Marsha Canham's Blog, page 16

And now for something a little different

My guest blogger today is Phoebe Matthews, one of several thousand…well, okay at least a hundred…authors on the BacklistEbooks email loop. It's a great loop with a lot of good information for authors with backlists trying to wade their way into the deep and sometimes murky waters of self publishing. Along the way, you hear some cool stories too that make anonymous faces seem a little more personal *s* Enjoy.

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When I was very small, and the great-uncles smelled of whiskey and cigars, and the great-aunts gossiped about each other, I heard snippets of stories that were way too fascinating for the ears of children and so my sisters and cousins and I did a lot of pretending to be busy reading in a corner after Sunday dinner at my grandparents' house. The house was, and still is, in Chicago, a three story house built by an ancestor for his young immigrant bride. They were married in the 1870s, and I have a photo of their children sitting on the porch with their 4th of July decorations, 1885. The house is in walking distance from Lincoln Park Zoo. The street's name has been changed but the house is still there, converted into offices for a non-profit.

Over the years I played with the stories, planned to turn them into a long novel, did mountains of research, and then realized the stories weren't a novel, they were snippets of memories. For instance, my grandfather remembered seeing Evelyn Nesbit as the closing act at the vaudeville, swinging out over the audience on a swing with red velvet ropes. Oh yeah, of course she was fully clothed, this was vaudeville, not burlesque. She sat motionless in the swing, and never smiled. "Saddest face I've ever seen," he told me. But Evelyn, once a favorite model of Gibson, later married to a millionaire, had been the center of a scandal that rocked Chicago and left her with no other means of earning a living. All the audience wanted was a chance to see her. They didn't expect talent. (The 1950s movie titled Girl in the Red Velvet Swing starred a very young and gorgeous Joan Collins as Evelyn.)

And there was the cherry bomb story, and stories of the stage door Johnnies and the broken marriages and the screaming fights, all tales to clutter up our young minds.

The stories fit better into novellas. So that's how my Chicago 1890s trilogy started. Could have called it the Gay Nineties, which is what that historical era was once called, but that label would kind of mislead people now. If you watch Coronation Street, well, drag the theme back to Chicago 1890s when the Columbia Exposition opened and all the little boys in the neighborhood first saw and fell madly in love with Lillian Russell, including my great-uncles. The stories were passed down in my family, and then I added fiction to tie them together. Some are true as they stand, some are exaggerated, and some are pure fiction and on pain of painful death at the hands of family members, I won't say which is which.

As for the cover of the first novella, I tried a photo of the house. Everyone in the Loop group said it looked like a murder mystery. So then I searched thru BigStock and there he was, a young man who remarkably resembled ancient photos of one of the great-uncles. I know Marsha doesn't much like this cover, but ohmygod that's Rudy. Right down to the expression. Women went in and out of his life, and I don't think he ever figured out why.

- Phoebe Matthews

http://phoebematthews.com

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And don't forget to check out the amazing, stupendous, huge coupon sale over at Smashwords where you can get a lot of great backlist books from 10-100% off!!!!

Random mini rants and how they improve blood flow

Whilst I was away in Florida, a good friend and neighbour kept an eye on the house for me.  Richard and his son cut my grass in the summer, plow out my driveway in the winter…no mean feat if you've seen the pics of how much snow accumulates in a windy blizzard.  So there I was in sunny Florida, having followed all the suggestions from my fellow snowbirds about how to prep the house for closing…some of which I forgot, but hey it was my first real attempt on my own.

Rule one, they say:  make sure all doors and windows are locked, planks put in sliding doors, timers left on lights to make them come on at different times of the evening.

Easy enough.  The house is like Fort Knox anyway, but I added a thick plank in the back slider and bought two light timers.  Light timers.  Hmmmm.  I've used them before, so I know you just set the time, plug em in, plug the lamp into them and voila.  The light comes on then shuts off.  Naturally I set them up a few days early to make sure they worked.

First night, nothing from the one, second one came on during the day.  Adjust adjust.  Second night, neither of them came on.  Adjust, growl, adjust.  Third night stood there, arms crossed, glaring at the stupid thing at the appointed time.  Heard clicking, but no light came on.  Removed from plug, felt a surge of adrenalin and hurled it against wall. Felt much better.

Rule two, lower the temp setting on the furnace; no point keeping the house at 70 when you're in Florida where it's 90.  Following advice, I set the temp at 50, enough to keep the plants from going into shock and more than enough to stop the water from freezing in the pipes.

I was in Florida one week and got a call from my neighbour.  House alarm was going off.  It seemed to be coming from the smoke detector which is hard wired into the house system.  Richard searched the house for anything that might be causing smoke and found nothing aside from an "odd smell"  in my office.  Side note here. My office is not only where I write, but where I have my stained glass workshop set up.  It used to be two bedrooms, but the builder left the dividing wall and closets out so I could have one rather large room.  Its well ventilated, with two large windows, and I suppose I don't notice the lingering odor of burned wood, metal, flux, cutting oil etc that clings to everything.  But I assumed this was the source of the "odd odour" in the room so I wasn't panicking.  Nothing was smoldering. I had shut off all the tools.  Richard found nothing burning, so he locked up again and returned home.

Shortly after, he gets a call from the neighbour across the street.  House alarms are going off again.  Richard runs down. Calls my son, who zooms over.  Now there three big guys searching my house looking for something, anything that could be setting off the alarms.  As a precaution they unplug everything.  I mean…everything.  Computers, clocks, lamps (lamp timers).  Jefferson notices the house is pretty damned cold so he turns the furnace up.  Half hour later, still no heat, so he fiddles with the furnace again, finally gets it going.  He brings a fireman buddy back the next day to check the house more thoroughly, but even he could find nothing smoldering, nothing giving off anything that could be triggering the alarm.  They even check the window wells to see if some creatures have burrowed in against the window for warmth and have somehow set off the contacts.

Middle of the night, the alarms go off again.  Richard is at work this time and my son is unavailable.  Richard's wife is dispatched, with the other neighbour as backup, and together they prowl through the house with baseball bats.  Nothing.  Out of sheer frustration (see vent about timer above, so I am completely in sinc with this)  they shut down the breaker that controls the alarm system.  At least there will be peace in the 'hood that night.

Meanwhile, I've been kept informed via phonecalls, but really, what can someone do from 2000 miles away?  So I'm retelling the tale at happy hour and one of the other Canucks asks what kind of alarm system I have at home.  I give him the name and he says Hah!  That system is wired to set off the alarm if the house temp drops below 55 degrees.

Quick phonecalls to the son and the neighbour to relay the message, telling them to up the house temp to at least 55.  Done. Breaker goes back on. They wait an hour, two;  they listen with bated breath.  Silence.  Victory!

They lock up, walk away…and the alarm goes off again.

I could do a small segue here and tell the tale of the ghost we had at our previous house.  Wasn't my imagination, though in the beginning I was totally convinced I was going nuts.  And I wasn't the only one on the street who had an uninvited visitor.  But when we left Ajax, we left Reggie in the house too. He didn't come with us, despite being invited this time.  But he used to pull little pranks like that in the beginning.  There would be a knock on the door…I'd check..no one there…go back to what I was doing…hear another knock…growl..check again…no one there…etc.  Once I stood there and waited and the little pecker knocked on the back sliding door.  Kids, you might think.  Nope.  Our back slider was on the second storey and there were no stairs, no access to the upper deck from the ground.  It was Reggie.

I digress only because that thought did occur to me.  Having gone through one ghostly prankster, it was  feasible Reggie might have changed his mind and come to find me.  And just how, would you suppose, was I to suggest that to some frustrated neighbours with baseball bats?  I wisely bit my tongue and just said sure, fine, of course it's okay to shut the breaker off again.  It remained off and the house remained blissfully silent until I got home, at which time I noticed it was only 45 degrees in there and went to turn up the furnace and…if you've read my earlier blog, you'll know the furnace was the culprit and it had to be ripped out and replaced with a new one that very same day.  It was barely 11 years old, which shouldn't have been old in furnace years, but had already been serviced twice for fancy electronic do dads that…as the repair guy told me…were only built to last about five years.  Think you have a pilot light on your new furnace? Think again.  You have an igniter switch, life span: five years.  After that you're at the mercy and whim of the furnace gods.

So. This leads up to  the present day when I thought I would take Richard and his wife out to dinner as a small way of thanking him for all the aggravation my house put him through.  We had a great meal at a local restaurant, laughed a lot, then decided to continue at home where we could imbibe with impunity and not worry about exceeding limits.  The bill came and the waiter was chuckling over a portent to come:  I'd had two Caesars with dinner, but one of them rang through as a Brain Hemorrhage.  The waiter had no explanation, couldn't figure out why it rang through like that, didn't even know what the drink was but it was the same price as the Caesar so…  I checked the bill, it's fine, hand him my credit card…and he comes back with this mechanical gizmo covered in buttons with a tiny backlit screen with instructions on it for total, adding the tip etc.  He drops it on the table and says just call when you're finished.  Richard's wife and I both peer at this new creature but before we can even begin to figure out the buttons, the light goes out.  Screen goes blank.  Smack it.  Touch the screen. Bang a few buttons. Nothing.  The waiter is off at another table, so we wait.  He chuckles and taps a single key and hands it back.  The screen reads something entirely different from the last screen, but before I can point it out to him, he's gone again and the screen has gone dark.  I start tapping buttons trying to find the magic one he tapped, but nothing.  By now the blood is warming.  I can feel it, like James Stewart's scream in Harvey…starting in my toes and rising up into my calves…my legs…my waist….into my chest….  The waiter cruises by again and I fling the stupid thing at him and ask for a real check…the kind you run through the puter, get a paper copy, add the tip, sign the bottom and all is well with the world.  He shakes his head.  Nope, can't do that.  This is the only way to pay a bill.

Seriously?

I ask for the manager but the waiter is adamant the manager can't do anything more than he can, so he hands me the dufus again and again the friggin screen goes blank, so by then the blood is making the little veins on the side my neck throb.  The waiter…frightened now…reaches over gingerly, taps the right button, brings the screen up again, tells me just to hit OK, he'll live without a tip.  I hit OK and it spews out a paper tab that I STILL HAVE TO SIGN, so what's the farking point of the gizmo???????  Luckily I had enough cash for a tip, but sheesh….I'm reasonably sort of intelligent and can almost deal sort of calmly with the fact that every debit machine in every store is a different make and model and you need to relearn the process every time you check out.  But this…this finostigator was beyond my patience and I'm guessing it will be beyond the patience of a lot of older customers.  I love the food there, the service was great…but I won't be going back.  The Brain Hemorrhage was just a bit too aptly named for my taste.

Sample Sunday…and a favor

It's that time again.  Time to try out something new.  Julie Ortolon is another Loopie.  She writes contemporary romance and is directly responsible for dragging me into the brave new world of self publishing.  The sample today is from her book, Falling For You, book one of the Pearl Island Trilogy.

Enjoy *s*

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The enthusiasm that had kept Rory up half the night faltered when she reached the Liberty Union National Bank. Stepping through the glass doors framed in polished brass, she tried not to gape at the opulent lobby. Mahogany paneling rose twenty feet to the coffered ceiling. To one side of the entrance, leather sofas bracketed Oriental rugs, and financial magazines lay in regimented order on antique coffee tables.

A low hum of voices drew her attention in the opposite direction, where tellers sat behind a long counter, waiting on customers. Two of the tellers she recognized as classmates from high school, girls who'd gone on to college and now worked at a job she couldn't even fathom. The thought of all those numbers they dealt with so effortlessly made her stomach clench.

Between customers, they bent their heads together and laughed over some bit of gossip, then glanced toward an older woman with mocha skin and jet-black hair smoothed into a French twist. When the older woman looked up, the tellers instantly sobered, like schoolgirls spotting their teacher.

Rory noticed the older woman's desk guarded a hallway lined with closed doors. Chance's office would probably lie behind one of those doors. Never one to let intimidation hold her back for long, she took a deep breath and crossed the lobby. Her rubber-soled deck shoes squeaked on the marble floor, making her cringe. She'd worn her tour guide uniform since she planned to go straight to work afterward. Galveston was a casual community and she'd never felt out of place wearing shorts—until now.

"Excuse me," she said in a subdued voice when she reached the desk. "I'm here to see Oliver Chancellor."

The older woman looked up and took in Rory's attire over the tops of reading glasses. "Is he expecting you?"

"Yes, of course, I'm Rory, I mean—" She took a breath and slowed down. "I'm Aurora St. Claire."

The woman ran a finger down a list of names. "I don't see you. What time was your appointment?"

Rory squirmed. "I didn't exactly make an appointment. But I did tell him I'd be coming in today."

"Regarding?" The woman arched a black brow.

"He'll know," Rory said, hoping he remembered.

"Hmm." The woman's lips compressed. "I'll see if he's available."

"Thank you." Rory offered a smile that seemed to go unnoticed.

As the woman picked up the phone and spoke in a hushed voice, Rory tucked her hair behind her ears and wondered if she should have pulled it back. People who worked at real jobs always seemed to have a secret set of standards she could never quite grasp. Looking about the lobby, at the framed portraits of men with dark suits and serious expressions, she suddenly felt like a bit of flotsam that had been tossed by a storm onto a manicured lawn.

"Aurora?"

She turned to see Chance striding toward her and her heart skipped a beat in surprise. He looked quite fashionable—and intimidating—in an olive-colored suit. Yet something in his welcoming smile made her nervous stomach relax.

"You came," he said. "I wondered if you would."

"Yes, of course. I said I would, and here I am." She spread her arms to either side.

"So I see." His gaze swept downward, toward her legs, then darted away. "Perhaps you'd, um—" He cleared his throat. "Care to step into my office."

"Certainly." Her enthusiasm returned and tangled with her nerves as she followed him down the hall. She caught her breath when she passed through the door, for the room was every bit as grand as the lobby, but on a smaller scale. "Wow," she said. "What a great office."

"Thanks," he said from behind her. She turned and saw him smile as he pushed his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose. He really was cute, in a scholarly sort of way. Except for his mouth. His mouth wasn't cute at all. It was well defined, full, and… sensual. The kind of mouth that put thoughts into a girl's head.

Glancing about, she took in the massive desk, the wet bar set discreetly within the custom-built cabinets, and an oil painting of the beach at sunset. "You must love working here."

"Why do you say that?"

"You know, the office, the bank, everything." Her gesture took in the whole room. "God, it must have been wonderful to grow up knowing you had all this waiting for you. You know"—she laughed and waved her hand—"instead of being like me and wondering what the heck you would do with your life." When he just frowned as if confused, she clasped her hands to keep them still.

"Can I get you anything?" He nodded toward the coffeepot on the bar.

"No, nothing. I'm fine."

"Well, then, have a seat." He gestured toward a pair of chairs that sat on either side of an end table and lamp that gave the room a homey feel. "I assume you're here to talk about Pearl Island?"

"Yes!" Trying to contain her excitement, she took a seat in the closest chair and waited for Chance to sit in the other. "I, we, what I mean is, Adrian, Allison, and I talked about it and they agreed with my idea. Well, actually, they didn't agree, but they didn't object to me looking into it."

" 'It' being… ?" Chance prompted, smothering a smile.

"What?" She blinked at him. "Oh! Sorry," she laughed. "I got ahead of myself."

He watched, enthralled, as energy sparkled in her blue eyes. How could one person contain so much joy for life?

"We want to turn the house on Pearl Island into a bed-and-breakfast."

With her face distracting him, the words took a second to sink in. But when they did, the enormity of such a project—the complications, cost, possible solutions, potential income—clicked through his mind. "I assume you've looked into the logistics behind something like this?"

"Not yet," she admitted. "I mean, I've thought about it off and on over the years, but more as a dream, not something that could actually come true. Then, when I saw you putting up that sign, I just knew it was meant to be!" She  gestured with her hands and hit the lamp on the table between them.

"Oh!" She gasped as they both grabbed the lamp. When it was settled, she folded her hands in her lap. "Sorry."

"It's okay." He chuckled. "At least it wasn't me knocking something over."

His smile faded, though, as he absorbed her lack of business expertise and weighed it against her obvious passion. Passion, he knew, could make the difference between a new business succeeding or failing. But it was an uncertain element, and best left out of the equation.

"Aurora," he said, leaning forward to brace his forearms on his thighs. "You do realize that what you're proposing will be impossible to pull off without a great deal of financial backing and research."

"Yes, of course." Her expression showed the first signs of doubt. "But I figured you could help me out with the money part. As for the research…" She glanced away. "I'll think of something."

He cocked his head. "What do you mean, you'll 'think of something'?"

She shrugged. "It's just that I've never been very good at that sort of thing. Researching, I mean. I guess I could get Adrian and Alli to help me some. Maybe."

He watched her shoulders slump. "I don't understand."

"I'm not good at analytical stuff." She leaned forward and a scent, like exotic flowers washed by the rain, drifted to him. Subtly, he breathed it in as she lowered her voice. "You know, reading up on things, filling out paperwork." Her gaze met his and the anxiety he saw in her eyes confused him. "I'm not stupid or anything. I'm just… a bit slow… at certain things."

"I see," he said, even though he didn't see at all. There didn't seem to be a single thing "slow" about Aurora St. Claire. She'd always struck him as being very bright, from her quick wit to her shining personality. "Unfortunately, research is the first step in forming a business plan. You'll need to do that before you even think of applying for a loan."

"Oh." Her shoulders slumped a bit more and her eyes beseeched him. "I don't suppose you'd know someone who could help me."

The longing he sensed reached right inside him and grabbed hold. Logically, he knew he should discourage her from this wild idea, but logic had nothing to do with the way he felt when he looked into her hopeful blue eyes. "I could probably help you some. Point you in the right direction, at least."

"You could?" Her whole face brightened. "Oh, Chance, that would be great." She laid a hand on his arm and the contact sent a streak of awareness through his system.

"I, um…" He struggled to think straight, but every breath filled him with her fragrance. "What I mean is, Ron and Betsy McMillan, who own the Laughing Mermaid Inn, do their banking here. Maybe I could give them a call and ask for advice on where you should start."

"Do you really think they'd help?"

"I don't see why not." His gaze moved to her smile and he wondered if her lips tasted as good as she smelled. "Is there a number where I can reach you?"

"Oh, yes, of course." Leaning back, she fumbled through the mesh bag she carried as a purse. "Do you have something I can write on?"

He rose and retrieved a notepad from his desk, then took a breath to clear his head. "Here." He turned to hand it to her and found that she'd followed him. Taking the pad, she bent over his desk and began to write. He tried not to notice how the shorts rose up to show the backs of her thighs. God, she had great legs.

"Here you go." She straightened and handed him the pad. "That's the mobile number for the tour-boat office. We usually turn it off when we're out on the water but you can leave a message and I'll call you back."

"Sure." He frowned as he remembered the muscle-bound boat driver and wondered if they did more than work together. "Why don't you take my card, so you'll know how to reach me?"

Taking the card he offered, she ran her thumb over the gold print and cream linen paper. "Nice card," she said quietly.

"Thanks. I'll, um"—he swallowed hard as she caressed the raised type that spelled out his name—"be in touch with you as soon as I've talked to Ron and Betsy."

When she glanced up, the space between them seemed to shrink. "I can't thank you enough. You have no idea what this means to me."

"You're welcome," he said, as heat hummed through his veins. "Although maybe you should wait until you've talked to the McMillans to thank me." Needing some space to cool off, he moved to the door to show her out. "You may not like what they have to say. Starting a business is a huge undertaking."

"I know. Whatever they say, though, I appreciate your help."

He opened the door, bumping it against the back of his shoe.

She extended her hand. "And thanks for not laughing at me, even though I know you probably wanted to." She wrinkled her nose, and he noticed she had freckles, a light dusting of them on the bridge of her nose.

"Not at all." He took her hand, intending to shake it, but wound up standing there, simply holding it.

"Well," she said, seeming perfectly comfortable with her hand in his, their bodies almost touching in the confines of the doorway.

"Yes." He admired the lively blue color that danced in her eyes. "Well."

"I guess I should be going." She took a step back, bumped into the doorjamb, and laughed.

"Careful!" He laughed also, and reached toward her head. "Don't hurt yourself."

"I'm fine." A pink blush stained her cheeks. "Just clumsy."

"That's probably my fault. I didn't realize it was contagious."

"If it is, you're in trouble." She wrinkled her nose again, and he had the wild impulse to kiss those fascinating freckles. Or maybe her mouth. Definitely her mouth. Man, it was gorgeous, so ripe and full-lipped. The red color appeared natural, not from cosmetics. In fact, she wasn't wearing any cosmetics. "I really do have to go."

"Okay," he said.

"I guess I'll hear from you later?" She stepped safely into the hall this time. "As soon as I talk to the McMillans."

"Okay, then." She waved and took a few steps backward before she turned and headed across the lobby. His gaze followed her all the way to the door, mesmerized by the spring in her stride and those long, bare legs.

The moment she disappeared, though, doubt raised its head. He hoped his father wouldn't take offense at his offering to help a descendant of Marguerite Bouchard buy Pearl Island. He knew his father wanted to give John first right to buy the place back, but so far the man had showed no interest in doing so. Rumor had it John LeRoche had fallen into some serious financial difficulties since he'd put the house up as collateral.

Those rumors were almost enough to make Chance wonder if Pearl Island really was a good-luck charm—that is, if he was the type to believe in magic and ghosts.

*****

I was going to post two samples today but I'm spilling one over to tomorrow in order to take a moment here to ask a favor.  I'm sure all of us have had the ugliness of cancer touch  our families and loved ones.  I lost my father to that horrid disease 18 yrs ago and not a day goes by  that I don't miss him terribly.  I used to sit with him through long days and nights in the hospital, marvelling at the fact that he never gave up hope, never stopped fighting until the very end.

There's a little guy putting up a brave fight now and he apparently checks his facebook page every day, thrilled to find new posts from strangers all over the country/world giving him support and hope.  Please take a few moments to follow this link: http://www.facebook.com/FightOnJackson  and just say hello.  Tell him where you're from and let him know there are people out there cheering him on.

Thank you.

And Phoebe, I promise I'll put you up tomorrow *s*

No wonder I write Historical Romances

The workings of the 21st century are obviously far beyond this dinosaur's scope of understanding.  I prefer the simple things in life.  A good cup of coffee.  Only took me 14..count em…FOURTEEN coffee makers to find one that made a good cup without having to consult the manual each time and fiddle with a dozen buttons.  I've had it for about 6 years now, and having said that, the jinx is likely in place and it should crash and burn by the end of the week *snort*

I like to just click a button and have the TV come on.  Cool.  Interesting concept.  I have four converters by my TV chair and two by my bed, none of which work independently from the others.   One turns the damned thing on, the other works the damned satellite–which is, in itself fodder for an entire blog.  I used to enjoy my subscription to TV Guide.  I could open it to a page and instantly see what was on, read up a little blurb or two…click and find the station.  Some genius must have thought that was too easy.  There are now a thousand satellite stations to wade through, most of them duplicated a few hundred numbers apart to distinguish HD from non-HD.  There are packages and pay per view and even if you get it all figured out where to find stuff, they keep changing the channels around to make room for more.  Our first TV had three stations.  My TV in Florida works off an antenna and gets the major networks and I survived!  Well, apart from the fact I could only get NBC in the bedroom, which meant I usually fell asleep halfway through a program.

Won't even go into DVD's and Blurays and Wii thingies and surroundsound dufii that have to be hooked up and co-ordinated with the main TV…ergo the third and fourth converter.  Get an All-In-One?  Sure. And a degree in rocket science to know how to use one.

Then we come to the reason for this vent.  My loving family bought me a new E-reader for Mothers Day. I ripped it open, could hardly wait to start playing with it.  I've been wanting to get my hands on  The Fifth Witness since it came out last month and thought AHA…how fitting the first book should be that.  Flipped open the *easy* to use instructions and after charging up the battery…I spent TWO FREAKING HOURS trying to decipher the *easy* instructions and was no further ahead than when I started.  Did Google searches, did the website searches…loaded something that said it would make it work and spent an hour trying to UNinstall it when it nearly seized up my puter. Why can't they just be plug and play?  Why does my brain have to explode before I can get it to work?  It's sitting here on my desk looking at me in all it's elegant splendor, waiting for my techie son in law to explode his brain matter getting it to work.

Meanwhile, I discovered Tweetdeck, which is one little marvel that actually WERKS without having to tax any more gray matter.

Augh. Just Augh.

On a brighter note, the boys of summer are back and Austin's first game is tonight.  AND my son cut my grass today so the dog can actually walk out on the lawn and not get lost for days.  Caught this pic of my pin cherry tree and a busy bee being busy *g*.  Maybe spring really IS here.

 

Sample Sunday

Since I posted earlier in the week about my fellow Loopie, Jacquie D'Alessandro, I thought I would give you an excerpt from her new release, Summer at Seaside Cove.  Hope you enjoy it. Feel free to leave comments.

And Happy Mother's Day to everyone!!!

>>>>>

The sound of pounding penetrated Nick Trent's coma-like sleep.  He pried open one eye and groaned when a shaft of sunlight stabbed his pupil.  Damn.  He'd forgotten to close the blinds again.  How was anybody supposed to get any sleep around here?  And who the hell was making all that racket?

He closed his eye, but the pounding continued along with the added annoyance of someone ringing his doorbell.  Add to that the dog's incessant barking, and it was a cocktail of headache inducing cacophony loud enough to shake his brain inside his skull.  He might have just slapped a pillow over his head, but damn it now that he was awake–sort of–he'd at least have to quiet down the dog who otherwise would bark nonstop until Christmas.

With a growl of annoyance he pushed himself into a sitting position and stared with sleep-bleary eyes at the bedside clock.  Seven twenty-five?  a.m.?  Jesus.  He'd only crawled into bed less than two hours ago.  No wonder he felt as if a truck had hit him.  He glanced down and squinted.  He still wore his jeans from last night–unbuttoned and halfway unzipped.  His Polo shirt, socks, and Reeboks rested in an untidy heap on the floor near his bare feet.

With an effort, he shoved himself to his feet, gave his fly a half-hearted yank, and made his way toward the door, wincing at the pounding and ringing and barking.  Christ.  That was one of the disadvantages of living in such a small community–everyone knew each other and there didn't seem to be any "you don't knock on your neighbor's door at the crack of dawn" boundaries.

The banging and ringing and barking continued until he entered the kitchen.  He whistled to his chocolate Lab who immediately turned and continued to bark, letting him know that someone was at the door.

Like with the pounding and ringing he hadn't figured that out.

"Godiva, sit," Nick said, simultaneously giving her the signal to stop barking.

Godiva's butt hit the floor–for a nanosecond–then she hurled herself at Nick in a tail wagging, tongue lolling, frenzy of doggie adoration.  Clearly more time was needed on her obedience lessons, but he found it impossible to be annoyed at a creature that loved him so profoundly and unconditionally.

"Good girl," he said, scratching behind her dark brown ears while Godiva slathered his forearm with kisses.  He tapped her rump and pointed to the floor.  "Lay.  Stay."

This time Godiva obeyed, stretching out onto her belly, but her body quivered with excitement, her tail sweeping across the kitchen floor while pitiful whines emitted from her throat.

The banging and ringing had continued unabated and with a growl of impatience, Nick yanked open the door.  And stared.  At an unfamiliar woman he judged to be in her mid-twenties who sported a scowl he bet matched his own.

"It's about time you answered the door," she said.

His scowl deepened.  He didn't know who she was or what she was selling, but all that banging and now her attitude had definitely gotten him up on the wrong side of the bed.  "I was asleep."

Her gaze skimmed over him and he could almost hear her cataloging as she went: bad case of bed head, bleary eyes, three-day stubble, no shirt, wrinkled jeans, missing shoes.  He did notice that she lingered for several seconds on his unbuttoned jeans.  When her gaze again met his, pink stained her cheeks.  "Wow, you really were on a bender."

What the hell?  "Really?  Well you don't look so hot either, whoever you are."  Actually, that wasn't precisely true.  In fact, she looked pretty damn good.  Sure her honey-colored hair sported a finger-in-the-light-socket look, and her white tank top and tan pants that hit her mid-calf looked as if she'd slept in them–something he could hardly throw stones at–but her eyes were gorgeous.  They reminded him of caramel sprinkled with dark chocolate.  Probably they'd be even prettier if they weren't filled with an expression that made it clear she'd like to thump him upside his head.

Even her thundercloud frown couldn't hide the fact that she was pretty damn cute, any more than those wrinkly clothes masked the fact that she had more curves on her than a black diamond ski run.  And those dimples flanking her full lips didn't hurt either.  But in his present mood, he didn't really give a damn how cute or curvy she might be.

At least not much.

He crossed his arms over his bare chest and glared at her.   "I've been on a bender?  Hey, black pot–kettle calling.  You reek of vodka."  Okay, maybe reek was too strong a word–but he definitely smelled a trace of vodka–and he damn well knew what it smelled like.  But he also caught a whiff of something kinda good, something sweet he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"That's because I slept in a chair."

"Personally I find it pretty difficult to get good rest on a bar stool, but whatever floats your boat."

"Not on a bar stool–a chair."  Her tone indicated she thought he was three years old, which did nothing to soothe his annoyance.  "A folding chair.  Next door.  AtParadise Lost.  And let me tell you, it is really, really lost."

"Ah–so you're the renter."

"Yes.  And you're the owner.  I thought this place was supposed to ooze southern hospitality."

"I'm not from the south."

"I'm picking up on that."

"Good.  You want hospitality?  Here it is:  Welcome to Seaside Cove.  Now go away and come back at a more reasonable hour.  Likenoon."

He made to close the door, but she slapped her palm against the wooden panel and wedged her curvy self in the opening.  "I'm afraid not.  We need to discuss this right now.  After we've done so, believe me, I'll be more than happy to go away and leave you alone."  She looked past him.  "Is your dog friendly?"

He glanced over his shoulder at Godiva who was inching her way on her belly toward them, tail still swishing, tongue still lolling, her soft brown eyes filled with curiosity about this new person she was clearly dying to sniff.  If Nick had been feeling friendly, he would have assured her that the only thing she had to fear from Godiva was getting licked to death.

Since he was feeling particularly unfriendly, he said, "She's unpredictable."  Right–you never knew if you'd get a Godiva kiss on your arm or your leg or your neck.  "Especially when she hasn't had her breakfast.  So you'd better make this quick."

The door-pounding/bell ringing renter didn't look completely convinced that Godiva might pose a threat, no doubt because Godiva's hopeful eyes and wagging tail and happy little whines practically screamed I love you! Who are you? I love you! If I don't lick you and smell you I'll just die!  You're my new best friend! Did I mention that I love you?

She cleared her throat then returned her attention to Nick.  "The fact that you're the owner–that's why I'm here.  To discuss the deplorable condition of your rental property."

An invisible light bulb went off over Nick's head as understanding seeped into his sluggish brain.  Obviously Princess Vodka here wasn't down with the rustic conditions.  He should have known the renter would be someone who didn't understand what "as is" meant.  "There's nothing deplorable about Paradise Lost.  You didn't have to sleep in a chair–there are beds you know."

"Uh huh.  But none that look overly comfortable."

"Maybe not, but they're better than sleeping on a folding chair."

"Even after spending the night on a folding chair, I'm not necessarily convinced of that.  Besides, I was looking out the window, waiting for you to come home."

Oh, great.  She was not only a door pounding, bell ringing whiner, but a stalker as well.  "I take it the accommodations aren't to your liking."

"That's putting it mildly.  Those two missing bottom steps are a broken leg waiting to happen.  Are you looking for a lawsuit?"

His gaze dropped to her legs which looked long and curvy and definitely not broken.  "Of course not–"

"And then there's the leaky roof.  Water plopped on my head all night.  No matter where I moved that folding chair, the damn drip seemed to follow.  I'm lucky the ceiling didn't cave in on me.  The furniture looks like something you picked up on the side of the road, the entire place doesn't look like it's been painted since the turn of the century, there's no dishwasher or air conditioner, and some idiot left a bag of clams in the sink."

Clams…Nick's memory kicked in.  He'd stopped at Paradise Lost three days ago on his way home from his most successful clamming expedition yet and set down his catch while he'd fixed the dripping bathroom faucet.  He'd put them in the fridge…hadn't he?  Damn–had he left them in the sink?  He couldn't recall, and he'd completely forgotten about them until just now.  But thinking about the fridge suddenly reminded him about the bottle he'd left in the freezer–

"You drank my vodka," he accused, his voice filled with righteous indignation.

She looked at him as if he'd grown a third eye in the middle of his forehead.  "Right after I tossed your clams.  Believe me, I needed a drink."

"You threw away my clams?"  Jesus.  She really was the renter from hell.  "Why on earth would you do that?"

For several seconds she didn't speak–just sawed her jaw back and forth as if she was chewing glass.  Then she said through gritted teeth, "Because they were dead.  And they stunk bad enough to make your eyes water."  Each sentence grew in volume and added another layer of color to her cheeks.  "And they were dripping that foul stench everywhere.  It was disgusting.  And in spite of wrapping my hands in three Piggly Wiggly bags, I may never get the smell off me."

Wow.  No doubt about it, this was one pissed off woman.  She looked like Vesuvius about to blow.  In fact, there might even be steam wisping from her ears.  Normally he was smart enough to step away from any female with murder in her eyes, but he wasn't feeling particularly brilliant this morning.  Especially toward a woman who was a clam murderer.

"Look, whatever your name is–"

"Jamie Newman.  How is it that you don't even know the name of the person you rented your rundown, crappy shack to?"

Okay, curvy and cute or not, this chick was stomping on his last nerve.  "Look, Jamie, I'm tired, cranky, sleep deprived, and in need of an I.V. drip of caffeine–"

"Well, that's what happens when you go off on a three-day bender," she said without a lick of sympathy in her tone.

"What makes you think I was off on a bender?"

"Word gets around quick in a town this size.  Are you saying you weren't?"

"I can't see how that's any of your business.  Those clams, however, were my business.  It took me hours to rake them, and they were fresh from the water when I put them in the fridge."  At least he thought he'd put them in the fridge.  "Why did you kill them?"

"I didn't kill them.  They were dead when I arrived.  And they weren't in the fridge, they were in the sink.  Do you have any idea what dead clams smell like?"

In spite of his annoyance, he had to concede that she had a point–which only irked him further.  That, and the fact that he'd apparently not put his catch in the refrigerator at all.  "Yeah, I do."  He cut his gaze toward Godiva who'd bellied forward so her front paw now rested on his bare foot.  "Godiva found one on the beach last week and rolled herself all over it in ecstasy.  She thought she smelled swell, but it was gag worthy–and since that was from just one clam, I can imagine an entire bagful really reeked.  So, sorry about that–my bad."

She appeared unimpressed with his apology and merely raised her brows.  "You named your dog Godiva?"

Godiva woofed once and licked her chops at the sound of her name.  "She's a chocolate Lab," Nick said.  "And I like chocolate.  You got a problem with that?"  Yeah, 'cause if she did, he'd sic Godiva on her and Jamie Pain in the Neck Newman would find herself slathered in doggie kisses.

Instead of answering his question, she asked, "Are you sober?"

"Are you?" he countered.

She blinked.  "Of course.  Why would you think I wasn't?"

"By your own admission you stole my vodka and tossed back a few."

"I didn't steal it.  It was in my freezer–which wasn't working until I flipped the breaker switch, by the way.  You're welcome."

"Since I own the place, it's my freezer, and therefore my vodka."

"Well, then I'll be sure to see that your property is returned to you as soon as possible.  In the meantime, I'm stuck here for now and I want to know, for starters, when you plan to fix the steps and the leaky roof."

"They're on my list of things to do."

Fourth time is the charm? Maybe?

I do my own covers.  China Rose was the first book I reissued myself, the first shot at formatting, the first shot at cover design.  We who do our own stuff, can't use the covers that the publishers put on the print books because they have the copyright, ditto for any nifty artwork on the inside of stepbacks.

With my first attempt for China Rose, I thought I would try to convey the feeling of 1825 via an old map, a compass, and a rose.  I rather liked it, but it didn't exactly scream ROMANCE!!!!!

After doing Bound by the Heart, Swept Away, and The Wind and the Sea, which were definitely throwbacks to the romance covers we all knew and loved, the map and compass for China Rose sort of stood out as being…well…not standing out at all, so I rummaged around on the photo sites and bought a new pic showing more skin and a rose. It seemed to be warmly received but something happened in the altering of the size of the original photo and someone politely pointed out that the man's back no longer looked like a man's back, but possibly a woman's back.

ACK!

Back to the drawing board.  Keep in mind, I was trying to work on The Following Sea at the same time, and I was also in Florida trying to paint a honkin big mobile home.  But in my spare spare time, I rummaged again and played with a pic of a ship sailing into a misty sea.  Cool.  Found another pic of a hunk (Jimmy Thomas, who was depicted so hunkily on BBTH and TWATS) and worked a few hours to get what I thought was a good compromise of skin, romance, and my sailing ship.

Unfortunately…or fortunately as the case might be…I've also started doing covers for fellow romance authors and Virginia Henley, who has been a close friend for so many years, we like to joke that we wrote our first books with chisels and stone tablets, asked me to do a cover for her backlist book, Wild Hearts.  And wouldn't you know it, but the picture she chose for the cover was almost identical to the one I had used on China Rose.

So. What's a girl to do?  Back to the drawing board for a FOURTH time.  And this time  I am determined this puppy is going to be fixed in stone, never to be changed again.  I've made all the rounds, to Amazon, Smashwords, and my web site, so that's it. Done. Finished.

Hope you like it.

The Facts about Jack

As hinted at yesterday, today I've invited one of the Loopies in for a guest blog.  Jacquie D'Alessandro, aka Yacquie, aka Princess Shoes, aka….Jack?

Thank you, Marsha, for inviting me to share a caesar through the fence.  Since the important facts that 1) I'm Loopie, and 2) my first single title contemporary book, Summer at Seaside Cove was just released, I thought I'd throw out a few 'Facts About Jack' that not many people know.

1) Very few people, in fact, actually call me Jack.  My sister does.  And Kathleen Givens did.  And one of my neighbors.  That's about it.  I don't know why so few people do.  It certainly wouldn't bother me. 

2) No one calls me by my full name, Jacqueline.  Except my mother–when she's mad at me. 

3) My favorite baseball player is Andy Pettitte (SO sad he retired!) and my favorite tennis players are Rafael Nadal and Roger Federer.  I don't have a favorite polo player because I don't follow polo.

4) I name the bad guys and characters who meet bad ends in my books after people who were mean to me in school.  Heh, heh, heh.

5) If given a choice, I'll go for a salty, crunchy food like chips rather than a sweet.  Of course, that being said, I've never met a cookie I didn't like.

6) Because I don't like to swim where my feet can touch the bottom, I can tread water for a ridiculous amount of time. Seriously.  Toss me into the deep end of the pool, go away for a few days, and when you come back, I'll still be treading water.

7) My former dentist was a murderer.  He's in jail for fatally shooting his wife (tried to make it look like a suicide).  While the police were investigating that crime, they discovered he'd killed his girlfriend 15 years earlier–by shooting her and making it look like a suicide.  If you're looking for advice on choosing a dentist, I'm probably not a good person to ask.

I spent time in a coat closet with Cary Grant.  And that's all I'm sayin' about that. 

Now it's your turn–share some random facts (or even just one) about yourself! Don't be shy–it can't be worse than having had a murdering dentist!

Have you met the Loopies?

I believe I've mentioned them a few times over the past several months, but perhaps I haven't given the background or list of authors who comprise this lovely little group.

Years ago, when I first started writing for Dell, it was one of the most prominent publishers for romance novels and their list of top notch authors would have set your fingertips tingling.  A bunch of us who had become acquainted at conferences (where Dell used to host big dinners and parties for their authors)  decided to join up on an email loop and we built a website called the Authors Mansion. Extra brownie points if you remember that LOL.  We built a virtual mansion and every author had their own room.  I don't remember too many of the individual rooms, but I do recall that Virginia Henley claimed the Master Bedroom, it just sort of fit *g*

We got up to around 18 authors at the high point, but then Dell went through several cycles of bloodbaths and dropped authors left and right, dropped editors, even sacked the VP.  They seemed to be trying to cut corners by letting their midlist authors go, in favor of paying out multi-bazillion dollar advances to a handful of Big Names whose books, we can only hope, never lived up to their promise.

Hmm. Anyone see the Dell imprint around anymore for romance?  Seriously, it went from being one of the major houses to write for, to being a dud.  Call me bitter, I don't mind.  At the time, I was because I was cut loose in the second round of slayings.

Anyway…the Mansion eroded and fell to ruin.  A few of us were determined to stay in touch, if only to vent our disappointment, our anger, our sense of disbelief over being just flung aside after we'd all produced so many good books and been so loyal to the publisher.  Most of us found other houses to write for, and at least nine of us stayed together as Loopies for the past *gasp* nearly 20 years, folks.  At an RT conference in Ft Worth, those of us who attended made a splash as Norma Desmonds.  Sort of suited our personalities LOL.

Featured here, left to right are moi, Connie Brockway, Julia London, Virginia Henley, Jacquie D'Alessandro, and Sherri Browning Erwin.  Missing from the vampy campy mug shot, is Kathleen Givens, Julia Ortolon, and Jill Gregory, who either didn't attend the conference, or thought we were nuts.

One of our close-knit group, Kathleen Givens, passed away last year and she is very much missed.  She had a great sense of humor, a dry wit, and a huge generous heart.

Most of you know I've been on a writing hiatus for the past six years.  I was the first in the group to throw my pen out the window and say F**K it when the publishing houses started to all slide downhill.  Advances got smaller, there was little or no publicity or marketing for something you put a year into writing.  Editors got chopped and the ones who clung to their jobs by their fingernails had to pass along new directives to the authors: keep the books short, limit them to one or two genres, no more big blockbuster historicals, (hell if you could figure out a way to leave out the history entirely, leave it out)  no more cover input, no more this, no more that, blah blah blah.

So I quietly retired.

Most  author loops would have dropped an author who wasn't authoring anymore, but the Loopies stood behind my decision 100%, and believe me it was a hard one to make.  Writing was all I knew, all I was good at.  But staying on the loop, *kept* me in the loop, if you know what I mean, so that last year, when I decided to emerge from under the turtle shell, I didn't feel quite so deaf dumb and blind about what was going on in the publishing world.  Thanks to Loopie Julie Ortolon, I've been able to get my name back out there by reissuing my backlist books as ebooks.  I've even become militant in trying to get back the rights to some of the books Dell is holding onto since they're doing NOTHING with them at all.

So occasionally, you're going to see guest blogs here from the Loopies.  Jacquie D'Alessandro had a new book released today, Summer at Seaside Cove, and while publishers promise you the world while your pen is hovering over the signature line on a contract, they do very little in actual fact. Sort of like birds who grow fed up with having birdlings in the nest and just hoof them out, expecting them to either learn real fast how to fly, or crash and burn.  And our thoughts about that…

Sample Sunday

Unless you've been in a turtle shell for the past little while, you know I've been reissuing some of my out of print books in digital form.  Others have too, and we've formed a little group at www.backlistebooks.com.  Spreading the word is sometimes more difficult…okay, it's lots more difficult to do independently without the huge publicity machines of the Big Six publishing houses, but we try new things, explore new avenues to let readers know we are out there and we are trying to let them know our backlist books, many of them award winning, are available again.

So we're going to try Sample Sundays, giving readers a peek into what other authors at BacklistEbooks have to offer.

First up, is Lori Devoti with an excerpt is from Love is All Around, a contemporary romance set in the Missouri Ozarks.  Lori worked for three different newspapers in two different states before deciding to stay home with her children and begin writing fiction. Author of urban fantasy, contemporary romance and paranormal romance, Lori has been a finalist for many awards including the Romantic Times Reviewers Choice Award. She lives near Madison, Wisconsin with her husband and children as well as two dogs.

***************

A peek at Love is All Around

"It's not polite to sneak up on people." Patsy's head came even with his chest. For a second Will thought she was going to retreat, he was definitely in her space, but she cocked her head to the side and looked up at him.

"Didn't your momma teach you any manners?" she asked. He could almost hear her heels digging into the soft dirt.

What was she thinking? Was she afraid of him? She, or at least his reaction to her, was beginning to scare him a little, and, aside from the sly remark after lunch, she hadn't mentioned their accident. Even when Dwayne asked why they were late, she'd covered for him. Why?

Remembering his resolve to play it cool, he replied. "Oh, but it is polite to taunt people into falling on their ass in ice-cold water?" Will shook his head, letting water drops fly like she had earlier on the log.

"Hey, watch it." Patsy jumped back a foot to escape the spray.

"Are you afraid of a little water?" Two could play at this game.

"If I am, I picked the wrong canoe partner today, didn't I?" She stared him in the eye.

Will flushed; here it came. He knew she wouldn't be able to resist for long. "About that…thanks."

"For what? Not like I jumped in and saved you."

No teasing, no taunts? "And you didn't tell the others either. You could have."

"And listen to Dwayne go on? Why would I put myself through that?" She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. The gesture forced her breasts together, making the small mounds visible above her bikini top. A bead of water rolled down tan skin into the crevice between her breasts. His gaze followed it, wishing he could trace its path with his lips.

"I like the other idea too." Longing for another drop of water to roll down her chest, he grasped a lock of her hair, twisting it around his finger.

"What idea?" Her gaze flitted to his chest, then up to his mouth.

"You saving me." Her hair was soft and strong. He could feel her breathing, the cool cloth of her bikini top brushing against his chest when she inhaled. He wanted to wrap her hair tighter around his finger, pull her closer until no space remained between them.

"Do you know mouth-to-mouth, Patsy Lee?" He grinned, hoping to give the question a light note.

"Patsy. It's Patsy now. I quit going by Patsy Lee when I was in the first grade." She looked annoyed and he could feel her withdraw.

Over the name?

He dropped his hand to his side. Fine. He wasn't going to make a fool of himself. "Is that so? Dwayne still calls you Patsy Lee."

"Yeah, well, I call him a donkey's patootie too, but I haven't noticed him sprouting a tail." She glanced around, the moment broken.

It was the name. Only the name. Wanting to regain the intimacy, Will reached for her hair. He tucked a strand behind each of her ears, then traced the now visible skin with his thumbs.

"Okay, Patsy, do you know mouth-to-mouth?" This time, he didn't bother with the grin.

"I know a lot of things." She caught her lower lip between her teeth. Her eyes glimmered.

She did look afraid. Of him? He should be polite–back off. He should, but he couldn't. He wound the pale strand tighter around his finger and lightly ran his other hand up the back of her arm. She shivered and he wanted to pull her close, keep her warm, safe. He was sailing dangerous waters, without a life preserver or that elusive mast on which to secure himself.

"Anything you'd like to share?" he asked.

"I got the feeling last night you didn't want my help," she murmured.

He tugged slightly on her hair and she fell against him. "That was different." Will lowered his head, his lips grazing hers.

She shivered. Was she cold? Will wasn't. Even fresh from his second plunge into the river, he was hot. Another minute and steam would be rising from his damp shorts. That, and something else. Get closer, something deep in his brain urged.

Patsy's fingernails scratched against his chest, luring him, encouraging him. Focused on her parted lips, he bent forward. His lips caught hers.

She tasted sweet with a hint of spice, like the cookies they'd shared. He slipped his tongue into her mouth, urging her lips further apart. She hesitated for a second, then met his tongue with her own. Her nails scraped up his chest as her hands made their way around his neck. As she tugged on his neck, he reached behind her, cupping her butt.

He paused for a minute, feeling the elastic of her bikini bottom through her shorts, remembering that white V of skin. He willed her to move her body upward. The smooth skin of one thigh edged up past his swim trunks toward his waist. Moving his fingers from the temptation of her buttocks, he ran his palm down her thigh, following the line of her hamstring. When his hand reached the underside of her knee, he prepared to pull her up, to wrap her legs around him.

"Patsalee, where the hell are you?" Dwayne bellowed from the other side of the rock path. "Beer's running low and the creek's running high. Time to get moving."

"Damn it," Patsy muttered. She attempted to jump away just as Dwayne clomped into view. Still in a haze, Will kept her firmly hidden in his arms.

"There you all are. What's going on?" Dwayne eyed the pair. His gaze lingered on Will's hands, which again cupped Patsy's backside.

"Nothing. We're doing nothing." Patsy shoved Will's arms down and stumbled toward the stones.

Will bit down a curse. He wanted to grab her and yank her back, but Dwayne still stood on the other side of the stone path, grinning like an idiot. "Hell." Ignoring the rocks, Will stalked toward him through the fast-flowing, frigid water.

Apparently unaffected by Will's glower, Dwayne greeted him, "Guess this means you don't mind if I give Jessica a little rub-a-dub-dub, huh?"

Patsy rolled her eyes, and Dwayne turned his attention back to her.

"You're just lucky Randy seems to have lit onto Ruthann, Sis. Or I'd be on you like a fat kid on a Twinkie." Dwayne wiggled his index finger at Patsy. "As it is, with this opening the door for me with Jessica and all, I'm willing to let your indiscretion go on by."

Was there something between Patsy and Randy? That was an irritating thought. Will narrowed his eyes and evaluated her reaction.

"You're full of it. There was no 'indiscretion.' You're just inventing things in your minuscule mind." Patsy glared at her brother.

"Sure I am, and you must've taken a belly flop into the river when I wasn't looking too. 'Course, even then, I'd have thought the back of your shorts would've got just as wet as the front."

Will glanced at her recently dried shorts where the wet imprint of his thighs was now obvious. He smiled. Nothing like proof positive. For some reason, he was annoyed she was denying their "indiscretion," and the fact that Dwayne had noticed the damp evidence of their encounter pleased him. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched Patsy. It would be interesting to see how she explained that. If Dwayne had been two minutes later, she would have had a lot more to explain. Or, if you were talking clothing, a lot less.

She turned as if to deliver an angry retort, but stopped short when Randy, Ruthann, and Jessica appeared, peering at them from behind a bush.

Patsy stomped past them, leaving an amused and frustrated Will behind.

*******************

It's priced at $2.99 now
Amazon http://www.amazon.com/Love-is-All-Around-ebook/dp/B004CRTEKO
B&N http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Love-Is-All-Around/Lori-Devoti/e/9781611380323/
Smashwords http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/30355

Check out Lori's website… http://www.loridevoti.com

I hope you'll leave a comment and let us know if this is a cool idea.  If you think it is, we'll all jump on the blog wagon and get a tour going so you can go from blog to blog and have peeks at other authors'  hard work *s*

Back in the Tundra again

Okay, so it isn't exactly the Frozen Tundra, but after 90 degree weeks in the Florida sunshine, I haven't been exactly warm.  Wednesday, for some odd freak of nature, actually reached the mid-70′s but plunged back down to rain and cold the next day.  On the bright side, tulips are pushing up, daffodils are blooming, and I get to eat at David Duncan House next week.  It's only my favorite restaurant in Toronto, converted from a grand old mansion house and owned/run by the same family for the past 30 years at least.  To quote a little history:

On his second visit to Canada in 1827, William Duncan, a successfully prosperous linen merchant from Ireland, purchased his first 200 acres of land at Sheppard and Dufferin Crossroads. A well connected marriage to Sarah Mullholland, provided further acquisition of land in the area. William and Sarah Duncan had 12 children who were well educated and at the age of majority each received 200 acres of land. In the case of David Duncan, his parcel of land was purchased in 1848 by his father, and located at Don Mills South of York Mills in close proximity to his grandfather Mullholland's grant.

Inheriting his father's resourcefulness and business acumen, David Duncan thrived on the land. He imported Jersey cattle- of particular significance as only wealthy land barons could afford this breed of cattle. David Duncan built a prominent dairy farm on "Moatfield" to serve the growing town of Toronto. His brother Henry owned the farm nearby and the Don Mills and York Mills junction fittingly became known as "Duncan's Corners." In 1865 William Duncan commissioned The David Duncan House be built for his son David. A highly fashionable Gothic style was selected for "Moatfield" and reflected the elaborate decor and romanticism of Gothic architecture. It remains a classic Ontario Gothic farmhouse, typical of the "gingerbread" style and the last of its kind in the City of North York. Its beauty prompted renowned architectural historian Eric Arthur to describe it as an example of "Victorian elegance and whimsy."

Now isn't this just the perfect picture for a Christmas Card?

Here's a pic of the infamous corner in the dining room, beside the fireplace, where my first editor and the publisher of PaperJacks took me and Malle Vallik (now an uber-editor at Harlequin, but back then she worked for Maggie MacLaren and Jim Smallwood…former Mayor of Gum Swamp, but that's another story *snort*) for an eight hour lunch.  Yepper.  Eight hours.  We had lunch, then sat around and talked so much we had dinner too.  Umm, next week, when I have lunch with Jill Metcalf, we'll try to keep it to a more normal 2-3 hrs LOL

Last but not least, the ambience of old world charm is in every piece of furniture, every light fixture, every carved sheet of solid wood on the walls.  One of my favorite pieces is this lamp:Some…like the SF…might think it a bit garish and overwrought.  I happen to like stuff like this, and *gasp* had one of my own, bought at an auction, before I even knew the David Duncan House was there *s*