Tara Chevrestt's Blog, page 63

The Golden Apple by Michelle Diener

Three things I love about this story: 1. It’s based on a Hungarian fairy tale, so it’s completely new to me and thus, interesting. 2. I love that instead of a princess sitting around waiting for a handsome prince to rescue her, she does the rescuing! 3. Love this heroine from the get-go. She takes control, even when she has very little, from choosing her own first lover to saving the man she loves’s brother.

This is a fantasy involving sorcerers with ill agendas attempting to use the princess and her now-betrothed to obtain magical items they want. It all starts with a glass mountain and a golden apple and takes us into a dark, eerie magical forest that is a dumping ground for the sorcerers’ spare magic. With nowhere to go, with no one to guide it, the spare magic does bad things, making the forest a dangerous place.

At times I had questions, like, “If you can manipulate this to your will, why not just make the cat normal size or do this or that…?” But more often than not my questions ended up answered. I can’t say much more about that without giving away cool happenings that occur.

But I love how this princess never gives up and strives to save the man she loves and though afraid, she manages to think and act in the heat of the moment. I wish American princesses were like this. It would make an excellent role model.

Much applause to the author’s imagination. I never would have thought of these cool creatures and happenings. The writing is superb: perfect balance of description, detail, character development. When the magic appeared in the forest, I would get tingles of fright and sometimes hold my breath.

Quibble: The story ended abruptly, leaving loose ends: a war started, a missing brother, a magical device in the wrong hands. It just ended. There IS going to be a sequel and that pleases me greatly, but the ending still bugs me because it's the kind of story that I will need to remember what happened in book one to enjoy book two. Thankfully, I don't have long to wait. I believe it's a fall release.

I look forward to it. Diener has quickly risen to the top of my list of favorite authors because I love her heroines and have a great appreciation for her imagination.

I received this via Netgalley.

Near the Hope by Jennifer Davis Carey

This is the story about a woman who immigrated from Barbados in the early 1900s, seeking a better life, only to realize she had gone from the frying pan into the fire in a way. Here in the States, the "Great One" aka white people still ruled and the people of color were still changing the Great Ones' chamber pots.

"I didn't leave one hell to jump into another. At least at home, I understand the boundaries. Here, I haven't seen one yet. These people here are without limit."

It's an interesting read and I was interested in it because my own grandmother was a seamstress from Puerto Rico trying to survive in New York a few generations after this one.

Dellie makes it to New York and through her eyes, we see how hard it was to find a job, a place to live, all that jazz, in this time period, and something else I appreciated was the look at racism from her POV. I was amazed that some West Indians looked down on the American Negro, considered themselves not the same even though they were facing the same struggle: prejudice. The whites of course, lump them all together.

Dellie believes the cause of the American Negro is her cause too. I admire many things she says and does in this story.

"For this colored woman, this Negro woman. Whatever the difference is between the two. 'Tis sure my eyes can't see it. Show them what we can do in this country. To show them we can do any kind of work... And this colored woman is tired of scrubbing floor for a few raw-mouth pennies each week and standing out early-early so the matron can look over before she point to me as worthy to mop up for her. Check my hands to see if they are clean enough to hold a soggy sponge."

That's what Dellie declares when she hears white seamstresses have gone on strike due to poor working conditions. She declares it a chance for the American Negro woman and herself. This was another twist in the story I liked, this bit of history. Though her visit to the factory is brief, it leaves a strong impact. It's an educational moment, seeing what these women faced.

It doesn't quite work out at the factory, but yet again, readers see an incredible and brave side to Dellie.

Other things readers will take away from this novel is life in Barbados in the early 1900s, how the workers were disappearing, running off to Panama, how the white people were worried, and there are little bits of culture one will pick up from men on stilts, parades, weddings, and food. There's also some tame romance that could have used more development. Otherwise it's a story of a life, with ups and downs, loss and learning.

Quibble: I can tell it's a first novel. It doesn't have a good flow. It's a bit stilted and the dialogue is very formal with few to no contractions. In between the drama--the factory, the greedy landlady, etc, the story was tedious at times.

I won this on LibraryThing.

The Secret Kiss of Darkness by Christina Courtenay

"Please, don't swoon again, I beg of you. I thought you modern women were made of sterner stuff and you don't even have the excuse of a tight bodice."

...Says the painting to the modern woman about to swoon.

Imagine that. A painting speaking to you!!!

There's two stories here, though the historical story is very, very minimal. I would call this a contemporary romance. In the past, Jago and Eliza had an affair. Now, don't judge. If you were in Eliza's shoes...

For reasons not divulged until the end--and therefore I won't divulge--Jago and Eliza's souls can only be reunited in the afterlife if their paintings are side by side. When the modern-day heroine falls in love with Jago's portrait at an auction, it changes her life in more ways than one. It sets her on an entirely different path. You see, Jago talks to her, and he sends her on a quest to find a missing painting--that of Eliza.

The quest sends her to an out-of-the-way estate where a Jago lookalike lives. A few little white lies--"I'm an art student seeking certain paintings..." leads to her being a temporary secretary and falling in love with her new boss, but gets her no closer to finding the painting...or does it?

The historical story, though  minimal, presents some interesting parallels. The writing is great, as can be expected from a Courtenay novel. I liked the modern heroine in this, the way she grabs life, takes control, and despite what people say--especially her family--she does what is best for HER. I've said this before and I'll say it again: strength comes in many forms. A woman doesn't have to be wielding a sword or a gun or kicking butt and taking names to be strong.

The past heroine, Eliza, I had a harder time connecting with her. Perhaps because there is so little of her? I did like that she finds happiness, however forbidden and illicit, in a very miserable life though. You could say she makes the best of things. I did wonder many times though why she and Jago didn't run off together and questioned Jago's love for her. Surely some part of him wanted to rescue her? Take her away? I don't feel he tried very hard, to be honest. I loved him better when he was a talking painting.

While I'm on the subject, I want a talking painting. Though I probably wouldn't understand it, not unless the lips moved. LOL

But I digress.

The modern story kept me interested. There were little twists and turns and I could tell some characters were up to some shady stuff. The little girl is a show-stealer!! I don't normally like children in books but this one is a sweetie. But again, the hero didn't do it for me. Dude, someone has been in your house and slashed stuff. I expect more of a reaction than, "I'll ask around..."

Overall this is a very entertaining, light read. It was a pleasant diversion. The romance is sweet and takes just the right amount of time to develop. GREAT CHARACTER & RELATIONSHIP DEVELOPMENT, MS. COURTENAY. I've noticed in many books nowadays, heroes and heroines are lip-locking mere seconds after meeting--by page three. Not so in this. Superbly done. I felt like I was growing and learning and feeling with the characters.

I liked it, though I felt there was a tiny loose end or two. Did she ever come clean about the art student thing? Feel like I missed something. (I did skim the lovemaking scene. Perhaps there was a relevant conversation mid...er...well...) Oooh, and poor Sophie. Who is HER companion in the afterlife? That actually made me sad. And no, I won't explain that; it would ruin the story.

I bought this on Amazon Kindle.

Stories on Porcelain & Soul Mates. Please Welcome Christina Courtenay.

As you probably know, the Willow Pattern (or Blue Willow) is a design for porcelain which was very popular in the 18th century in England. It was first designed by Thomas Minton and based on the type of patterns that were being imported from China at that time. In order to help market it, the factory producing the porcelain made up stories to go with the pattern. The one I like best is a very romantic (if somewhat tragic) one – that there was a rich Chinese nobleman whose daughter had fallen in love with a humble man of whom her father wouldn’t approve. When the father found out, he built a high fence around his house to separate the young couple and he planned to marry his daughter off to someone high-ranking instead. A wedding was scheduled for the day the blossom fell from the willow tree in the garden. But the night before, the daughter’s humble lover managed to sneak into the house and together they escaped. They lived happily on an island somewhere for years, but eventually the girl’s angry father found out where they were and sent men to kill them. The gods, however, felt sorry for the two lovers and turned them into a pair of doves so they could still be together. Great story, don’t you think? (There is a better version, complete with pictures, here -http://www.thepotteries.org/patterns/willow.html )

I have a passion for blue and white porcelain, so I have quite a lot with this pattern on it and I liked the fact that the two doves seemed to be really just a symbol for the lovers’ souls and that it meant they carried on being together for all time. In short, they were soul mates, a concept that naturally appeals to me as an author of romantic fiction. And I don’t know about you, but I would very much like to believe that our souls carry on living after we die. Not necessarily to go to heaven or Nirvana or wherever it is souls are meant to go, but just to continue to exist somewhere. Perhaps on some astral plane? Almost like when we save data on our computers and it disappears into a ‘cloud’ – we have no idea where that is, but it exists. So why shouldn’t souls do the same?

If they did carry on in some dimension, then it follows that maybe some of them could communicate with those who are still living. Perhaps if they had enough of a reason for doing so, a clear purpose from which they couldn’t or wouldn’t diverge. That was how I saw the soul of Jago Kerswell in my time slip story The Secret Kiss of Darkness.

He has unfinished business, so he can’t move on. But being nothing but a spirit (or whatever you want to call someone’s soul/essence), he obviously can’t do anything himself. He has no substance, no body to carry out his wishes. He needs an accomplice. Who better than a susceptible female? That’s where my heroine Kayla comes into the picture – or rather, she buys one, literally. A painting that is, of Jago. And that act of madness (which is how she sees it afterwards) totally disrupts her well-ordered life. Because Jago needs her help and Kayla reluctantly agrees, which sets her off on an adventure of her own.

Do you believe in soul mates being together for eternity? I’d love to know!

Blurb:
Must forbidden love end in heartbreak?

Kayla Sinclair knows she’s in big trouble when she almost bankrupts herself to buy a life-size portrait of a mysterious eighteenth century man at an auction.

Jago Kerswell, inn-keeper and smuggler, knows there is danger in those stolen moments with Lady Eliza Marcombe, but he’ll take any risk to be with her.

Over two centuries separate Kayla and Jago, but when Kayla’s jealous fiancé presents her with an ultimatum, and Jago and Eliza’s affair is tragically discovered, their lives become inextricably linked thanks to a gypsy’s spell. Kayla finds herself on a quest that could heal the past, but what she cannot foresee is the danger in her own future.

Will Kayla find heartache or happiness?

Find Christina on Facebook, Twitter, or visit her website. Buy at the link below or on Amazon UK.

My Reading Radar 3/15/2014

What came across my radar this week and maybe hit the wishlist?

Spotted on Netgalley and made my wishlist: Grace and the Guiltless by Eric Johnson. 

Grace Milton's peaceful life with her family on a horse ranch outside Tombstone, Arizona is shattered in one devastating night. Her family is brutally murdered by the notorious Guiltless Gang, leaving Grace the only survivor. Trekking into the wilderness on her stallion, Grace falls ill from the elements. A young man name Joe saves her life by taking her to an Apache camp where she learns about their way of life and begins to fall for Joe. When Grace encounters one of the Guiltless Gang, her strength will be tested. Can she survive as a bounty hunter, or will she fall into darkness again? This Western revenge epic will captivate teen readers with its ruthless spirit of suspense and adventure and a powerful central romance.



***
Spotted on a friend's blog and now on my wishlist: Ring of Stone by Diane Scott-Lewis. I never tire of women-trying-to-be-doctors-long-ago stories.


Rose Gwynn is determined to study as a physician in 1796, a time when women were barred from medical school. When she prevails in assisting the local doctor, Rose uncovers a shocking secret that will threaten Dr. Nelson’s livelihood. Servant Catern Tresidder returns to the village to confront the man who raped her and committed murder. After Rose’s sister is betrothed to this brutal earl, Catern struggles with her demons to warn Rose of the truth. Rose’s attraction to a man far beneath her further complicates her situation. Three people fight society’s dictates to either face ruin or forge a happy ending. Through it all, the ancient stone circle near Rose’s house holds the key to her family’s past, and is positioned through the myths of Cornwall to save her sister’s life.


***
Spotted on NG and now on my kindle: The Red Lily Crown by Elizabeth Loupas. Elizabeth Loupas returns with her most ambitious historical novel yet, a story of intrigue, passion, and murder in the Medici Court... April, 1574, Florence, Italy. Grand Duke Cosimo de’ Medici lies dying. The city is paralyzed with dread, for the next man to wear the red lily crown will be Prince Francesco: despotic, dangerous, and obsessed with alchemy. Chiara Nerini, the troubled daughter of an anti-Medici bookseller, sets out to save her starving family by selling her dead father’s rare alchemical equipment to the prince. Instead she is trapped in his household—imprisoned and forcibly initiated as a virgin acolyte in Francesco’s quest for power and immortality. Undaunted, she seizes her chance to pursue undreamed-of power of her own.

itness to sensuous intrigues and brutal murder plots, Chiara seeks a safe path through the labyrinth of Medici tyranny and deception. Beside her walks the prince’s mysterious English alchemist Ruanno, her friend and teacher, driven by his own dark goals. Can Chiara trust him to keep her secrets…even to love her…or will he prove to be her most treacherous enemy of all?





***
The Sacred River by Wendy Wallace is on my wishlist. The very first paragraph had me interested. I've bolded it.

A romantic, vivid novel about three women who leave Victorian London for Egypt— a tale of female empowerment, self-discovery, love, and the absolution that comes from facing the secrets of our pasts .

Harriet Heron’s life is almost over before it has even begun. At just twenty-three years of age, she is an invalid, overprotected and reclusive. Before it is too late, she must escape the fog of Victorian London for a place where she can breathe.

Together with her devoted mother, Louisa, her god-fearing aunt, Yael, and a book of her own spells inspired by the Egyptian Book of the Dead, Harriet travels to a land where the air is tinged with rose and gold and for the first time begins to experience what it is to live. But a chance meeting on the voyage to Alexandria results in a dangerous friendship as Louisa’s long-buried past returns, in the form of someone determined to destroy her by preying on her daughter. As Harriet journeys towards a destiny no one could have foreseen, her Aunt Yael is caught up in an Egypt on the brink of revolt and Louisa must confront the ghosts of her own youth.

The Sacred River is an indelible depiction of the power of women and the influence they can have when released from the confines of proper English society. In the tradition of Kate Chopin and Charlotte Perkins Gilman, writer Wendy Wallace spins a tale of three women caught between propriety and love on a journey of cultural awakening through an exquisitely drawn Egypt. Sumptuous and mesmerizing, this provocative novel about finding your rightful place in the world is a beautiful, tantalizing read.

Tour: A Canter of the Heart Excerpt and Giveaway

A beautiful Australian para-equestrian, Eleanor, is rudely awakened the morning after her twentieth birthday to face two pressing problems: the first, though she refuses to accept it, is that she's been told by many acquaintances and relations that she'll never find true love, and the second being, though she doesn't know it yet, that she can't even get up the steps to visit the blasted night-club with her mates! What no one knows is that one random act of chivalry, at the hands of a handsome American naval flight officer, is about to turn her world upside down. The heartfelt and sometimes harrowing journey that follows is as humorous as it is inspirational. 
A Canter of the Heart is the romance of a new millennium, a story that you've never heard before, and one that should take its place amongst the iconic romances of our time. But most importantly, it is a romance that will speak, most unapologetically, to your heart. A Canter of the Heart is the first book in ‘The Equestrian and the Aviator’ trilogy that sets our intrepid heroine on the journey of a lifetime. The first thing that you will no doubt discover is that Eleanor, fickle girl that she is, has already found the love of her life – her inspiring love of horses. 
This trilogy is based on a true story, and is a testament to the therapeutic riding programs offered by the Riding for the Disabled Association of Australia. It is dedicated to the many remarkable, selfless people who made and continue to make those programs possible. 
Excerpt:A Canter of the Heart
My alarm clocks went off with their usual chirping, squawking and carrying on, for which I was very thankful for a change. Rays of light peeked out from the horizon, building red gum silhouettes in the distance as eerie luminous fingers stretched across the awakening fields. Our small mob of roos were hopping back to their distant paddock past a flock of sheep, unimpressed by their bounding paddock mates, their dusty white wool a sharp contrast to the parched grasses and burnt-red Australian soil. I couldn't help but wonder, watching such an ethereal display, what hidden promise it held in store.
Unfortunately, this morning my feelings were mixed, as I was both excited to see David and, at the same time, devastated that I may never see him again. I'd dreamt of waking up in his arms this morning, but woke up instead in last night's clothes, and laying on top of my crumpled-up linens to add insult to injury, but it was time to stop being slack and get myself ready. David would be here soon, and I really needed a bath before he arrived, so I grabbed my change of clothes, went to the en-suite and set the bathtub filling as I started to undress. I couldn't help but daydream about our time together, the first time we kissed, the way he touched me that made my heart race and my skin flush, how his simple caress made my skin feel charged with electricity and how it continued to radiate tingly warmth for hours...
Realizing that I was mucking about again, I slipped into the bath and washed up. The steaming hot water felt particularly decadent this morning and, while I was tempted to linger, I instead quickly washed and lifted myself out to dry off, get dressed and brush out my hair. Not having a mirror at my height in the en-suite, I thought I would finish dressing in my bedroom.
As I opened the hallway door, I saw that David was already here, sitting in the living room chatting with Mum and Dad. He immediately stood up, narrowly missing having his hand bitten by Toby. He quickly put his hands in his pockets, out of Toby's reach, and walked over towards me. Keeping an eye on Toby, he bent down and gave me a lovely morning kiss that warmed me to my toes, then whispered in my ear as he rubbed my back, “If I had only known, I would have come earlier and joined you.” He winked as I blushed, then he smiled before kissing me again, whispering, “That is such a lovely colour on you.”
I gave him a conciliatory smile then, in an even tone, I replied, “Good morning, I'll be right out,” only hoping that Mum and Dad hadn't heard what he said, understood what he meant or noticed that I was blushing.
I quickly dove into my room, gave my hair a quick brush, had a brief look in the mirror – yes, I was still blushing – finished dressing then grabbed my keys and purse. I felt the urgent need to take someone for a drive. At least I would be a little more in control, or so I thought.I popped back into the living room. “Bye Mum, bye Dad, we should be back around two. Are you ready to go, sweetheart?”
David smiled, “Right behind you, my love.”
Mum and Dad looked at each other, then looked at me with a degree of amusement, as Mum said, “Would you like a ride when you get back, Mouse?”
“Yes, thank you Mum, that'd be great.”
I quickly made my way down the path to my little red Telstar with my sweetie close behind.“I thought I'd show you how I get in and out of my car on my own.”
I opened the back door and pulled my Quickie up next to the back seat.
“I'm sorry I teased you back there, I'm just so happy to see you. Do you forgive me?”
I turned back toward him and grabbed him by his jumper, pulling him down toward me. “Come here, you horrid beast.”
“A horrid beast, am I?” he said with a triumphant smile on his face as he slowly obliged, bending down until he was at my height. I put my hand behind his neck and pulled his face to mine, kissing him hard on the lips, teasing him with my tongue until he reciprocated playfully.When I stopped to take a breath, I consoled him. “I forgive you, sweetie, you can't help yourself, you’re just bad – it's what I love about you.”
He smiled triumphantly with that roguish, handsome grin.
I turned back around, lifting myself into the car. I folded the Quickie then turned that around. Sliding across the back seat as I pulled the Quickie into the car by the handles, I leaned way over to close the back door then worked my way between the two front seats, pulling my legs over behind me as I slid into the driver’s seat, crossing my legs under the hand controls.David watched in amazement, then sat down in the passenger seat. “Wow, that's quite a system, that must keep you in shape.”
“If I'm not in shape, I can't slide between the front seats. That's the price of freedom.”David leaned over giving me another pash kiss. “The more I know about you, the more I love you. I've never met anyone with such stoic resolve – nothing gets in your way that you can't handle, and nothing gets you down.”
He smiled and paused as he looked at me. “So, where are we off to today, my love?”I started the car and put it into drive. “Wouldn't you like to know, you naughty thing. After this morning, you're lucky I'm taking you anywhere. But I guess I did forgive you, I only hope Mum and Dad didn't see your little jokes.”
“Don't worry, they understood, give them some credit. I'm sure they had a wild courtship themselves, and then moved halfway around the world to build a life together here. That is a couple deeply in love if there ever was one. They want you to be happy, and don't forget...” he continued, leaning toward me, putting his hand on my thigh, rubbing ever so slightly and whispering in my ear, “...you really enjoyed it.”
I blushed again, unable to suppress my smile. I threw my arms round him, giving in to my desires. Without forethought I closed my eyes and kissed him deeply, realizing that he was right and knowing how intensely I needed him. It felt like my whole world was spinning out of control as I kissed him with greater and greater passion. Red flags were waving in my head, confusing the moment, making me even more dizzy, then suddenly it all stopped. I opened my eyes, remembering that I'd left the car in drive – David was holding the brake handle, still kissing me.“Maybe kissing and driving really don't mix,” David said as we both burst into laughter and I shifted back into park.
“I almost forgot, I got you a present.” David jumped out and brought back a bag from his car, handing it to me. “I didn't know if we'd have time for breakfast, so I got you the healthiest thing I could find – chocolate doughnuts and a lemon squash.”
“Thank you, sweetie,” I said as I put the car back into drive. “Maybe you could feed me as we go.”
“I will, my love,” was all he said as he sat back, leaving his hand on my lap as we set out on our last little jaunt together.
We were both quietly content for some time. I was enjoying the scenery and trying to avoid feeling sad that this would be our last drive together.
“You will write to me, won't you?” I said, breaking the silence.
“Of course. I'll give you my FPO address when we get back to your house, and you can give me your address and phone number.”
“Do you know if you'll be back this way?”
“Probably not in this squadron. We're finishing up our West-Pac deployment, and at the most I might do another Pac-Ex which would take us up to the Aleutians, and maybe as far as the Sea of Japan, or even Pusan, Korea. Then my next tour will be ashore. I do have a lot of leave saved up, so I could probably arrange a trip back at some point.”
“That'd be nice, we could see more of Australia together – I haven't seen that much myself.”“I'd like that, Eleanor, I'm really going to miss you. This has been the most fun I've ever had on shore leave. Thanks for putting up with me.”
As we continued our drive, David fed me little bits of doughnuts, patting me on the head and saying, “Good girl,” each time. The first couple of times I gave him a dirty look, then simply gave up and let him have his fun.
Pulling into Crooked Brook Park, I announced, “Here we are. Are you ready for a short bushwalk to a lovely little billabong?”
“So this is your little secret.”
“Of course, mate. This is as fair dinkum Australian as you get. The only thing more authentic is actually being eaten by a croc, but you'll have to wait until your next visit for that. At least I hope you will... besides, if you haven't camped out with your sweetie beside a billabong, then what are you going to tell your mates down at the pub?” I said, as he warmed to the idea.
“You bring the blanket, and I'll get myself out.” I popped open the boot. “The path is bitumen, so it'll be a nice easy, romantic potter through the bush to a pretty little billabong where we can stretch out for a lovely cuddle. After that… well, after that we'll have to see what we have time for,” I smiled and then made my way to the trail-head, David beside me with the blanket and the rest of our breakfast.
“It's a beautiful park,” he said, giving me a quick kiss.
The trail was slightly overgrown. It didn't look well-travelled and wasn't as improved as I'd hoped, but we managed it all the same. In fact, we hadn't bumped into anyone along the way and assumed that we pretty much had the park to ourselves. It was a short hike, with a couple of good-sized hills to traverse and by the time we reached the billabong I had a good glow and had stripped down to my camisole. David had his jumper tied round his waist, enjoying the sun, but swatting the usual array of bities and mossies.
“I see you've already learned the Aussie salute – how true blue. Be thankful it's winter, because in spring or summer there'd be masses of bities.”
“I am thankful, but while there may not be masses, they are persistent little beggars. And they do have quite a bite.”
“It's not much further, only round another bend and we'll be at the billabong.”
“Not a bad hike, but I think you got the better workout,” David said as he took in the view.“Maybe, but now I have the easy part – it’s all downhill on the way back.”
David smiled. “Shall I set up over here?” he asked as he opened the blanket and spread it out over the jagged lawn next to the grassy knoll that surrounded the billabong.“That's great,” I said as I came up behind him and parked on the edge of the blanket, setting my brakes and lifting my footrests out of the way. “Now we can finish our breakfast.” I lowered myself onto the blanket, kneeling as I held onto my Quickie for support. “Come over here, I want to see how tall I am next to you.”
David obliged, standing next to me.
“No, kneel down so I can see what it would be like if we were dancing.”
As he knelt in front of me, I put my arms round him, pulling myself up as high as I could, but was still looking up at his chin.
“I guess I am short,” I said, a little disheartened.
David put his arms around my lower back and pulled me toward him, lifting me up a few inches.“I don't know, I like it like this,” he said as he looked down smiling, tilting his head down and to the side, then he began to kiss me as I tilted my head up to match his, our lips meeting in the middle. I was instantly in heaven as our tongues danced and played and we enjoyed our own private little paradise of sorts. We continued for so long that I think every blowie in the billabong had a go at us, and when we weren't embracing and caressing each other, we were brushing away the beastly little things – that is until I became suitably irate and smacked one right on David's cheek, at which point we both fell onto the blanket laughing with childlike abandon. I rolled over onto David's chest to apologize, but as I looked into David's eyes I could see that we were already past that, and instead began to explore each other as we continued to kiss with runaway passion. I'd just accidentally unzipped his jeans when he sat bolt upright.
“Hold on, I think I heard something,” David said as I begrudgingly removed my hand from its surreptitious delve.
“I think I heard it too, someone is coming up the path behind us,” I agreed, hearing another twig snap as I made sure that all my clothes were in place and David buttoned and zipped up his jeans.
I sat up, kissing David, passion still in our eyes. David sat behind me, and I leaned back against his comfortable chest as he enveloped me in his arms.
“This is nice too,” he said sincerely.
“Come on ladies, it's right around this bend,” I heard in the distance, seconds before I could see them through the bush. It was a small group of women out for a hike coming around the bend into the opening.
“You’re wrong, they're cumulus clouds, and we are going to get rain,” said the shorter lady in jeans and hiking boots.
“No, I think you’re wrong, they're not tall enough. I think they're nimbostratus, and we won’t get rain until later,” said the taller woman wearing her posh Sunday church attire with tennis shoes.“Oh, hello, I thought we might find someone up here. We saw your car in the parking lot on our way up. I trust we're not interrupting. Isn't it a beautiful hike?” said an older woman wearing shorts, a violet floral T-shirt and an outback sun hat.
“They could be stratocumulus, but I'm sure they are not nimbostratus,” said the shorter lady.“Oh, pay no attention to them, they aren't happy unless they're arguing about something,” smiled the older woman in shorts.
“Actually, ladies, I think you have an altocumulus system that may be thinking about rain, and if it does rain, it'll probably become a nimbostratus a little later, but you'll only get light rain to begin with,” David interjected.
The two ladies stopped arguing, looked at David distrustfully as the shorter one, in an accusatory tone, said, “Are you by any chance a weatherman?”
David smiled and answered, “No ma'am, I'm a pilot.”
The two ladies stopped arguing and looked at each other as if calling it a draw, for the time being.
Three more women came into view, and the heavier-set of the three, also dressed in church attire with walking shoes, rushed toward us. Her face lit up.
“Eleanor, Sally said you might be coming this way. It's been yonks since we've seen you at services, how are ya goin, luv?”
“It's good to see you again, Mrs Churchill, I'm well, thank you,” I replied, feeling completely ambushed and knowing that, if possible, my face would have been beet red – but it was probably bad enough as it was.
“Don't mind us,” Mrs Churchill said to me, “this is our weekly garden hike and tea party – we do this every week after services.” Then she turned to the group. “Let's set up the blanket here, next to our two lovebirds.” Turning back she continued, “So you're David are you? Sally told me that you're a sailor visiting from America. You two certainly look cute together. You must join us for tea and bikkies...”
David gave me an accepting smile, as we admitted defeat and gave in, but I did thoroughly enjoy reclining against David's chest as we sat there answering the occasional pointed question, which were surprisingly few. This went on for a good half an hour before we were able to make excuses and start back on the trail down to the car.
On the way back, when we were sure we were out of range, David said, “This is a day that I will never forget,” and we both burst into uncontrollable laughter.
Back in the car, we kissed for a few minutes, then drove on to Bunbury back beach, stopping off for takeaway chicken on the way. We were both famished, having had nothing but doughnuts, biscuits and lemon squash to sustain us the whole morning. We spread our blanket and sat out on the lawn overlooking the waters of the Indian Ocean, feeding each other bits of chicken – kissing between bites – as we watched the waves crash against the pristine white sands and the bright sun glistening off the rippled, sky-blue waters. It was truly heaven, and I couldn't bear to think it had to end so soon.
“So, how long until you get back to San Diego?”
“I can't really say... a couple of months, I guess. I'm sorry, it's not that I'm totally clueless, but the port schedule is classified and I can't really say anything specific. I can call you from our next port, but until we're back in the States, I won't be able to give you much in the way of details. I'll write you, as much as time allows, although I've never been much for correspondence, so you might have to bear with me. When I'm back Stateside we can talk about things more concretely.”
“I understand. I'll write to you and I'll be looking forward to hearing from you soon.” Leaning forward for a kiss, I added almost at a whisper, “I would also like to finish what we started by the billabong.”
Placing his hand over mine, he said, “Yes my love, unfortunately we need to head back to your farm so I can get ready to go, and we should still have time for one more ride. But before we go, come here and give me another hug.”
We held each other tightly, kissing and caressing each other until we absolutely had to go.The drive back to the farm seemed to go by in a flash as our conversation wandered aimlessly from one topic to the next.
“You really haven't told me much about yourself... What do you enjoy the most about being a flight officer?” I asked, thinking how little I really knew about him.
“I don't think we have the time to go through all that, besides, I was really enjoying hearing more about you.”
“Please?” I smiled encouragingly. “I'd like to know more about you as well.”
“Okay, but only until you start to snore... I guess my first love was really aviation. I love to fly, and I always did well in physics, aerodynamics, navigation, meteorology and so on. I already had all of my ratings before I was commissioned into the navy, and originally intended to serve as a pilot, but one of my eyes wasn't quite perfect, so one of my options was to serve as a flight officer. The more I read about it the more I liked the idea. You see, as a flight officer, I'm in charge of the mission, and on the Viking, our mission is very complex – we do everything from anti-submarine warfare to surface search and counter-measure to in-flight aerial refuelling and that's only scratching the surface, especially with the new ISAR radar and the AGM 84 Harpoon missile system. So, are you sorry you asked yet, or should I go on?”
“I'm not sorry, I really want to know.”
“Okay, but I don't want you to fall asleep while you’re driving.”
“Just tell me, already.”
“All right, all right. I guess I chose the Viking because it was the only carrier-based aircraft that has two full sets of flight controls where the flight officer spends half his time flying as co-pilot and the rest of his time running the mission. To me, that gave me the best of everything. I love flying the Viking, especially in tight formation with other S-3s, or rolling in on a surface search contact at 300 feet, or simply playing in the clouds. I also love running the radar, the FLIR, working a sonobuoy pattern, searching for submarines or running surface search and countermeasure. I would have missed most of that if I was only a pilot. I even enjoy flying Texaco, which is the nickname for aerial refuelling missions where we pass gas to the F-18s or F-14s. That’s actually a new mission for us, adding to an already long list.”
“You must love flying about as much as I love riding. I don't know why you thought it would be boring to me – I love knowing what makes you happy.”
Turning onto the dirt access road, I felt a pang of sorrow, knowing that in an hour David would be gone.
“Is it dangerous, flying the S-3?”
“It's not like we're at war with anyone. It's only peace time training and we've been mishap-free for twenty years, so it's probably no more dangerous than you riding horses, or living here in Australia. But, yes, there are inherent risks in what we do so I guess that's why they give us flight pay. We have a pretty good group of guys, and when it comes to safety, that makes all the difference.”
We pulled up to the shed with barely enough time for another ride on Snowy – which, thankfully, Mum had already set up. This time I kept Snowy at a fast walk on the way out to visit our friendly mob and then gave David a good run on the way back. I was surprised to see him keep up nearly the whole way. I think he let me win in the end, but I was only at a trot.
Hands on his hips, catching his breath, David asked, “Do you mind if I take a shower and change before I head out? It'll save me a bit of time, and I'll be on watch as soon as I get back.”“Not at all. I'll ask Mum to get a towel for you. There is one thing I need to ask before she gets here.”
“Of course, my love, anything.”
“Can I join you?”
David smiled from ear to ear, walked over to Snowy, put his arm around my back and his other arm under my leg as I pulled the other one over the saddle and slid into his arms and said, “Anything your little heart desires, my love, anything your little heart desires.”
And he kissed me so passionately that I felt I'd melt in his arms. Then Snowy, who we'd forgotten to secure, walked over, put her head in my lap and bit me.
“Ow, you cheeky little...”
David broke into laughter and was laughing so hard that he had to put me down on my Quickie, and I followed suit, laughing despite the pain. Mum returned with Snowy's carrots which I proceeded to feed to the greedy animal as David went off to shower and change. I still gave her a hug and thanked her for the ride.
“I heard all about your tea party this morning,” Mum said, having a go at me. “Perhaps you should go to church more often.”
If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was going to break out in laughter herself. I swear she nearly did.
David came out of the en-suite wearing his white uniform with his hat tucked under his arm and a small green valise in his hand that he called his helmet bag. I thought he was very handsome, perhaps on the verge of drop-dead handsome, but I wasn't about to tell him that.“Well, that is a bit of a change. You look very presentable.”
“Thank you. Personally I find it a major challenge trying to keep a white uniform clean – I don't know why anyone would have picked this uniform, especially for shore leave.”“I can see your point, still, I think it suits you, and I like your hat.”
“They call it a cover in the navy.”
“In that case, I like your cover. Oh, I forgot to ask you, what's your rank?”
“I'm a lieutenant junior grade, an O-2,” David looked at his watch, “and I'm very late. I really need to go. I promised I'd say goodbye to your mom and dad.”
“They're out on the veranda having tea. Follow me, but mind Toby, he's a naughty little man, and he'll have your finger if he can.”
Toby tried to bite David's hand twice, but didn't succeed, so he settled down.
“Goodbye Mr West. I'm afraid I'm very late, so I won't have time to chat with you as I'd hoped, but I'll do my best to come back this way. I'll come to visit again if I do.”
Shaking David's hand, Dad replied, “Aye 'ope you've 'ad a good visit, and I trust me daughter's shown you a bit o' West Australia. Mind the roos on your way back, especially round sunset, an 'ave a safe trip.”
“Thank you sir, take care of that foot and next time you can show me that beach and we’ll have a swim. Goodbye ma'am,” David continued, shaking Mum's hand. “Thanks for everything, I really enjoyed seeing your farm and had a lot of fun on Eleanor's rides. I hope I see you again.”“It was good to meet you. Have a safe trip,” Mum replied.
I went with David to his car. He opened the door and threw his green helmet bag and his cover onto the rear seat. Seeing that he was on the wrong side of the car again, he smiled and turned toward me.
“I only have to get back to Fremantle in time for duty,” he said, looking at his watch, then he embraced me tightly in his arms and we kissed goodbye.
“I'll write,” I interjected between kisses, and then added, “ring me if you can,” to which he responded with one last kiss.
“I'm sorry my love, I really need to get going. I'll miss you...” he said as he closed the passenger door, walked round to the driver's side and got in. “I will write, and I'll try to call you from our next port.”

He closed the door, started the car and drove off down the access road, waving as he reached the end. He was on the wrong side the whole way. As the dust settled, I sat watching the empty road and had a good cry. I knew in my heart that I'd never see him again.
About the Author: 
I've been a resident of the Pacific Northwest for the better part of two decades, and blithely accept life in the shadows of the nesting grounds of bald eagles while ensconced amidst the company of wild, damp and understandably nervous bunnies. I prefer to write at the dining room table, where the light is better and I can work next to Simon, the sweetest one hundred and twenty pound Rottweiler that you're ever likely to meet -- except when he's in the mood to editorialize, which he is only on rare occasions. I much prefer to write love stories that take place in warm, sunny and exotic locales as I admire and rate the latest downpour direct from the Pacific Northwest's over-active convergence zone, but in my heart I will forever be drawn back to the lucky country... Australia... and maybe one more lovely canter along an endless beach.

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Strong is Sexy Heroine of the Week: Natalia

Book: Natalia
Author: Kenneth Rosenberg
Heroine: Natalia

Human beings have an amazing ability for survival. I’m reminded of this every time I see one of those shows on TV with real-life stories of people being stranded in the desert for days without water, or buried by avalanches, yet somehow pulling through against all odds. Often, we don’t know our own strength until it is put to the test. This is certainly the case with Natalia, the heroine of my suspense novel by the same name. As the novel begins, Natalia lives a sheltered life on a farm in the middle of Eastern Europe. She is beautiful yet shy, with a quiet reserve. It is only when faced with extraordinary hardship that her true strength will emerge.

I wrote this novel after spending time in Eastern Europe myself and hearing stories of women being kidnapped and sold into prostitution in the West. This is an epidemic that mostly goes unnoticed in the world today. People tend to think that prostitutes take up that line of work by choice. Sometimes this is true, but often it is not.
With this novel, I wanted to highlight the brutal realities that many of these women face, while at the same time creating a character that could take on these criminal gangs and make them pay for their sins. Natalia is that character. In the beginning of the novel she is timid and unsure of her place in the world, yet as the story progresses, Natalia finds that in order to survive she must channel a strength she never knew she had.


And I suppose that is the crux of it. Not all of us have this strength. Put a group of ten people in a life-or-death situation and some will make it out while others will not. Some have the will to survive while others will roll over and give up. Natalia is the story of a girl with the will and determination to do whatever it takes not only to survive but to protect her family and her loved ones, and to make sure that whoever would hurt them pays the ultimate price.

Blurb: Born into poverty in the heart of Eastern Europe, Natalia Nicolaeva dreams of a better life. When she is offered a job abroad, however, the promise of the outside world is as terrifying as it is thrilling. After gathering the courage to leave her tiny village, it doesn’t take long before Natalia’s worst fears are confirmed. Suddenly she is fighting, first for her honor and then for her life. This is a novel about the pain in the hearts of those made to suffer, the power of family to heal, and ultimately the grit of one girl determined to survive.

The Pearl That Broke Its Shell by Nadia Hashimi

There are two stories here, one that begins in the late 1800s and one more modern day--2007.

And yet both are so parallel. It's an eye-opening look at how very little has changed for women in Afghanistan in 100 years. The past heroine is beaten, abused, ridiculed, treated like dirt, given no rights...and so is the modern-day one.

There's a serious need for some progress.

Rahima is the modern heroine. Her father is addicted to opium and is like every other man in Afghanistan (See * note below)--he beats his wife, hates the fact he has daughters, cries about the lack of a son, and keeps his household of women away from school. An ignorant woman is a woman who doesn't know better and thus, will never fight back.

She's dressed in pants and turned into a boy for her childhood, just so someone can run out and go to market and do this and that.

But when it comes to marry...and at the tender age of thirteen, this makes a problem for Rahima as she must give up all her freedom and enter a jail of sorts--her husband's house. Her husband is a warlord and just like every other man in Afghanistan apparently, beats his women, keeps them ignorant and shut in...

But my favorite heroine is Shekiba. Oh, she gets beaten; she cowers at times, she is uneducated, but her strength comes from her determination to persevere and though it comes to nothing, I admire her for speaking up for herself. Doesn't matter if no one listens. She tries. With a disfigured face, she's constantly ridiculed and made fun of--by her family, by the villagers, by the palace. When her entire family dies, she tries to obtain the land. When she's sent to the king's palace to guard the harem, she adapts, stands tall and proud in her pants.

I was completely and totally engrossed in this novel though, despite the fact it is one depressing occurrence after another. What I took from this story though was: NEVER GIVE UP HOPE. I gave up on hope for the heroines 3/4 in the novel. I actually became sad and depressed from reading this. I said, "You should just curl into a ball and die." At what point does a woman have enough abuse and injustice?

The point is, I gave up before the heroines did, and I shouldn't have. NEVER GIVE UP HOPE.

My one quibble, if you could call it that, is... *no offense to the people of Afghanistan, but this story made it seem as though 95% of the population is just pure evil. ALL husbands beat their wives, ALL MILS (except maybe one) beat their daughter-in-laws, everyone backstabs and betrays. Every single time a new character was introduced, I sat back and waited for the first blow. The only good people until the very end, it seems, are the heroines and an aunt. When a co-worker asked me what I was reading, I replied with, "A book about Hell on earth, apparently."

But this also hit home how people who have known nothing but abuse become abusers themselves. Take Rahima's MIL for example...

But the book is very, very well written. Impeccable. This is a writer who can suck you right in. When you set the book down, you have to blink a few times, remember where you are, that you haven't just been thrown in a jail cell for a crime someone else committed, that your husband didn't just beat you to an inch of your life...

And it made me see what all I take for granted--not that I'll settle. Women need to progress everywhere.

Another strong point in this book:
--It's easy to be brainwashed and controlled when are uneducated and cut off from the outside world. Don't let this happen to you. Get educated, ladies.

Highly recommended. It's a lot of misery, but worth it. Don't let the bad happenings deter you. We all have bad things in our lives. What's important is to remember the light at the end of the tunnel, and if Rahima has one, so can you.

I received this via Amazon Vine.

Blancanieves (Snow White)

Here's something you all have probably not heard of...I didn't know of it until my Flamenco teacher told me about it. It's a Spanish retelling of Snow White...with twists...many twists. And most of you know I don't do fairy tales. This is not the traditional fairy tale.

First of all, don't like subtitles? Don't worry... Like me, are you deaf? Don't worry.

It's a silent movie. Oh, there's music, if you want it...but it's silent. You won't miss a thing. It's also black and white, and may I say, very artistically done. Death...is conveyed by the dunking of a white dress into a vat of black, the stopping of a record...emotions are displayed prominently on faces. When this is done as superbly as this, you don't need words, nor do you need nudity or cursing or anything else.

The similarities to the real Snow White? Let's see...she has a wicked, wicked stepmother who has all the control. She ends up left for dead in the forest and is discovered by dwarves. I do believe the one who is supposed to be Dopey falls in love with her. Grumpy tries to kill her...but that's not a similarity.

The differences: The dwarves are the bullfighting dwarves and Snow White is not only the daughter of a famous matador, but becomes a matadora! And...be forewarned..this does not have a happy ending. It's really quite sad. If you need that cheesy HEA, this is not for you, though I will say the wicked witch gets what's coming to her and that alone is worth it.

Loved: The little bits of Flamenco, the acting, the facial expressions, the pet rooster. Oooh. The way Snow White/Carmen fought a bull when she was supposed to be fighting a calf. She did it. She did not back down. I felt so much suspense whilst watching this. I gasped aloud and declared to the pug, "Oh no! That poor matador.." Also loved the costumes. I believe this is supposed to take place in the late 1920s. The villain has the same hairstyle as me (maybe it's time for a change? :( ) and Miss Fisher.

I was very into it and I don't normally do silent movies. Strange, as I really did enjoy The Artist. I just don't like the old ones, perhaps because they are so short?

Morals: Be careful who you marry...be very, very careful and oooh, don't sign things if you can't read. Dios!

What I didn't like: I found it hard to fathom that someone so very, very evil could be..of all things...a nurse!

Wondering how in the world bullfighting, Flamenco, and a rooster tie into the tale of Snow White? I'm not going to give you a play by play as that would ruin the surprises...but I will say I'm highly recommending this to fans of old movies, silent movies, foreign films, or anyone who likes to watch unique television. Tired of the same old? Do pick this one up.

A lady matador...that's pretty damn strong. But she's also strong because of all the stuff she faces, with grace and dignity.


I bought the DVD on Amazon.

Talking Back: The Battle to be Listened to . . . Properly, A Guest Post from Donna McDonald

Please welcome Australian author and fellow deaf woman, Donna McDonald. I must say in advance, this is a powerful and very true guest post. I've had these frustrated thoughts myself, but she puts it into better words. Feel free to leave comments. I'm pleased to share details of her latest book, The Art of Being Deaf, below.
Recently, I went to see a movie with a new Date. We’d had dinner together the previous week and he understood that I am deaf.  The movie was great (as befits its title “The Great Beauty”) . . . the date not so much.
I am fifty-nine years old. I was born deaf and belong to the 1950s generation of “oral deaf” children. This means that although I am deaf (“moderate-severe, sloping to profound” according to my most recent audiology assessment), I have sufficient residual hearing that allows me to speak rather well. Not perfectly, but not bad: the missed sibilants and the occasional monotonous tone in my speech patterns reveal my deafness. I work hard to keep my speech patterns rhythmically inflected.
Image courtesy of Ambro/ FreeDigitalPhotos.netI also work hard to listen, read people’s lips, stay focused on their faces and body language, and follow the flight of their words. I do all this listening and attending work because I want to be connected to what they are saying. Connection begets connection; it is the origin of understanding others, which in turn evolves into empathy, compassion, and a reciprocal sharing of our humanity.
Which brings me back to my Date. He mumbled. Not once; not twice; but thrice. Three times I asked him to speak more clearly; three times he denied my request and continued to channel Marlon Brando’s performance as “The Godfather” as if he owned that role. Remember: we’d already had that dinner the week before. I’d already exhausted myself over a glass of wine (just the one glass; I was trying to do “Dry February”) by peering at his clenched lips and trying to find meaning in his stiff, expressionless face.
It was late; I was tired; I spat the dummy. In the foyer of the cinema. In public, and in full hearing view of all and sundry. “Look”, I cried out, “if we are going to get along, you really must speak up and speak clearly. Why can’t you do this one simple thing for me?” The Date looked stunned. He mumbled, “I’m sorry.” And then (you’re going to love this!), he said, “I don’t know much about deaf people. I don’t know how to talk to them.” I snapped back, “I am not going to do Deaf Studies 101 for you now. Just speak clearly. That’s all.”
We’ll draw a veil over the next couple of hours. Suffice to say, there will be no third outing. However, my anger and frustration with the Date is not the point of my story. Stay with me.
A couple of nights later, I recounted my story to a life-long and close friend. We have known each other since we were teenagers, and we have shared much with each other. The good, bad and ugly.  My friend is kind and wise; I anticipated that she would sympathise with me. I thought she might say something like, “What a boorish man!” Actually, I would have settled for a simple “oh dear” sigh of empathy.
Instead, what I got was a reminder of how the hearing world persistently walks out of step with me. And I am deliberate in my syntax here.
I have spent the better part of my 59 years learning how to walk in step with the hearing world; how to speak clearly, avoid being too expressive, keep my hands still, don’t look wounded when others laugh because I’ve misunderstood what they have said, remain stoic in the face of others’ criticism when I ask them to repeat what they’ve just said—“Oh for God’s sake, I’m not going to say it again. Why can’t you just listen properly? It doesn’t matter anyway; it wasn’t that important.” (Why say it in the first place then? Why indulge in drivel?)
And yet, when I voiced a complaint to my friend, her first and immediate response was to say “Don’t be offended, but you need to see the situation from his point of view.”
Really? From his point of view? What happened to the authority and legitimacy of my point of view? If I was a Jew complaining to my friend about anti-Semitic behavior, would my friend have admonished me, “You need to see it from the Gentile’s point of view”. Or if I were an Aboriginal Australian complaining about being excluded from a job opportunity, would my friend have said “You need to see it from the white employer’s point of view.” Or what about if I was a young woman who had been raped by her uncle? Would my friend have clucked at me and said “Oh, but you need to understand your uncle’s needs.” Of course not.
So why is my perspective as a deaf woman, holding my own in a dominant (and dominating) hearing world of so little value? First with the obtuse Date, and second with my life long friend. Where is their effort to connect with me in these exchanges? To walk in my shoes? Because let me tell you, I am damned footsore from walking in the shoes of hearing people.
I don’t know the answer. Do you?
CREDITS: Published as “Footsore on Valentine’s Day” at:
http://socialworksocialwork.com/2014/...
Blurb:We all take our sense of connectedness from where we can best find it. For some deaf people, it is within their own Deaf community. For others such as Donna McDonald—those oral-deaf people, in the “shadow-lands”, scattered across the hearing world—such a sense of connectedness can be buried or lost.

In writing her memoir of deafness and being deaf, Donna McDonald found that learning about the heritage of other deaf people’s memoirs, biographies, and life narratives was enormously helpful to her. She writes “the hand of mentoring reached down to me across the span of history”.

Donna’s memoir “The Art of Being Deaf” is, however, much more than a personal examination of her life as a deaf woman. It is a story of reconciliation, the search for romantic love, and the quest for answers about what it means to live an authentic life.
***
Dr Donna McDonald is Senior Lecturer and convenor of policy and disability studies in the School of Human Services and Social Work at Griffith University. Over a span of 30 years Donna has been at the forefront of developing social policy as a social worker and has established extensive policy networks in Australia and England. She has provided policy advice to Federal, State and Local Governments nationally and internationally. 
She is also a published writer with two books, several book chapters, journal articles and essays. Her publications include her memoir of grief following her infant son’s sudden death in 1987 "Jack's Story", and essays such as "I Hear with my Eyes" (Griffith Review 2006), "The Reluctant Memoirist" (Griffith Review 2011) and "When Time Stops: The Courage for Joy" (Stories of Complicated Grief: a critical anthology 2014). 
Her latest book is The Art of Being Deaf: a memoir (Gallaudet University Press: Washington DC. March 2014).