the shelf, she lined up our books. Then she placed a vase of wildflowers we'd collected that morning on the end of the shelf. She stood back and looked at what she'd done. Her smile told me she liked it.
The cabin was small, but of all the places we'd lived, I could tell this was her favorite. And this boyfriend seemed nice enough at first, so I hoped maybe we'd stay this time.
We did stay. Or at least I stayed. So now I'm the one arranging the shelf and I'm careful to put it back just as it was. Our books are gone. In their place I return two beer bottles, one with a sharp edge of broken glass, to their dust-free circles on the shelf. I pick up the long-empty bag of Frito Lay corn chips and, before leaning the bag against the broken bottle, I hold it open close to my face and breathe in. The smell of corn and salt make my stomach growl.
Once I'm sure everything looks just as it was on the shelf, I crawl to my mattress in the corner of the room and sit, Indian-style, with my back against the wall and watch the shadows. Light shines between the boards across the broken front window; shadows of leaves and branches move across the walls, ceiling, and door. Above my head I hear a rat or squirrel on the roof. Its movement scatters pine needles and something—a pinecone, I imagine—rolls from the top of the roof, over my head, and then drops into the bed of fallen needles around the front steps.
This is the longest part of the day—when it's too dark to read.
When I read…
I forget.
That's how it works.
Once the sun goes down, I don't leave the cabin. I'm afraid he'll come back after work and find me gone. He's told me not to leave because he'd find me and I'd be sorry.
I believe him. believe --verb 1. to take as true, real, etc. 2. to have confidence in a statement or promise of (another person).
My legs go numb under my body and my eyes feel heavy, but I don't sleep. Sleep isn't safe. Instead, I close my eyes for just a minute and see flames against the backs of my eyelids. They burn everything my mom and I brought to the cabin.
I remember the hissing and popping as the nighttime drizzle hit the bonfire. And I remember his laughter.
"She's gone for good, Kaylee. She ain't comin back." He cackled like an old witch as he threw more gasoline on the flames.
The smoke filled my nose and stung my lungs as I watched Lamby, the stuffed animal I'd slept with since I was a baby, burn along with most of our clothes and books.
The only exceptions were the three books he hadn't noticed holding up the shelf. My tears couldn't put out the fire, and I finally stopped crying. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and stepped away from the blaze. I squared my shoulders and stood as tall as I could. Something changed in me that night. I couldn't be little anymore. I had to be grown up.
I open my eyes and reach my hand under the corner of the mattress. My fingers dig into the hole in the canvas, feeling for the music box that had been inside Lamby. I'd found it in the ashes the morning after the fire. I tug it free, then wind the key and hold it up to my ear. As the music plays, I remember the words of the song that Grammy taught me just before she died. Jesus loves me, this I know…
The song makes me feel sad.
I don't think Jesus loves me anymore.
Eventually, I must fall asleep, because I wake up startled—mouth dry, palms damp, and my heart pounding.
I hear the noise that woke me, the crunching of leaves and pine needles. I listen. Are his steps steady, even? No. Two steps. Pause. A dragging sound. Pause. A thud as he stumbles. Pause. Will he get up? Or has he passed out? Please let him be out. A metal taste fills my mouth as I hear him struggle to get back on his feet.
"Kay—leeee?" He slurs. "You up? Lemme in."
He bangs his fist on the front door, which hasn't locked or even shut tight since the night he aimed his .22 at the doorknob and blew it to pieces.
The door gives way under the pressure of his fist. As it swings open, he pounds again but misses and falls into the cabin. He goes straight down and hits the floor, head first. A gurgling sound comes from his throat, and I smell the vomit before I see it pooled around his face.
I hope he'll drown in it.
But he won't die tonight.
Instead, he heaves himself onto his back and reaches for the split on his forehead where, even in the dark, I can see the blood trickling into his left eye. Then his hand slides down past his ear and drops to the floor. At the sound of his snoring, I exhale. I realize I've been holding my breath. Waiting…waiting…waiting.
Chapter Two
Sierra
Cocooned in crocheted warmth, I slip my hands from beneath the afghan and reach for my journal—a notebook filled with snippets of feelings and phrases. I jot a line: Like shards of glass slivering my soul. I set pen and journal aside and warm my hands around my ritual mug of Earl Gray, considering the phrase. I like the cadence of the alliteration. I see shining slivers piercing an ambiguous soul. I see a canvas layered in hues of red, russet, and black.
A memory calls my name, but I turn away. There will be time for memories later.
I close my eyes against the flame of color igniting the morning sky and allow my body the luxury of relaxing. I breathe deep intentional breaths, exhaling slowly, allowing mind and body to find a like rhythm. With each breath I let go, one by one, the anxieties of the past week.
Prints—signed and numbered. Five hundred in all.
Contract negotiations with two new galleries. Done.
Showing in Carmel last night. Successful.
Mortgage paid. On time for once.
Van Gogh neutered. What did the vet say? "He's lost his manhood—be gentle with him. He'll need a few days to recoup." Good grief.
A whimper interrupts my reverie. The afghan unfurls as I get up and pad across the deck back into the bungalow. Van presses his nose through the cross-hatch door of his crate—his woeful expression speaking volumes. I open the cage and the spry mutt I met at the shelter a few days before staggers toward the deck, tail between his legs. I translate his body language as utter humiliation and feel guilty for my responsible choice.
"Sorry pal, it's the only way I could spring you from the shelter. They made me do it." His ears perk and then droop. His salt and pepper coat bristles against my hand, while his ears are cashmere soft. He sighs and drifts back to sleep while I wonder at the wisdom of adopting an animal that's already getting under my skin. I consider packing him up and taking him back before it's too late. Instead, I brace myself and concede "Okay, I'll love you—but just a little." He twitches in response.
The distant throttle of fishing boats leaving the harbor and the bickering of gulls overhead break the morning silence followed by the ringing of the phone. I smile and reach for the phone lying under my journal.
"Hi, Margaret." No need to answer with a questioning "Hello?" There's only one person I know who dares calling at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday.
Laughter sings through the phone line. "Shannon, when are you going to stop calling me Margaret?"
I dubbed her that after the indomitable Margaret Thatcher, prime minister of her homeland. Her unwavering British accent, even after nearly half a century in the United States, and her strength under pressure inspired the nickname. It fits.
"Well, as I've told you, I'll stop calling you Margaret when you stop calling me Shannon. Need I remind you that I haven't been Shannon in over a decade?"
"Oh, right. Let's see, what is your name now? Sahara Dust? Sequoia Dew?"
I play along. "Does Sierra Dawn ring a bell?"
"Right, Sierra Dawn, beautiful name. But you'll always be Shannon Diane to me."
The smile in her voice chases the shadows from my heart. "Okay, Mother. I mean Margaret." I pull my knees to my chest and reach for the afghan as I settle back in the weathered Adirondack for our conversation.
"Sierra, I didn't wake you, did I?"
"Of course not. What is it you say, 'You can take the girl out of the farm, but you can't take the farm out of the girl.'"
"That's my girl. Your daddy's been out in the fields since 6:00 but he let me sleep. I just got up and thought I'd share a cup of tea with you."
I do a quick pacific/central time conversion and realize with some alarm that it's 9:00 a.m. in Texas.
"You slept until 9:00? You never sleep that late. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, darling, I'm simply getting old. I had to get up three times during the night and by this morning I just wanted to sleep. So I indulged."
"Well, good for you. I'm glad you called. You know my favorite Saturday mornings are spent with you and Earl."
"I'm not drinking Earl."
A startling confession. "You're not? What are you drinking?"
"Sierra, I'm drinking Lemon Zinger!" Her declaration is followed by a giggle that sounds anything but old.
I stretch my long legs and cross them at the ankles and lean my head against the back of the chair. I feel as though my mother, with gentle skill, has distracted me while she's worked to remove a few of those slivers imbedded in my soul. But unless I stop brushing up against my splintered history, the slivers will return—or so she tells me.
Just before we hang up, she says, "Shannon—" there's such tenderness in her voice that I let the slip pass— "are you going to the cemetery today?"
Her question tears open the wound, exposing the underlying infection. I imagine her practicality won't allow her to leave the wound festering any longer; instead she lances my heart.
I lean forward. "Yes, Mother. You know I will." My tone is tight, closed. But I can't seem to help it.
"Darling, it's time to let go—it's been twelve years. It's time to grasp grace and move on."
The fringe of the afghan I've played with as we've talked is now twisted tight around my index finger, cutting off the circulation. "What are you saying? That I should just forget—just let go and walk away— never think about it again? You know I can't do that."
"Not forget, Sierra— forgive. It's time."
"Mother, you know I don't want to talk about this."
"Yes, I know. But you need to at least think about it. Think about the truth. Ask yourself what's true."
I sigh at my mother's oft repeated words and grunt my consent before I hang up— or "ring off" as she would say.
I left Texas at eighteen and headed to California, sure that was where I'd "find myself." On the day I left, my daddy stood at the driver's door of my overstuffed used station wagon gazing at the hundreds of acres of soil he'd readied for planting in the fall and gave me what I think of now as my own "Great Commission." In the vernacular of the Bible Belt, my daddy, a farmer with the soul of a poet, sent me out into the world with a purpose.
"Honey, do you know why I farm?"
At eighteen I'd never considered the "why" of what my parents did. "No, Daddy. Why?"
"Farming's not something that can be done alone. I till the ground, plant the seeds, and irrigate. But it's the rising and setting of the sun and the changing of the seasons that cause the grain to grow. Farming is a partnership with the Creator. Each year when I reap the harvest, I marvel at a Creator who allows me the honor of co-creating with him."
He'd stopped staring at the fields and instead looked straight at me. "Look for what the Creator wants you to do, Shannon. He wants to share his creativity with you. He wants to partner with you. You find what he wants you to do."
With that, he planted a kiss on my forehead and shut the door of my car. With my daddy's commission tucked in my heart, I left in search of my life. My older brother, Jeff, was already in California completing his final year in the agricultural school at Cal-Poly in San Luis Obispo. Tired of dorm life, Jeff and two friends rented a house in town and told me I could rent a room from them for the year. I was thrilled.
Our neighbors and Mother and Daddy's friends couldn't understand why they'd let me "run off" to California. In their minds, California was a dark place where drugs and sex ruled. But Daddy assured them California was not the Sodom and Gomorrah they imagined. He should know. His roots were in California. He was born and raised there. Jeff and I grew up hearing about the Golden State and were determined we'd see it for ourselves one day. College in California seemed a logical choice to both of us.
As I headed west, I thought of my parents and what I'd learned from each of them through the years. Daddy taught me to see. Where others in our community saw grain, Daddy saw God. He always encouraged me in his quiet and simple way to look beyond the obvious. "Look beyond a person's actions and see their heart. Look for what's causing them to act the way they act, then you'll understand them better."
When I was about twelve, Mother and Daddy took us with them down to Galveston for a week. Daddy was there for an American Farm Bureau meeting. After the meeting, we stayed for a few rare days of vacation. I remember standing on the beach and looking out at the flat sea, Daddy pulled me close and pointed at the surf and asked, "What do you see?"
"The ocean?" I asked it more than stated.
"Yes, but there's more. You're seeing God's power."
I must have seemed unimpressed because Daddy laughed. "It's there Shan, someday you'll see it. But, I'll admit it's easier to see it in the crashing surf and jagged cliffs of the California coastline."
I didn't understand what he meant then—and I'm still not sure I fully understand—but back then my daddy's description of the California coastline followed me as I was off to see it for myself.
My mother taught me to look for something else. "What's the truth, Shannon?" she'd ask over and over, challenging me to choose what was right. She taught me to analyze a situation and then make a decision that represented the truth foundational to our family.
Most often the truth she spoke of was found in the big family Bible she'd brought with her from England. She'd lay the book out on the kitchen table and open it to the book of John in the New Testament and she'd read from the King James version: "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."
"There's freedom in the truth, Shannon. You remember that," she'd say.
Again, I'm only now beginning to understand what she meant. But these were the lessons from home that I carried with me to California.
So why hadn't I applied those lessons? Why I had I wandered so far from my parents' truth?
Those are questions I'd ask myself many times over. I'd yet to find the answers.
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!
Today's Wild Card author is:
Ginny Yttrup
and the book:
Words
B&H Books (February 1, 2011)
***Special thanks to Julie Gwinn, Trade Book Marketing, B&H Publishing Group for sending me a review copy.***
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Ginny L. Yttrup is an accomplished freelance writer, speaker, and life coach who also ministers to women wounded by sexual trauma. Her blogs include Fiction Creator, My Daily Light, and Crossings Life Coaching. She has two grown sons and lives in California. Words is her first novel.Visit the author's website.
SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:
"I collect words. I keep them in a box in my mind. Whenever I wanted, I'd open the box and pick up the papers, reading and feeling the words all at once. Then I could hide the box. But the words are safer in my mind. There, he can't take them."Ten-year old Kaylee Wren doesn't speak. Not since her drug-addled mother walked away, leaving her in a remote cabin nestled in the towering redwoods-in the care of a man who is as dangerous as he is evil. With silence her only refuge, Kaylee collects words she might never speak from the only memento her mother left behind: a dictionary.
Sierra Dawn is thirty-four, an artist, and alone. She has allowed the shame of her past to silence her present hopes and chooses to bury her pain by trying to control her circumstances. But on the twelfth anniversary of her daughter's death, Sierra's control begins to crumble as the God of her childhood woos her back to Himself.
Brought together by Divine design, Kaylee and Sierra will discover together the healing mercy of the Word—Jesus Christ.
Product Details:
List Price: $14.99
Paperback: 352 pages
Publisher: B&H Books (February 1, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1433671700
ISBN-13: 978-1433671708
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
"In the beginning was the Word."
John 1:1
"All those things for which we have no words are lost. The mind—the culture—has two little tools, grammar and lexicon: a decorated sand bucket and a matching shovel. With these we bluster about the continents and do all the world's work. With these we try to save our very lives."
Annie Dillard
Chapter One
Kaylee
I collect words.
I keep them in a box in my mind. I'd like to keep them in a real box, something pretty, maybe a shoe box covered with flowered wrapping paper. I'd write my words on scraps of paper and then put them in the box. Whenever I wanted, I'd open the box and pick up the papers, reading and feeling the words all at once. Then I could hide the box.
But the words are safer in my mind. There, he can't take them.
The dictionary is heavy on my lap. I'm on page 1,908. I'm reading through the Ss. When I finish the Zs, I'll start all over again.
Su-per-flu-ous.
I like that word. It means something extra, something special, something you don't need. It's super. But you don't need super. You just need good enough.
How does it sound when someone says it?
I didn't really think about how words sound until I stopped talking. I didn't mean to stop talking, it just sort of happened.
My mom left.
I got scared.
And the words got stuck.
Now I just read the words and then listen for them on the little radio in the kitchen, the only superfluous thing we have.
As I read, my hair falls across my eyes. I push it out of the way, but it falls back. I push it out of the way again, but this time my fingers catch in a tangle. I work for a minute trying to separate the hairs and smooth them down.
When my mom was here, she combed my hair most mornings. Our hair is the same. "Stick straight and dark as soot." That's what she used to say.
It hurt when she pulled the comb through my hair. "Kaylee, stop squirming," she'd tell me. "It'll pull more if you move."
Sometimes I'd cry when the comb caught in a knot and she'd get impatient and tell me to stop whining.
Maybe that's why she left. Maybe she got tired of my whining.
That's what he says. He tells me she didn't love me anymore—that she wanted out. But I don't believe him. I think something happened to her, an accident or something.
She probably has amnesia. I read that word in the dictionary.
That's when you hit your head so hard on something that you pass out and have to go to the hospital and when you wake up, you don't remember anything. Not even your name.
Not even that you have a daughter.
I think that's what happened to my mom. When she remembers, she'll come back and get me.
So I just wait. I won't leave. If I leave, she won't know where to find me.
And when she comes back, I'll be good. I won't whine anymore.
I was nine when she left. Now, I'm ten. I'll be eleven the day after Christmas. I always know it's near my birthday when they start playing all the bell songs on the radio. I like Silver Bells. I like to think about the city sidewalks and all the people dressed in holiday style. But Jingle Bells is my favorite. Dashing through the snow on a one-horse open sleigh sounds fun.
It's not near my birthday yet. It's still warm outside.
As the sun sets, the cabin gets dark inside, too dark to read. He didn't pay the electric bill, again. I hope he pays it before Christmas or I won't hear the songs on the radio.
Before I put the dictionary away, I turn to the front page and run my fingers across the writing scribbled there. "Lee and Katherine Wren. Congratulations.
Lee and Katherine are my parents. Were my parents. Are my parents. I'm not sure.
My mom told me that the dictionary was a gift from her Aunt Adele. Mom thought it was kind of a funny wedding gift, but she liked it and kept it even after Lee left. We used it a lot. Sometimes when I'd ask her a question about what something was or what something meant, she'd say, "Go get the dictionary Kaylee, we'll look it up." Then she'd show me how to find the word, and we'd read the definition. Most of the time she'd make me sound out the words and read them to her. Only sometimes did she read them to me. But most of the time when I asked her a question, she told me to be quiet. She liked it best when I was quiet.
I miss my mom. But the dictionary makes me feel like part of her is still here. While she's gone, the dictionary is mine. I have to take care of it. So just like I always do before I put the book away, I ask a silent favor: Please don't let him notice it. Please don't let him take it.
I put the dictionary back under the board that makes up a crooked shelf. The splintered wood pricks the tip of one finger as I lift the board and shove the dictionary under. The shelf is supported on one end by two cinderblocks and by one cinderblock and three books on the other end.
I remember the day she set up the shelf. I followed her out the front door and down the steps, and then watched her kneel in the dirt and pull out three concrete blocks she'd found under the steps. She dusted dirt and cobwebs from the cracks and then carried each block inside. She stacked two blocks one on top of the other at one end of the room and then spaced the last block at the other end of the room, under the window.
"Kaylee, hand me a few books from that box. Get big ones."
I reached into the box and pulled out the biggest book—the dictionary. Then I handed her the other two books. She stacked them on top of the block and then laid a board across the books and blocks.
Even at seven, I knew what she was doing. We'd move in with a boyfriend and Mom would get us "settled" which meant she'd move in our things—our clothes, books, and a few toys for me. She'd rearrange the apartment, or house—or this time, the cabin—and make it "homey."
After she made the shelf, she lined up our books. Then she placed a vase of wildflowers we'd collected that morning on the end of the shelf. She stood back and looked at what she'd done. Her smile told me she liked it.
The cabin was small, but of all the places we'd lived, I could tell this was her favorite. And this boyfriend seemed nice enough at first, so I hoped maybe we'd stay this time.
We did stay. Or at least I stayed. So now I'm the one arranging the shelf and I'm careful to put it back just as it was. Our books are gone. In their place I return two beer bottles, one with a sharp edge of broken glass, to their dust-free circles on the shelf. I pick up the long-empty bag of Frito Lay corn chips and, before leaning the bag against the broken bottle, I hold it open close to my face and breathe in. The smell of corn and salt make my stomach growl.
Once I'm sure everything looks just as it was on the shelf, I crawl to my mattress in the corner of the room and sit, Indian-style, with my back against the wall and watch the shadows. Light shines between the boards across the broken front window; shadows of leaves and branches move across the walls, ceiling, and door. Above my head I hear a rat or squirrel on the roof. Its movement scatters pine needles and something—a pinecone, I imagine—rolls from the top of the roof, over my head, and then drops into the bed of fallen needles around the front steps.
This is the longest part of the day—when it's too dark to read.
When I read…
I forget.
That's how it works.
Once the sun goes down, I don't leave the cabin. I'm afraid he'll come back after work and find me gone. He's told me not to leave because he'd find me and I'd be sorry.
I believe him. believe --verb 1. to take as true, real, etc. 2. to have confidence in a statement or promise of (another person).
My legs go numb under my body and my eyes feel heavy, but I don't sleep. Sleep isn't safe. Instead, I close my eyes for just a minute and see flames against the backs of my eyelids. They burn everything my mom and I brought to the cabin.
I remember the hissing and popping as the nighttime drizzle hit the bonfire. And I remember his laughter.
"She's gone for good, Kaylee. She ain't comin back." He cackled like an old witch as he threw more gasoline on the flames.
The smoke filled my nose and stung my lungs as I watched Lamby, the stuffed animal I'd slept with since I was a baby, burn along with most of our clothes and books.
The only exceptions were the three books he hadn't noticed holding up the shelf. My tears couldn't put out the fire, and I finally stopped crying. I wiped my nose on my sleeve and stepped away from the blaze. I squared my shoulders and stood as tall as I could. Something changed in me that night. I couldn't be little anymore. I had to be grown up.
I open my eyes and reach my hand under the corner of the mattress. My fingers dig into the hole in the canvas, feeling for the music box that had been inside Lamby. I'd found it in the ashes the morning after the fire. I tug it free, then wind the key and hold it up to my ear. As the music plays, I remember the words of the song that Grammy taught me just before she died. Jesus loves me, this I know…
The song makes me feel sad.
I don't think Jesus loves me anymore.
Eventually, I must fall asleep, because I wake up startled—mouth dry, palms damp, and my heart pounding.
I hear the noise that woke me, the crunching of leaves and pine needles. I listen. Are his steps steady, even? No. Two steps. Pause. A dragging sound. Pause. A thud as he stumbles. Pause. Will he get up? Or has he passed out? Please let him be out. A metal taste fills my mouth as I hear him struggle to get back on his feet.
"Kay—leeee?" He slurs. "You up? Lemme in."
He bangs his fist on the front door, which hasn't locked or even shut tight since the night he aimed his .22 at the doorknob and blew it to pieces.
The door gives way under the pressure of his fist. As it swings open, he pounds again but misses and falls into the cabin. He goes straight down and hits the floor, head first. A gurgling sound comes from his throat, and I smell the vomit before I see it pooled around his face.
I hope he'll drown in it.
But he won't die tonight.
Instead, he heaves himself onto his back and reaches for the split on his forehead where, even in the dark, I can see the blood trickling into his left eye. Then his hand slides down past his ear and drops to the floor. At the sound of his snoring, I exhale. I realize I've been holding my breath. Waiting…waiting…waiting.
Chapter Two
Sierra
Cocooned in crocheted warmth, I slip my hands from beneath the afghan and reach for my journal—a notebook filled with snippets of feelings and phrases. I jot a line: Like shards of glass slivering my soul. I set pen and journal aside and warm my hands around my ritual mug of Earl Gray, considering the phrase. I like the cadence of the alliteration. I see shining slivers piercing an ambiguous soul. I see a canvas layered in hues of red, russet, and black.
A memory calls my name, but I turn away. There will be time for memories later.
I close my eyes against the flame of color igniting the morning sky and allow my body the luxury of relaxing. I breathe deep intentional breaths, exhaling slowly, allowing mind and body to find a like rhythm. With each breath I let go, one by one, the anxieties of the past week.
Prints—signed and numbered. Five hundred in all.
Contract negotiations with two new galleries. Done.
Showing in Carmel last night. Successful.
Mortgage paid. On time for once.
Van Gogh neutered. What did the vet say? "He's lost his manhood—be gentle with him. He'll need a few days to recoup." Good grief.
A whimper interrupts my reverie. The afghan unfurls as I get up and pad across the deck back into the bungalow. Van presses his nose through the cross-hatch door of his crate—his woeful expression speaking volumes. I open the cage and the spry mutt I met at the shelter a few days before staggers toward the deck, tail between his legs. I translate his body language as utter humiliation and feel guilty for my responsible choice.
"Sorry pal, it's the only way I could spring you from the shelter. They made me do it." His ears perk and then droop. His salt and pepper coat bristles against my hand, while his ears are cashmere soft. He sighs and drifts back to sleep while I wonder at the wisdom of adopting an animal that's already getting under my skin. I consider packing him up and taking him back before it's too late. Instead, I brace myself and concede "Okay, I'll love you—but just a little." He twitches in response.
The distant throttle of fishing boats leaving the harbor and the bickering of gulls overhead break the morning silence followed by the ringing of the phone. I smile and reach for the phone lying under my journal.
"Hi, Margaret." No need to answer with a questioning "Hello?" There's only one person I know who dares calling at 7:00 a.m. on a Saturday.
Laughter sings through the phone line. "Shannon, when are you going to stop calling me Margaret?"
I dubbed her that after the indomitable Margaret Thatcher, prime minister of her homeland. Her unwavering British accent, even after nearly half a century in the United States, and her strength under pressure inspired the nickname. It fits.
"Well, as I've told you, I'll stop calling you Margaret when you stop calling me Shannon. Need I remind you that I haven't been Shannon in over a decade?"
"Oh, right. Let's see, what is your name now? Sahara Dust? Sequoia Dew?"
I play along. "Does Sierra Dawn ring a bell?"
"Right, Sierra Dawn, beautiful name. But you'll always be Shannon Diane to me."
The smile in her voice chases the shadows from my heart. "Okay, Mother. I mean Margaret." I pull my knees to my chest and reach for the afghan as I settle back in the weathered Adirondack for our conversation.
"Sierra, I didn't wake you, did I?"
"Of course not. What is it you say, 'You can take the girl out of the farm, but you can't take the farm out of the girl.'"
"That's my girl. Your daddy's been out in the fields since 6:00 but he let me sleep. I just got up and thought I'd share a cup of tea with you."
I do a quick pacific/central time conversion and realize with some alarm that it's 9:00 a.m. in Texas.
"You slept until 9:00? You never sleep that late. What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, darling, I'm simply getting old. I had to get up three times during the night and by this morning I just wanted to sleep. So I indulged."
"Well, good for you. I'm glad you called. You know my favorite Saturday mornings are spent with you and Earl."
"I'm not drinking Earl."
A startling confession. "You're not? What are you drinking?"
"Sierra, I'm drinking Lemon Zinger!" Her declaration is followed by a giggle that sounds anything but old.
I stretch my long legs and cross them at the ankles and lean my head against the back of the chair. I feel as though my mother, with gentle skill, has distracted me while she's worked to remove a few of those slivers imbedded in my soul. But unless I stop brushing up against my splintered history, the slivers will return—or so she tells me.
Just before we hang up, she says, "Shannon—" there's such tenderness in her voice that I let the slip pass— "are you going to the cemetery today?"
Her question tears open the wound, exposing the underlying infection. I imagine her practicality won't allow her to leave the wound festering any longer; instead she lances my heart.
I lean forward. "Yes, Mother. You know I will." My tone is tight, closed. But I can't seem to help it.
"Darling, it's time to let go—it's been twelve years. It's time to grasp grace and move on."
The fringe of the afghan I've played with as we've talked is now twisted tight around my index finger, cutting off the circulation. "What are you saying? That I should just forget—just let go and walk away— never think about it again? You know I can't do that."
"Not forget, Sierra— forgive. It's time."
"Mother, you know I don't want to talk about this."
"Yes, I know. But you need to at least think about it. Think about the truth. Ask yourself what's true."
I sigh at my mother's oft repeated words and grunt my consent before I hang up— or "ring off" as she would say.
I left Texas at eighteen and headed to California, sure that was where I'd "find myself." On the day I left, my daddy stood at the driver's door of my overstuffed used station wagon gazing at the hundreds of acres of soil he'd readied for planting in the fall and gave me what I think of now as my own "Great Commission." In the vernacular of the Bible Belt, my daddy, a farmer with the soul of a poet, sent me out into the world with a purpose.
"Honey, do you know why I farm?"
At eighteen I'd never considered the "why" of what my parents did. "No, Daddy. Why?"
"Farming's not something that can be done alone. I till the ground, plant the seeds, and irrigate. But it's the rising and setting of the sun and the changing of the seasons that cause the grain to grow. Farming is a partnership with the Creator. Each year when I reap the harvest, I marvel at a Creator who allows me the honor of co-creating with him."
He'd stopped staring at the fields and instead looked straight at me. "Look for what the Creator wants you to do, Shannon. He wants to share his creativity with you. He wants to partner with you. You find what he wants you to do."
With that, he planted a kiss on my forehead and shut the door of my car. With my daddy's commission tucked in my heart, I left in search of my life. My older brother, Jeff, was already in California completing his final year in the agricultural school at Cal-Poly in San Luis Obispo. Tired of dorm life, Jeff and two friends rented a house in town and told me I could rent a room from them for the year. I was thrilled.
Our neighbors and Mother and Daddy's friends couldn't understand why they'd let me "run off" to California. In their minds, California was a dark place where drugs and sex ruled. But Daddy assured them California was not the Sodom and Gomorrah they imagined. He should know. His roots were in California. He was born and raised there. Jeff and I grew up hearing about the Golden State and were determined we'd see it for ourselves one day. College in California seemed a logical choice to both of us.
As I headed west, I thought of my parents and what I'd learned from each of them through the years. Daddy taught me to see. Where others in our community saw grain, Daddy saw God. He always encouraged me in his quiet and simple way to look beyond the obvious. "Look beyond a person's actions and see their heart. Look for what's causing them to act the way they act, then you'll understand them better."
When I was about twelve, Mother and Daddy took us with them down to Galveston for a week. Daddy was there for an American Farm Bureau meeting. After the meeting, we stayed for a few rare days of vacation. I remember standing on the beach and looking out at the flat sea, Daddy pulled me close and pointed at the surf and asked, "What do you see?"
"The ocean?" I asked it more than stated.
"Yes, but there's more. You're seeing God's power."
I must have seemed unimpressed because Daddy laughed. "It's there Shan, someday you'll see it. But, I'll admit it's easier to see it in the crashing surf and jagged cliffs of the California coastline."
I didn't understand what he meant then—and I'm still not sure I fully understand—but back then my daddy's description of the California coastline followed me as I was off to see it for myself.
My mother taught me to look for something else. "What's the truth, Shannon?" she'd ask over and over, challenging me to choose what was right. She taught me to analyze a situation and then make a decision that represented the truth foundational to our family.
Most often the truth she spoke of was found in the big family Bible she'd brought with her from England. She'd lay the book out on the kitchen table and open it to the book of John in the New Testament and she'd read from the King James version: "And ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free."
"There's freedom in the truth, Shannon. You remember that," she'd say.
Again, I'm only now beginning to understand what she meant. But these were the lessons from home that I carried with me to California.
So why hadn't I applied those lessons? Why I had I wandered so far from my parents' truth?
Those are questions I'd ask myself many times over. I'd yet to find the answers.
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!
