Jennie Marsland's Blog, page 4

Back to the Future: An interview with the McShannons, Rainnies and Cochranes

"Everything that can be invented has already been invented." Charles H. Duell, Chief of the U.S. Office of Patents, 1899

My ESL students worked with future forms last week, and we read a series of predictions, the above among them. It got me thinking about the times in which I set my stories, and what my characters would think if they got a glimpse of modern life.

What would Trey McShannon, who went to war on horseback, and Liam Cochrane, who experienced trench warfare at its worst, think of stealth bombers and 'smart' missiles? What would Martin Rainnie think of modern nightclubs, rap and hiphop? If they had to live in our world, what would they and their wives miss most about their own times?

Let's say I've borrowed a transporter and beamed each of my couples down in 2011 for a week. (Of course, their memories of that week will be erased in the process of transportation home. No messing with history!) Before sending them back to their own time, I've gathered them at my home for lunch and a chat. More turkey soup, anyone?

Beth McShannon: Yes, please. Jennie, I have to say it's been quite a week. To see art from all over the world on your computer was amazing.
Jennie: I thought you'd enjoy that. If you could stay a while longer, you could learn how to create your own art that way as well. It's called graphic design, and I think you'd find it interesting.

Beth: Thank you, Jennie, and I'll have one of those biscuits as well. (Butters a biscuit and tastes her soup.) Graphic design, you say? It's tempting, but I think I prefer my brushes. Though being able to listen to music at home and have it sound as if I were in a concert hall - I am going to miss that.

Martin Rainnie: (helping himself to biscuits) Aye, so will I, though I don't know if I could ever get used to playing or singing into a machine, with no real person to hear me. Give me a crowd in a dance hall, I say.

Jennie: Martin, what did you think of the pub where we ate last night?

Martin: (With a frown) Pub, is it? Well, the fish and chips were edible, and the ale wasn't bad. Speaking of ale –

Jennie: I read your mind, my friend. Who else is thirsty? (Cracks open a Clancy's for all)

Rochelle Rainnie: (sips her beer with a sideways glance at Martin) No, it wasn't bad, though the girl who brought it wasn't wearing enough to keep from catching her death.

Trey McShannon (Tips back his beer with a grin) I noticed that.

Beth and Chelle exchange eye rolls. Martin grins at Trey.

Martin: Aye, so did I. But the place was so loud I couldn't hear myself think, let alone talk to anyone, with the lights bright enough to put a man's eyes out and no dart board or live music. It was like that song I heard on your – what do you call it again?

Jennie: A CD player.

Martin: Aye, well, You know the one. (Begins to sing)
What have they done to the old Rose and Crown?
The Ship, the King's Arms, and the World Upside Down.
For oak, brass, and leather, and a pint of the best
Fade away like the sun as it sinks in the west.

Jennie: Yes, the Ian Robb song. I see your point, Martin. As for the clothes, not to worry – to everyone else in the pub, you appeared to be dressed in the latest fashion.

Alice Cochrane: Heaven help us, Jennie! As for the music, I felt the same as Martin. And when we left, that noise coming from the place across the street – WHAT did you call it?

Jennie: Hip-hop. It's very popular.

Alice: If you say so. I did like the jazz you played for us on your machine, though. Do you suppose I could take some sheet music home with me?

Jennie: That might not be smart, Alice. You might alter musical history. Liam, you're being very quiet.

Liam Cochrane: I just can't believe how Halifax has changed. All concrete and glass on the waterfront, and the new – what was it? – oh, condominium - going up where old St. Joseph's used to be. Though the school is still there across the street. And the traffic!

Trey: I hear you, Liam. I'd like to try my hand at driving a car, though – something that went where I steered it and didn't have its own ideas about things.

Liam (laughing) Our Model T has a mind of its own, I think.

Alice: It certainly does. It's more temperamental than any horse I ever knew.

Trey: Well, Flying Cloud and I have an understanding, when it comes to that. He's got good pasture and the best mares I could afford, and he deserves it. We saved each other's hides more than once.(Shakes head)My war was bad enough, but from what you tell me I wouldn't want to fight in yours, Liam. Too much killing from a distance.

Liam:(stretches out his bad leg) Yeah, there was. I think there should be a rule in war, that you have to look a man in the eye and know his name before you can kill him.

Martin: Maybe you should have to drink with him, too. Trey, I'm looking forward to meeting your Flying Cloud. Your father speaks of him often still. The fastest colt he ever raised, he says.

Trey: Yeah, he was, and he can still run. You'll meet him next summer when you bring the family to visit.

Rochelle: Little Trey is so like you, but Greer and Sidonie are both the image of Martin. I can't wait to meet your Chelle, too, though how we'll keep the names straight I don't know, any more than I know how we'll keep Dad out of trouble.

Jennie: I'm not sure even I can do that. Chelle, if I wasn't able to send you home, what do you think you'd really miss about your time?

Rochelle: Writing letters. With Trey so far away, we've written a lot of letters over the years. From what you say, very few people in your time do that.

Beth: I'd miss that too, but more than anything I think I'd miss cooking and baking on my wood stove – now that I know how.

Trey:(with a sly look at Beth) The house is still standing, too. Remember –

Beth: (blushing) Of course I remember.

Liam: I don't know...I think I could get used to your time. It's great to see how Halifax has put itself back together since the Explosion. I'll always miss Richmond the way it used to be, but I think most of all I'd miss working on boats, using my hands, having the time to get to know the owners.

Martin: I'd miss live music at the Mallonby pub, playing with the people I've played with for years. Seeing all ages at the Carston hall dancing to my music.

Trey: Well, if I was ranching in your time I'd likely still do a lot of the work on horseback, so I guess I'd get along, but there'd be more people and less open range. That's what I'd miss. I've never been one for crowds.

Jennie: No, you haven't. Now, has everyone finished their drink? It's been wonderful having you. Now, step this way to the transporter room, everyone...

Folk Friday: Running in Second

McShannon's Heart is currently second in the Preditors and Editors readers' poll! Go Heart! If you'd like to vote (nudge nudge), here's the link again: VOTE HERE

For Folk Friday this week, I've chosen a tune that Eleanor Rainnie, Martin's first wife, used to sing. I love this melody, and I like the touch of grit in this version. Enjoy!

News: McShannon's Heart nominated for Best Romance in P&E poll

Woke up this morning to an e-mail from Bluewood, telling me they've entered Heart in the romance category of the annual Reader's Poll at Preditors and Editors. I'm thrilled! Echo says please vote!

Can you resist those eyes? Here's the link: VOTE HERE

Folk Friday - A Passage to India

I'm late with Folk Friday today. This was testing day for my ESL students and I just finished the print errata for Heart, so I haven't had time until now to prepare this week's post.

This is the time of year when I often reread Rudyard Kipling's Kim. I find it a great book for winter because it's a feast for the senses, full of spicy food, brilliant colors, hot, dusty, crowded bazaars and exotic characters. Kipling managed to use all the senses to perfection, without overkill, as in this passage, where Kim, who is traveling across colonial India with a Tibetan lama, stops for the night at a roadside campsite.

By this time the sun was driving broad golden spokes through the lower branches of the mango-trees; the parakeets and doves were coming home in their hundreds; the chattering, grey-backed Seven Sisters, talking over the day's adventures, walked back and forth in twos and threes almost under the feet of the travellers; and shuffling and scuffling in the branches showed that the bats were ready to go out on the night-picket. Swiftly the light gathered itself together, painted for an instant the faces and the cart-wheels and the bullocks' horns as red as blood. Then the night fell, changing the touch of the air, drawing a low, even haze, like a gossamer veil of blue, across the face of the country, and bringing out, keen and distinct, the smell of wood-smoke and cattle and the good scent of wheaten cakes cooked on ashes. Te evening patrol hurried out of the police-station with important coughings and reiterated orders; and a live charcoal ball in the cup of a wayside carter's hookah glowed red while Kim's eye mechanically watched the last flicker of the sun on the brass tweezers.

I can smell the cattle and smoke and cakes, see the birds against the darkening sky, feel the day's heat fading. Without wasted words, I'm there. This book is one of the reasons I'd like to set Nolan Cochrane's story in India. But, for now, I'm here in Halifax with Liam, who has just found himself in a heap of trouble.

Reading through Heart to do the errata made me think about songs Martin Rainnie would enjoy. He's more of a fiddler than a singer, but he does sing a couple of times in the story, and one of the songs he chooses is 'The Water is Wide.' It's also a favourite of mine, especially the melody.

I think Martin would like this version. It's simple and heartfelt. Enjoy!

New Year's Musings

I've never been one to make New Year's resolutions. To me, if feels like setting myself up for disappointment, so I set goals instead, and take some time to look back on the year that's just ended.

I have to say 2010 was a much better year than 2009. I began the year by finally landing a job, which I started on January 4. This term I'm teaching ESL and Grade 10, a nice low-stress combination. My father's health scare had a positive outcome, there were no crises in Everett's family, I got one book written and published and am closing in on finishing another. I'm playing guitar again, and making slow but steady progress on getting in shape. Officially, nine pounds and 11.5 inches down since starting at Curves. At this rate, meeting my goal of 20 pounds by mid-March seems doable.

Personal goals for 2011: To stay with my exercise and healthy eating program permanently and let my body find its natural weight. To contact friends more often, on and off-line. To remember to be grateful, each and every day, for all the good things in my life. I read somewhere once that if the only prayer a person ever says is 'thank you', that can be enough.

Writing goals: To finish Shattered, Home Child (my half-completed middle-grade novel, and McShannon's Land (Nathan Munroe's story). To become more savvy and efficient at publicity for my books (Yeah, there's a reason why I write books set way before the computer age. I like blogging and I like playing on the 'net, but to really USE it is another story.) To reach out more to other bloggers – there's a lot of good stuff out there. To continue to grow my craft, in every way possible, so that each book is better than the last.

I've got another story brewing in my mind, about Liam Cochrane's older brother Nolan. I'm thinking of an exotic setting, perhaps colonial India at the turn of the twentieth century. I think it would suit Nolan's adventurous spirit. Perhaps, when I get all my WIPs off my plate, I'll hop on a clipper ship with my black Irish sailor lad and do some traveling.

People of blogland, how are you seeing the year ahead?

And The Winner Is...

Time to announce the winners of my contest...I put all the names in a hat and drew last night. The winner of the editor's critique is Candace, and the winners of e-copies of Heart are Carol Burge, Lighthouse Sandy and Lorilyn! I'll be contacting you to get e-mail addys so I can send you your prizes! Congrats!

Contest Update: There's still time!

The holidays are rushing by, but there's still time to enter my contest to win a free e-copy of McShannon's Heart AND a critique of fifteen manuscript pages by editor of critically acclaimed novels, Patricia Thomas. Just post a favorite holiday recipe as a comment to this post. I'll be drawing for the prizes on New Years Eve. So far I have seven entries, so your chances are good!

A Christmas Gift for You

Christmas Eve. We're heading out to spend the evening with my parents in a few minutes, but before I go, here's a gift for you.

A few weeks ago, a writing friend of mine suggested I write a Christmas story about Trey and Beth McShannon and their children. The idea grew on me, and here it is. It takes place thirteen years after McShannon's Chance. I hope you enjoy it, and may all of you have the best of holidays and the brightest of New Years. Enjoy!


"Matthew, for goodness' sake, close the door."

Matthew McShannon made a face at his older sister as he stamped the snow from his boots. "Chelle, for goodness' sake, quit bossing."

Chelle tossed her dark curls and went back to cutting biscuits to go with the beans Ma had baked for supper. Matt deliberately kicked some snow in her direction on his way to the stove. Chelle might look fourteen and try to act twenty, but she was only twelve and needed to be reminded of it often.

The scents of salt pork and molasses wafting from the oven made Matt's stomach rumble. He pinned his gloves and scarf to the line over the stove, where years of stored sunshine poured from the fire, forcing back the chill of the December afternoon. Winter had come early to the Colorado foothills this year.

Steam started to rise from Matthew's jacket, carrying the unmistakable smell of damp wool. He rubbed his hands to warm them, then fumbled with buttons. The lamp glowing on the table turned the dark window beside him into a mirror, reflecting the cabin's log walls, the bright Indian rug on the pine floor and the ladder leading to the loft. Pa had added rooms on either side as the family grew, but this room hadn't changed since he'd settled here in '65. Somehow, the older Matthew got, the smaller it seemed. Now, at nearly twelve, there were days when it seemed too small. Today was one of those days.

Lamplight struck the glass ornaments Ma and Ethan were hanging on the Christmas tree across the room. Matt had always loved the glittering blue and gold birds with their tails of real feathers, treasures from Ma's childhood home in Philadelphia, but not this year. He frowned in the glass at Ma and Ethan's ruddy heads, at little freckled Abby sitting on the floor near them, and at his own blond, blue-eyed reflection. A hop out of kin, Mrs. Baker at the store called him. Knowing he looked like his grandfather McShannon, whom he'd never met, didn't help.

He dipped water from the stove's boiler into a basin, diluted it with cold from the pump and washed his hands. Ma looked over her shoulder, smiling. "Will your father be in soon?"

"Yeah, he's just checking on Diamond. He'll be done in a minute." Matt hung his jacket by the door and curled up on the bunk where Dad used to sleep before Ma had come along. Ethan tucked a paper snowflake among the branches of the little pine and brushed his hands together with satisfaction.

"I'm done, Ma. Matt, is Diamond going to have her foal?"

"Pa says any day now." Matt shrugged, annoyed at himself. What's wrong with me? Last year I would have been as excited as Ethan about the foal. Why not now?

The lamp flickered in a gust of cold air as Pa came in, banging the door behind him. Now the room felt even more crowded. Matt and Pa seemed to rub each other the wrong way more and more often this winter.

Ma came across the room and slipped her arms around Pa inside his unbuttoned coat. "Trey, you're freezing." A little woman not much higher than his shoulder, she stood on tiptoe to kiss him. "Hurry and sit in. Supper's ready."

"And I'm ready for it, Beth." Pa shrugged out of his coat and hurried to wash up. Chelle took her biscuits from the oven and put them on a plate while Ma dished up the beans. Matt took his seat and bowed his head with the others as Pa said grace.
"Thank you, Lord, for this Your bounty and for allowing us to be together on the night of Your Son's birth. Amen."

The trace of a Southern drawl in Pa's voice irked Matt somehow. It made him think of places he'd never seen, and wouldn't be able to see for years, if ever. Like Ma's ornaments. He sighed into his plate. Things had come to a fine pass when you couldn't enjoy a Christmas tree.

Ethan spoke around a mouthful of beans. "It's my turn to name the new foal, isn't it Pa? How about Thunder?"

Pa nodded. "Thunder Cloud would be a fine name if it's a colt." All the colts born on the place had Cloud in their names after Flying Cloud, Dad's old stallion. A horseman already at six, in a way Matt knew he would never be, Ethan's round face beamed with pride.

"If it's a filly, I'll call her Glory."

Matt dropped his fork. It clattered against his plate as words tumbled out like water bursting a dam. "Glory's a stupid name for a horse. Can't you think of something that makes some kind of sense?"

Ethan's quick temper flashed as Matt knew it would. "That's what you think, mister big-for-your-britches. Speak when you're spoken to, come when you're called."

A warning spark lit Pa's dark eyes. "That's enough, boys. Eat your supper."

Ethan stuck his tongue out. Before Matt could think, he snatched up half of the buttered biscuit on his plate and pitched it at Ethan's head. It grazed him, leaving a smear of butter on his fore head before hitting the floor with a dull splat. The next thing Matthew knew, Pa's rough hand grabbed his shirt collar. "Up to the loft. Now."

With the strength of anger, Matt tried to jerk free and almost managed it. "He – "
"Now!"

Eyes stinging, Matt scrambled up the ladder and dashed between trunks and boxes. He threw himself on the bed jammed against the back wall. His hands balled into fists as he stared into the shadows that hid the roof's peak.

Four more years, no more. I'll scrape the money together somehow, get on the stage and never show my face in Wallace Flats again.
He stayed there, nursing the painful knot in his chest, while the family finished eating. He heard the click of plates as Chelle cleared the table, then Ma's light step on the ladder. Matt closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep. In a moment, he felt her hand on his hair, then heard her soft tread as she retreated.

"He's asleep. I hope he hasn't picked up that flu that's going around the school. He hasn't been himself today."

Pa answered, murmuring something about age that Matthew didn't quite catch. He lay still, listening to the familiar sounds of supper being cleared away.

It came upon a midnight clear, that glorious song of old
With angels bending near the earth to touch their harps of gold.
Chelle's soprano rose clear and light as a feather above Ma's lower, richer voice carrying the melody. Pa joined in the next verse, his baritone a touch off key but still somehow pleasing to the ear.

Silently, how silently the wondrous gift is giv'n...

A gift. What gift was there in Christmas when everything worth having was beyond your grasp, like the silly girls' stuff Chelle oohed and aahed over in the shop windows when they made a trip to Denver?

They sang Once in Royal David's City next, then O Come All Ye Faithful. The carols went on until the dishes were done and the door of the pantry cupboard clicked shut.

"Ethan, Abby, bed."

"Aw, Ma, it's only seven thirty."

The smile in Ma's voice carried up to Matt. "Ethan, you know Santa won't come until you're asleep. Go on now. Abby, come here."

The cabin grew quiet. Matt pictured Ethan asleep in the room they shared, curled up in a ball, his mouth open. Abby would be lying on her stomach in her crib, her carroty hair tumbled across the pillow, and Chelle would be on the hearth rug reading, her long legs folded Indian style. The thin rustle of tissue paper and Ma and Pa's muted voices told Matthew they were wrapping gifts. The knot in his chest grew tighter. Should he even bother pretending he still believed in Santa Claus this year? Last year he'd had his doubts, but now, without anyone saying anything, he knew.

By the time Pa blew out the lamp, Matt's eyelids were growing heavy. He let them close. The next thing he knew he was staring out the loft window, shivering, his quilts kicked off onto the floor.

A few ragged clouds blew across the remains of an old moon, fading the sharp shadow of the barn roof. His back ached from the lumps in the little-used chaff tick on the loft bed. Why hadn't someone wakened him to go down to his own bed? Grumbling under his breath, Matt climbed down the ladder.

The dim moonlight showed him the presents under the tree, but he ignored them and padded across the room. He'd acted like a kid and he'd have to say sorry at breakfast, but that wouldn't cure what was eating at him. Nothing would, until he figured out what the problem was.

It was so still he nearly jumped out of his skin when the front door creaked. He whirled around and saw Pa's tall shape silhouetted in the moonlight.

"Pa, is it Diamond?"

"Yeah." Pa's shadow leapt as he stepped to the table, then vanished when he lit the lamp. He oured a cup of coffee from the enamel pot on the stove and scraped back a chair at the table. "What are you doing up?"

"You left me up in the loft."

Pa ignored his peeved tone and gave Matt one of his thoughtful looks. "I meant to wake you in a minute. Diamond had a little filly."

Shame for the way he'd acted at dinner heating his cheeks, Matthew stood rooted in place, torn between going to Pa and turning away. It always seemed to be like that now. "Are they all right?"

"Couldn't be better. She only laboured for a couple of hours. Come here, son."
Pa patted the chair next to him. Matt shuffled across the floor, the chill seeping through his socks. Pa still had his coat on; the smell of hay and horses began rising from it in response to the stove's heat. Pa's smell. Matt slid onto the chair and parked his elbows on the table, the scent pushing and pulling at him both. He sighed and said what had to be said.

"Sorry about dinner. Ethan just makes me so mad at times."

"I know."

Pa sipped his coffee while the silence built between them. Then, with a suddenness that made Matt jump again, he set his empty cup on the table.

"Get your coat on and come out with me."

It didn't occur to Matthew to argue. He bundled up and followed Pa out into the star-swept night, into the rich, still, dark air of the barn. Instead of lighting the lantern, Pa just sat on the grain bin, his shape barely visible in the darkness. The soft scraping of hooves in straw was the only sound until he spoke.

"You don't seem much interested in Christmas this year, Matthew. Last year you were almost as excited as Ethan."

Matt kept his distance, leaning against the half-door of old Flying Cloud's stall. "Santa and all that stuff...it's for kids. I'm not six anymore."

He heard Pa's dry chuckle, could almost see the glint in his dark eyes that would accompany it. "You sure aren't. You've grown like a weed this year. At this rate you'll bealmost as tall as me next Christmas. You're growing up, and growing up is never easy."

"Growing up? Hell, I won't be twenty-one for – "

Dad didn't chuckle this time. He roared with laughter, completely drowning out Matthew's words, ignoring his 'hell' completely. "Twenty-one? For Pete's sake, Matt."

"What's so darned funny?"

Pa shook his head, his laughter dying away into the rafters. "I'm not laughing at you, son. In a year or so you'll understand." He drew a deep breath and let it out, the steam showing in a patch of moonlight. "Matt, you're all McShannon on the outside and all Surette on the inside."

Matthew said nothing. After a pause, Pa went on. "When I was your age, there were times when I felt like the only thing keeping me from everything I wanted to do was time. Do you ever feel like that?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah. I remember. Where I was, was never where I wanted to be. Even at Christmas."

"Yeah, even at Christmas." Matt pressed his back tighter to the wood behind him and tried to swallow his anger, but he couldn't quite manage it. It might have been easier if he'd known why he was angry. "Pa, why do people lie to kids about Santa Claus? Because I know he is a lie."

Dad lifted a heavy dark brow. "Who told you that?"

"No one. I'm smart enough to put two and two together. The tags on the gifts are always in Ma's writing, and Chelle never even mentions Santa any more. It's all just a story, like the one you tell about the animals being able to talk at midnight on Christmas Eve. Only, if you wait up to hear them, they won't. Because it's just a story."

Pa let out another smoking breath, Matt's stinging tone rolling off him like water. "Are you sure? Have you ever waited up to hear them?"

"Of course not. You and Ma would never let us."

"Well, it's just about midnight now. Be quiet and listen."

Pa sat very still on the grain bin. For the next minute or so Matt strained for every sound, but he heard only the sounds of the horses in their stalls and a coyote down in the river valley, a mile or so off.

Just a story.

Then he thought of the books he liked to read that took him to places all over the world, of the stories in carols they'd sung after supper. Of the way Ma had touched his hair when she came up to the loft. Of the excitement on Ethan's face at the thought of Santa coming. Matt listened with his heart, and he understood.

"Pa, light the lantern."

A match flared. Pa hung the hurricane lantern on its hook in the middle of the aisle. He held Matt's gaze for a long moment, then smiled.
"What did you hear?"

"Nothing special, with my ears at least." He shrugged. "I guess there's more than one kind of truth, isn't there?"

Pa nodded. "Yeah. Matt, don't wish your life away. Twenty-one will come before you know it. And don't let Ethan get to you. He's only six, after all."

"Yeah." Matt crossed the aisle to look into Diamond's stall. The black mare lay stretched out on her side. The color of dark chocolate, with the same white star on her forehead as her mother, the new foal lay curled up beside her, her spindly legs in tangle. Pa came to lean beside Matt, his warmth reaching through to dissolve the knot in Matt's chest. They shared a smile that brought them closer than they'd been in a while, then he turned back to the mare and foal.
"Merry Christmas, Glory."

McShannon's Heart is Available!

This morning I checked on Bluewood Publishing's website to find McShannon's Heart listed in the bookstore as available. Here's the link: Bluewood Bookstore Now, I can go around calling myself a multi-published author, at least when no one can hear me. SCROLL DOWN TO ENTER MY CONTEST TO WIN A COPY!

It feels good. I'm fond of Rochelle and even fonder of Martin. He reminds me of some of the musicians I knew in my time as a member of the Halifax Harbour Folk Society, including my DH.

We met through music. After putting my guitar aside for a couple of years while I completed my Masters degree, I decided I wanted to start playing again. Everett had posted a notice at the Dal Student Union, advertising for students. I phoned the number and started taking lessons from him.

I knew he was a gifted musician the first time I heard him play. By the time my first lesson was over, I knew he was also an excellent teacher. That's a more unusual combination than you might think – many gifted players don't know how they do what they do, they just do it. My guy is a quiet, reserved type, much like Martin, so I didn't begin to figure out what kind of a person he was until a few weeks later.

After my second lesson, we agreed to meet at the Folk Society's weekly coffee house. It was my turn to host that December night. When the song circle ended, we stepped outside to find that it had started to snow. Hard. I insisted I'd be okay driving home, as it was only a few blocks. We said goodnight and got in our separate vehicles.

When I pulled into the yard of my apartment building, lights flashed in my mirror. Everett's lights. I'd been so focus on the road as I drove that I hadn't noticed him following me. He bumped his horn, backed out and drove away. He wasn't looking to be asked in, wasn't looking for anything, he just wanted to be sure I was all right. We didn't know each other well at all, but that was when I started to think of him as a possible keeper.

I think of Martin as the same type of man, well worth knowing once you get past his reserve. I hope readers will enjoy him as well.

This morning I checked on Bluewood Publishing's website t...

This morning I checked on Bluewood Publishing's website to find McShannon's Heart listed in the bookstore as available. Here's the link: Bluewood Bookstore Now, I can go around calling myself a multi-published author, at least when no one can hear me.

It feels good. I'm fond of Rochelle and even fonder of Martin. He reminds me of some of the musicians I knew in my time as a member of the Halifax Harbour Folk Society, including my DH.

We met through music. After putting my guitar aside for a couple of years while I completed my Masters degree, I decided I wanted to start playing again. Everett had posted a notice at the Dal Student Union, advertising for students. I phoned the number and started taking lessons from him.

I knew he was a gifted musician the first time I heard him play. By the time my first lesson was over, I knew he was also an excellent teacher. That's a more unusual combination than you might think – many gifted players don't know how they do what they do, they just do it. My guy is a quiet, reserved type, much like Martin, so I didn't begin to figure out what kind of a person he was until a few weeks later.

After my second lesson, we agreed to meet at the Folk Society's weekly coffee house. It was my turn to host that December night. When the song circle ended, we stepped outside to find that it had started to snow. Hard. I insisted I'd be okay driving home, as it was only a few blocks. We said goodnight and got in our separate vehicles.

When I pulled into the yard of my apartment building, lights flashed in my mirror. Everett's lights. I'd been so focus on the road as I drove that I hadn't noticed him following me. He bumped his horn, backed out and drove away. He wasn't looking to be asked in, wasn't looking for anything, he just wanted to be sure I was all right. We didn't know each other well at all, but that was when I started to think of him as a possible keeper.

I think of Martin as the same type of man, well worth knowing once you get past his reserve. I hope readers will enjoy him as well.