Michele Scott's Blog
July 2, 2019
DADDY'S HOME
This is the book that really started it all in some ways for me. I'd been writing and publishing for eight years under my name. I'd written the Nikki Sands and Michaela Bancroft mystery series before DADDY'S HOME came out and I'd built a decent cozy mystery genre readership. I'd actually written Daddy's Home before MURDER UNCORKED came out because my initial intent as a writer was to be a thriller author. However, after sending Daddy's Home out on A LOT of unsolicited submissions I hadn't found representation and the idea for Murder Uncorked came to me...and viola...an agent loved it and sold three books in that series (two of them hadn't been written yet) in two weeks after signing me. Nine books in the two different series later both series were dropped and I found myself asking...what next?
It was about that time that Amazon started the KDP program for Indies and I had five manuscripts that hadn't been published and none of them were what readers would consider "cozies." What did I do? I came up with the pen name AK Alexander (after my three kids...Anthony, Kaitlin and Alexander), found someone to create covers for me, hired a good freelance editor (my Yoda...Mike Sirota) and published them on KDP. For a year I'd check sales daily and not much was happening. I was happy when I sold more than a book a day! And, then...one day it happened! And, I still have no idea how it happened but it did! I checked my sales and I'd sold A LOT of books in the UK of Daddy's Home. Then, Daddy's Home within two weeks in the UK went to #1 on the Amazon charts and I'm not talking #1 in a genre specific category, I am talking the #1 e-book on all of UK Amazon! It stayed there for a few weeks and then, Mommy, May I? climbed the charts and it was #2! Six months after that, Daddy's Home hit #4 in the US Amazon store behind the Hunger Games series. It is still the book that has outsold all 32 other books I've written or co-authored and I loved writing it. I can still remember sitting at my kitchen table writing that book...that was my desk at the time. That way I could keep an eye on two little boys who are now grown men, and a baby girl who is now a grown young woman!
I think my favorite piece of writing that book was developing Holly's character and the way she worked a tough case and still balanced being a single mom. In book #4 which will be out this fall, Holly's life has changed dramatically. As the lead up to DEADLY AFFAIRS release I thought it would be a good idea to post a few chapters from the first three books here on the blog. So, I'll begin where it kind of all began (at least for me becoming a thriller author). Hope you enjoy the first chapter of DADDY'S HOME.
WARNING!!! Not for young eyes or the faint hearted! It's graphic and there's language that some readers might be offended by.
If you haven't read the book before and like what you read, here is the buy link off of Amazon...https://tinyurl.com/y6l7zy3y
Here's the back cover copy for you:
They call him “the Family Man,” the cunning killer who preys upon single mothers and their innocent children, hunting for a family to call his own. But when they fail to meet his unyielding demands for perfection—and they always do—he kills. Holly Jennings is the San Diego PD’s top crime scene investigator. She’s also a single mother struggling to raise her daughter alone and to dealing with her feelings for another man in the wake of her husband’s death. The Family Man case hits her hard—but even harder when her friend becomes his latest victim. Determined to stop this psychopath once and for all, Holly delves deep into the investigation, combing through evidence for clues to his identity. But the closer she gets to the truth, the further she must venture down a dark path that could cost her everything: her family, her newfound love—even her life. This edgy page-turner is guaranteed to keep readers riveted into the wee hours of the morning.
Daddy’s HomebyA. K. Alexander
CHAPTER ONE
Holly Jennings wanted to get this son of a bitch. She needed to see him stretched out, strapped down on a gurney. She yearned to watch the hypo hooked up to his veins, releasing the venomous fluid that would flow through his body, causing it to gradually shut down. Better yet, Holly wanted to take her nine-millimeter Glock, put it to his temple, and pull the trigger. Blow the monster’s brains out.She slid down the steep incline, brushing off the leaves as she got to her feet, and took a pair of Latex gloves from her black bag, smoothing them over her hands. Even after four years of working the Crime Scene unit for the San Diego P.D., Holly still hadn’t gotten used to that acrid rubber smell and the puff of powder that flared out as the gloves snapped into place. It was like a wake-up call to her body. Here we go again, Holly, grit your teeth. Even her years of experience with death scenes never made the next scene easier. No matter how many times she had faced smells so foreign to the average nose—even those not so average, like Holly’s—the vile aroma always hit her hard. That first breath in ignited visuals of violence—visuals so completely opposite of anything normal, like a plunge into the depths of Hell. Then, too, there was always something about each victim, each situation, that caught a detective, or herself anyway, off guard. Each victim had been a real person with a real life, and within a matter of days, hours—or hopefully for their sakes, seconds—they became a statistic. Sickening. Yet, in spite of the shattered bodies and the putrid odors, Holly had to admit it was a job she almost relished.Holly stepped along the perimeter of the taped-off crime scene, walking in line and with trepidation, hands behind her back—not an easy task while also carrying her bag, but a necessary one. Holly played by the rules. Keep the crime scene intact, and don’t fall on your ass. The boys are watching. She glanced back and saw both her partner, Chad Euwing—who she could screw up in front of and laugh about it over a shot of tequila—and Robb Carpenter—who she wouldn’t even think about messing up in front of; he’d run straight to the higher ups, who would love to demote a skirt if given a chance. So much for equality.Robb was full of stupid one-liners like, “Didn’t you miss your nail appointment?” Or maybe, “We’re a little hormonal today?” Asshole extraordinaire. Holly reached the little girl first. She knelt down, and the natural instinct to touch her gave Holly an intense head rush. Shut down the emotions. Do your job. What kind of freak would do this to an innocent child? Only two weeks earlier she’d been in this exact position where a child and his mother had been violently slain. Was she dealing with the same killer here?Focus. Think. Work. Examine. It was again time to examine the UNSUB’s heinous work. The Unknown Subject of an Investigation. The killer. The savage. She pulled out a small recorder from her coat pocket and pressed the record button. “Time of day: ten hundred. Tuesday. Approximately fifty-five to sixty degrees, clear weather, post rain. Victim 1: Female Child. Approximately age four. Blonde hair. Eyes closed. Wrapped in cellophane. Starburst wound at base of left temple. Entry: UNSUB is left handed. Looks like someone braided her hair, put ribbons in it—UNSUB?” She leaned in closely. The smell of decay and death wafted past, nauseating her. It always did—another thing she knew that she’d never get used to. Hold on. What was this? She pocketed the recorder and took her magnifier from her bag. Gold links. He took a necklace from you, didn’t he, sweet girl? She scanned the wrapped body and face closely. There was a smudge of brown next to her lips. Not blood. What is that?“He’s a collector,” she yelled up to Chad. “Did we find anything missing on the Collins’ little boy or his mom? You talked to the grandparents about jewelry?”“Yeah. No one said anything about any jewelry being gone,” Chad shouted back. “We know what he took at that scene.” The grave tone in Chad’s voice didn’t go unnoticed. “This one took something from the kid, too. Got your camera?”“Right here.” Chad held up his 35-millimeter.“Then come on down. Let’s get some pictures.” Holly looked back at the child, whose facial color held a greenish-purple tinge. She’d been out here for at least forty-eight hours. Luckily, it had been cold and rainy, preserving the body far better than if this had been a typical Southern California week.Looking again through the magnifier, she noted that both maggots and beetles were prevalent. You certainly took some care here, didn’t you? You wrapped her up nice and tight. The time and obvious care the UNSUB had taken, wrapping up the child in the plastic wrap, had also helped to keep her body intact. Maybe you’re still on her. Your cologne. Your hair. Something you wore. I’ll find it, you bastard. If you left something, anything, I will find it. The sound of crunching leaves underfoot, as well as Chad’s humming of “Sunshiny Day,” announced his arrival. She used to hate it when he did that. But humming helped Chad to get through the scene. Every investigator had a tactic. Hers was to get as deeply into the killer’s head as possible when confronted with a victim. She had to detach herself in order to solve the crime. Later, she could think about the victims as they once were—living, breathing human beings. “The gunshot to the head was at close range. At least she didn’t suffer.” Holly shuddered. “Well, let me rephrase. I don’t think she suffered at the moment of death. Who knows what occurred beforehand. Look here.” Chad bent down next to her. “Soot around the wound.”“He didn’t wipe her clean?” Chad brought the camera up to his eye, focused, and started snapping close-ups.“No.”“Like the last kid.” Chad lowered his camera.“Exactly like the Collins boy. And I don’t think this is about him being in a hurry. There’s more to it. He feels responsible somehow. In his sick way, empathetic. The gunshot wound offends him. I’ll head over to Psych later and see if we can’t get some help with the profile. My initial impression is that he doesn’t like killing the kids.”“Then why bother with the kid? Why not find a single female vic? What is it with the kids?”“Well, assuming that we’re dealing with the same UNSUB, I don’t know. We could be dealing with someone totally different from the last scene. We’ll know soon enough when we check out the mom.” Chad gave Holly a knowing look. “Here, get a snap of her neck. See that?” Holly pointed to the few lengths of chain around her tiny neck.“She wore a necklace?”“Yep, and he took it. He carried her down here. Then yanked off the necklace. Any footprints?” Holly asked.“With the rains we’ve had over the last couple of days? No.” Chad shook his head, and started clicking the camera again. “What’s that caked on the side of her face?”“I don’t know.” But the word cake did ring true—chocolate maybe. Mark Collins had had peanut butter cookies in his stomach contents. “Maybe this bastard gives them goodies first. A real compassionate type, huh?”“Twisted, Holly. This is one of the more bizarre cases I’ve seen. ‘Here kiddo, let’s have cake and ice cream before I murder you and your mom.’”“We’re not dealing with your average psycho here.” After Chad was finished snapping away, Holly bagged the bit of chain. “Let’s check out Mom.”They walked another five feet down and to the right before reaching the woman’s naked body, face down, a blue tarp tattered but still taped to her. “He didn’t take any time here,” Chad noted. “Looks like he basically dumped her and got the hell out of here.”“I think you’re right. My bet is he was extremely angry with her, or whomever she represents to him. He doesn’t care about her. He’s pissed off, and she’s the root of his anger. He didn’t bother carrying her down. He tossed her like a bag of trash.”Chad snapped several photos of the body in that position. He then rolled her over with his gloved hands. “It’s possible she’s a mother figure to him.”“That’s one train of thought. Or a wife, girlfriend, even a sister. Someone else besides a mother may have raised him. Could be a grandmother. I don’t know. But his hate is deep-seated, and it’s directed at the women. This isn’t really about the children, by what I’ve seen so far. That is, if he is the same killer who murdered Patricia and Mark Collins.” Holly shook her head. She was frustrated at the dead end that particular murder investigation had led her to. The killer on that case was meticulous and left nothing at the scene. The similarities, however, were frightening.The Collins case was another single mother and child pair. They’d been taken late at night from their Hillcrest home. No one had seen a damn thing. Patricia Collins was the quiet type, not very social, and a dedicated mother. The only lead they’d had was that she had belonged to both the local gym and a dating service, neither of which had turned up anything.Patricia had only had one date through the service, and the man had checked out completely clean. Holly had the police chief breathing down her neck, and these new murders, if they linked up to the other family, would have him in even more of a tizzy. Holly didn’t like dealing with Tom Greenfield in a tizzy.Holly nodded at Chad who pulled back the blue tarp covering the mother. “Oh my God!” Holly gasped, bringing her free hand up to her mouth. She had to look away momentarily. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs.“Yeah. I guess you could say he was pissed,” Chad muttered before firing off shot after shot of film.The woman looked to be in her early thirties. Presumably the child’s mother, she had been badly mutilated. Anguish and fright splashed across her face, her eyes frozen wide open. Holly’s gut said the killer had done the mutilating before he killed her. The woman had suffered quite a bit, whereas he had killed the child quickly. Oh, God. Had she witnessed the brutality her mother had endured?“Why would he cut off her breasts?” Chad asked.The tarp was torn open enough to see the horrid wounds the killer had inflicted upon the woman. Holly shook her head. Stay in his head. What are you so angry about? Why her? Holly sighed. “Anger combined with wanting to either strip her of her womanhood or of her motherhood. I don’t know. He’s one sick fuck.” “So what do you think? Is he the same one who murdered the Collins boy?” Chad asked. “He didn’t mutilate Patricia, except for the finger.” Holly stared blankly at the missing ring finger on this victim’s hand. “And, uh, yeah. He’s saved himself another ring finger. I’d say he’s the same killer. It adds up. Both kids shot in the head at close range. The medical examiner and ballistics will give us a better idea. The difference is in the mutilation here. Our other gal cooperated with him, maybe thought she would get out of it alive. He only severed her ring finger, and the M.E. believes that was done post mortem. I don’t think he did this after he killed this one, though. I think he tortured her.” Holly bent down next to the woman and picked up the woman’s stiff hand. “She fought back, though, before he cut it off. See the blood and skin on the other fingers and nail beds?”Chad bent down and took Holly’s magnifier from her. “We’re gonna get DNA off this. Let’s hope he has a prior.” Holly knew that was slim. Serial killers were usually very careful. You fought him, didn’t you? “You did good. We’ll get him, I promise you. I’m gonna find him for you,” she said in a barely audible whisper. She glanced back over at the body of the child. “Carpenter!” she hollered up to Robb. “Get down here. What the hell are you doing? We might have some fibers. Bring your kit, and let’s get some measurements and sketches drawn up. This scene isn’t going to stay preserved forever.”“You okay?” Chad asked.“I can’t stand that asshole. And you know he can’t stand me, especially if I’m running the scene. He’s still bent that he didn’t get promoted to my position.”“You earned it. Ignore him. That really gets under his skin.” He winked at her.Holly was fully aware of her title as Ice Princess around the department. She’d even caught a whiff of rumor about bets being placed as to who could get her in the sack.She looked at her watch. It was almost lunch hour, and she had a forty-minute drive to make it to Chloe’s school. Her daughter’s second-grade class had plans for their Thanksgiving festivities. Damn. She had promised her that she would be there. She had already missed one dance recital and a school play this year. “Can you handle this from here? I promised Chloe I’d make it to her school assembly and Thanksgiving feast. Make sure Carpenter and the boys stay in line. I don’t want any mistakes. Our perp is good and careful, but he’ll screw up somewhere along the line. When he does, I want him behind bars until they’ve got him strapped to that gurney. I don’t want him out on a technicality because of something we got careless about.”“Count on me.”“Thanks. I know I can. I’d stay and hold the fort, but Chloe . . .”“Go, for God’s sake. I can handle this.” “Call me if you get anything new. I planned to take the rest of the afternoon off and spend it with her. This morning she sent a big guilty arrow through my heart about how I’m always working. I know I shouldn’t take off, and Greenfield would skin me alive if he knew, but that might hurt less than my seven-year-old’s therapy payments down the line.”“No problem. Family first. You do what you need to, and I’ll plan to meet you at the medical examiner’s office in the morning.”Robb Carpenter passed her. “What’s the matter, Holly? Your thong up your ass today?”She kept walking. She heard Chad tell Robb to go fuck himself. Good friend. Behind the wheel of her Jeep, she pulled down the mirror and applied her tawny-colored lipstick, hoping to look more like a mother than a cop. She also put on some mascara, bringing her hazel eyes to life, and quickly brushed her short auburn hair back behind her ears. A little better. Holly quickly got onto the freeway and sped down the I-8, heading west, noticing the whites of her knuckles as she gripped the wheel tightly. She hated admitting that she had wanted to leave the scene. It wasn’t something she would typically do, although today she did have a good excuse. That poor woman, what she must have suffered . . . Her breasts. My God! She put a hand up to her breasts. He studies his victims, knows them or at least of them and their situation. What’s his motive? Why is he doing this? He wasn’t some recluse, killing randomly. He had specific reasons for the women he chose. He carved up women just like her—young, single, and with a child. It was now up to Holly to track him down before he savagely butchered another family.
It was about that time that Amazon started the KDP program for Indies and I had five manuscripts that hadn't been published and none of them were what readers would consider "cozies." What did I do? I came up with the pen name AK Alexander (after my three kids...Anthony, Kaitlin and Alexander), found someone to create covers for me, hired a good freelance editor (my Yoda...Mike Sirota) and published them on KDP. For a year I'd check sales daily and not much was happening. I was happy when I sold more than a book a day! And, then...one day it happened! And, I still have no idea how it happened but it did! I checked my sales and I'd sold A LOT of books in the UK of Daddy's Home. Then, Daddy's Home within two weeks in the UK went to #1 on the Amazon charts and I'm not talking #1 in a genre specific category, I am talking the #1 e-book on all of UK Amazon! It stayed there for a few weeks and then, Mommy, May I? climbed the charts and it was #2! Six months after that, Daddy's Home hit #4 in the US Amazon store behind the Hunger Games series. It is still the book that has outsold all 32 other books I've written or co-authored and I loved writing it. I can still remember sitting at my kitchen table writing that book...that was my desk at the time. That way I could keep an eye on two little boys who are now grown men, and a baby girl who is now a grown young woman!
I think my favorite piece of writing that book was developing Holly's character and the way she worked a tough case and still balanced being a single mom. In book #4 which will be out this fall, Holly's life has changed dramatically. As the lead up to DEADLY AFFAIRS release I thought it would be a good idea to post a few chapters from the first three books here on the blog. So, I'll begin where it kind of all began (at least for me becoming a thriller author). Hope you enjoy the first chapter of DADDY'S HOME.
WARNING!!! Not for young eyes or the faint hearted! It's graphic and there's language that some readers might be offended by.
If you haven't read the book before and like what you read, here is the buy link off of Amazon...https://tinyurl.com/y6l7zy3y
Here's the back cover copy for you:
They call him “the Family Man,” the cunning killer who preys upon single mothers and their innocent children, hunting for a family to call his own. But when they fail to meet his unyielding demands for perfection—and they always do—he kills. Holly Jennings is the San Diego PD’s top crime scene investigator. She’s also a single mother struggling to raise her daughter alone and to dealing with her feelings for another man in the wake of her husband’s death. The Family Man case hits her hard—but even harder when her friend becomes his latest victim. Determined to stop this psychopath once and for all, Holly delves deep into the investigation, combing through evidence for clues to his identity. But the closer she gets to the truth, the further she must venture down a dark path that could cost her everything: her family, her newfound love—even her life. This edgy page-turner is guaranteed to keep readers riveted into the wee hours of the morning.
Daddy’s HomebyA. K. Alexander
CHAPTER ONE
Holly Jennings wanted to get this son of a bitch. She needed to see him stretched out, strapped down on a gurney. She yearned to watch the hypo hooked up to his veins, releasing the venomous fluid that would flow through his body, causing it to gradually shut down. Better yet, Holly wanted to take her nine-millimeter Glock, put it to his temple, and pull the trigger. Blow the monster’s brains out.She slid down the steep incline, brushing off the leaves as she got to her feet, and took a pair of Latex gloves from her black bag, smoothing them over her hands. Even after four years of working the Crime Scene unit for the San Diego P.D., Holly still hadn’t gotten used to that acrid rubber smell and the puff of powder that flared out as the gloves snapped into place. It was like a wake-up call to her body. Here we go again, Holly, grit your teeth. Even her years of experience with death scenes never made the next scene easier. No matter how many times she had faced smells so foreign to the average nose—even those not so average, like Holly’s—the vile aroma always hit her hard. That first breath in ignited visuals of violence—visuals so completely opposite of anything normal, like a plunge into the depths of Hell. Then, too, there was always something about each victim, each situation, that caught a detective, or herself anyway, off guard. Each victim had been a real person with a real life, and within a matter of days, hours—or hopefully for their sakes, seconds—they became a statistic. Sickening. Yet, in spite of the shattered bodies and the putrid odors, Holly had to admit it was a job she almost relished.Holly stepped along the perimeter of the taped-off crime scene, walking in line and with trepidation, hands behind her back—not an easy task while also carrying her bag, but a necessary one. Holly played by the rules. Keep the crime scene intact, and don’t fall on your ass. The boys are watching. She glanced back and saw both her partner, Chad Euwing—who she could screw up in front of and laugh about it over a shot of tequila—and Robb Carpenter—who she wouldn’t even think about messing up in front of; he’d run straight to the higher ups, who would love to demote a skirt if given a chance. So much for equality.Robb was full of stupid one-liners like, “Didn’t you miss your nail appointment?” Or maybe, “We’re a little hormonal today?” Asshole extraordinaire. Holly reached the little girl first. She knelt down, and the natural instinct to touch her gave Holly an intense head rush. Shut down the emotions. Do your job. What kind of freak would do this to an innocent child? Only two weeks earlier she’d been in this exact position where a child and his mother had been violently slain. Was she dealing with the same killer here?Focus. Think. Work. Examine. It was again time to examine the UNSUB’s heinous work. The Unknown Subject of an Investigation. The killer. The savage. She pulled out a small recorder from her coat pocket and pressed the record button. “Time of day: ten hundred. Tuesday. Approximately fifty-five to sixty degrees, clear weather, post rain. Victim 1: Female Child. Approximately age four. Blonde hair. Eyes closed. Wrapped in cellophane. Starburst wound at base of left temple. Entry: UNSUB is left handed. Looks like someone braided her hair, put ribbons in it—UNSUB?” She leaned in closely. The smell of decay and death wafted past, nauseating her. It always did—another thing she knew that she’d never get used to. Hold on. What was this? She pocketed the recorder and took her magnifier from her bag. Gold links. He took a necklace from you, didn’t he, sweet girl? She scanned the wrapped body and face closely. There was a smudge of brown next to her lips. Not blood. What is that?“He’s a collector,” she yelled up to Chad. “Did we find anything missing on the Collins’ little boy or his mom? You talked to the grandparents about jewelry?”“Yeah. No one said anything about any jewelry being gone,” Chad shouted back. “We know what he took at that scene.” The grave tone in Chad’s voice didn’t go unnoticed. “This one took something from the kid, too. Got your camera?”“Right here.” Chad held up his 35-millimeter.“Then come on down. Let’s get some pictures.” Holly looked back at the child, whose facial color held a greenish-purple tinge. She’d been out here for at least forty-eight hours. Luckily, it had been cold and rainy, preserving the body far better than if this had been a typical Southern California week.Looking again through the magnifier, she noted that both maggots and beetles were prevalent. You certainly took some care here, didn’t you? You wrapped her up nice and tight. The time and obvious care the UNSUB had taken, wrapping up the child in the plastic wrap, had also helped to keep her body intact. Maybe you’re still on her. Your cologne. Your hair. Something you wore. I’ll find it, you bastard. If you left something, anything, I will find it. The sound of crunching leaves underfoot, as well as Chad’s humming of “Sunshiny Day,” announced his arrival. She used to hate it when he did that. But humming helped Chad to get through the scene. Every investigator had a tactic. Hers was to get as deeply into the killer’s head as possible when confronted with a victim. She had to detach herself in order to solve the crime. Later, she could think about the victims as they once were—living, breathing human beings. “The gunshot to the head was at close range. At least she didn’t suffer.” Holly shuddered. “Well, let me rephrase. I don’t think she suffered at the moment of death. Who knows what occurred beforehand. Look here.” Chad bent down next to her. “Soot around the wound.”“He didn’t wipe her clean?” Chad brought the camera up to his eye, focused, and started snapping close-ups.“No.”“Like the last kid.” Chad lowered his camera.“Exactly like the Collins boy. And I don’t think this is about him being in a hurry. There’s more to it. He feels responsible somehow. In his sick way, empathetic. The gunshot wound offends him. I’ll head over to Psych later and see if we can’t get some help with the profile. My initial impression is that he doesn’t like killing the kids.”“Then why bother with the kid? Why not find a single female vic? What is it with the kids?”“Well, assuming that we’re dealing with the same UNSUB, I don’t know. We could be dealing with someone totally different from the last scene. We’ll know soon enough when we check out the mom.” Chad gave Holly a knowing look. “Here, get a snap of her neck. See that?” Holly pointed to the few lengths of chain around her tiny neck.“She wore a necklace?”“Yep, and he took it. He carried her down here. Then yanked off the necklace. Any footprints?” Holly asked.“With the rains we’ve had over the last couple of days? No.” Chad shook his head, and started clicking the camera again. “What’s that caked on the side of her face?”“I don’t know.” But the word cake did ring true—chocolate maybe. Mark Collins had had peanut butter cookies in his stomach contents. “Maybe this bastard gives them goodies first. A real compassionate type, huh?”“Twisted, Holly. This is one of the more bizarre cases I’ve seen. ‘Here kiddo, let’s have cake and ice cream before I murder you and your mom.’”“We’re not dealing with your average psycho here.” After Chad was finished snapping away, Holly bagged the bit of chain. “Let’s check out Mom.”They walked another five feet down and to the right before reaching the woman’s naked body, face down, a blue tarp tattered but still taped to her. “He didn’t take any time here,” Chad noted. “Looks like he basically dumped her and got the hell out of here.”“I think you’re right. My bet is he was extremely angry with her, or whomever she represents to him. He doesn’t care about her. He’s pissed off, and she’s the root of his anger. He didn’t bother carrying her down. He tossed her like a bag of trash.”Chad snapped several photos of the body in that position. He then rolled her over with his gloved hands. “It’s possible she’s a mother figure to him.”“That’s one train of thought. Or a wife, girlfriend, even a sister. Someone else besides a mother may have raised him. Could be a grandmother. I don’t know. But his hate is deep-seated, and it’s directed at the women. This isn’t really about the children, by what I’ve seen so far. That is, if he is the same killer who murdered Patricia and Mark Collins.” Holly shook her head. She was frustrated at the dead end that particular murder investigation had led her to. The killer on that case was meticulous and left nothing at the scene. The similarities, however, were frightening.The Collins case was another single mother and child pair. They’d been taken late at night from their Hillcrest home. No one had seen a damn thing. Patricia Collins was the quiet type, not very social, and a dedicated mother. The only lead they’d had was that she had belonged to both the local gym and a dating service, neither of which had turned up anything.Patricia had only had one date through the service, and the man had checked out completely clean. Holly had the police chief breathing down her neck, and these new murders, if they linked up to the other family, would have him in even more of a tizzy. Holly didn’t like dealing with Tom Greenfield in a tizzy.Holly nodded at Chad who pulled back the blue tarp covering the mother. “Oh my God!” Holly gasped, bringing her free hand up to her mouth. She had to look away momentarily. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs.“Yeah. I guess you could say he was pissed,” Chad muttered before firing off shot after shot of film.The woman looked to be in her early thirties. Presumably the child’s mother, she had been badly mutilated. Anguish and fright splashed across her face, her eyes frozen wide open. Holly’s gut said the killer had done the mutilating before he killed her. The woman had suffered quite a bit, whereas he had killed the child quickly. Oh, God. Had she witnessed the brutality her mother had endured?“Why would he cut off her breasts?” Chad asked.The tarp was torn open enough to see the horrid wounds the killer had inflicted upon the woman. Holly shook her head. Stay in his head. What are you so angry about? Why her? Holly sighed. “Anger combined with wanting to either strip her of her womanhood or of her motherhood. I don’t know. He’s one sick fuck.” “So what do you think? Is he the same one who murdered the Collins boy?” Chad asked. “He didn’t mutilate Patricia, except for the finger.” Holly stared blankly at the missing ring finger on this victim’s hand. “And, uh, yeah. He’s saved himself another ring finger. I’d say he’s the same killer. It adds up. Both kids shot in the head at close range. The medical examiner and ballistics will give us a better idea. The difference is in the mutilation here. Our other gal cooperated with him, maybe thought she would get out of it alive. He only severed her ring finger, and the M.E. believes that was done post mortem. I don’t think he did this after he killed this one, though. I think he tortured her.” Holly bent down next to the woman and picked up the woman’s stiff hand. “She fought back, though, before he cut it off. See the blood and skin on the other fingers and nail beds?”Chad bent down and took Holly’s magnifier from her. “We’re gonna get DNA off this. Let’s hope he has a prior.” Holly knew that was slim. Serial killers were usually very careful. You fought him, didn’t you? “You did good. We’ll get him, I promise you. I’m gonna find him for you,” she said in a barely audible whisper. She glanced back over at the body of the child. “Carpenter!” she hollered up to Robb. “Get down here. What the hell are you doing? We might have some fibers. Bring your kit, and let’s get some measurements and sketches drawn up. This scene isn’t going to stay preserved forever.”“You okay?” Chad asked.“I can’t stand that asshole. And you know he can’t stand me, especially if I’m running the scene. He’s still bent that he didn’t get promoted to my position.”“You earned it. Ignore him. That really gets under his skin.” He winked at her.Holly was fully aware of her title as Ice Princess around the department. She’d even caught a whiff of rumor about bets being placed as to who could get her in the sack.She looked at her watch. It was almost lunch hour, and she had a forty-minute drive to make it to Chloe’s school. Her daughter’s second-grade class had plans for their Thanksgiving festivities. Damn. She had promised her that she would be there. She had already missed one dance recital and a school play this year. “Can you handle this from here? I promised Chloe I’d make it to her school assembly and Thanksgiving feast. Make sure Carpenter and the boys stay in line. I don’t want any mistakes. Our perp is good and careful, but he’ll screw up somewhere along the line. When he does, I want him behind bars until they’ve got him strapped to that gurney. I don’t want him out on a technicality because of something we got careless about.”“Count on me.”“Thanks. I know I can. I’d stay and hold the fort, but Chloe . . .”“Go, for God’s sake. I can handle this.” “Call me if you get anything new. I planned to take the rest of the afternoon off and spend it with her. This morning she sent a big guilty arrow through my heart about how I’m always working. I know I shouldn’t take off, and Greenfield would skin me alive if he knew, but that might hurt less than my seven-year-old’s therapy payments down the line.”“No problem. Family first. You do what you need to, and I’ll plan to meet you at the medical examiner’s office in the morning.”Robb Carpenter passed her. “What’s the matter, Holly? Your thong up your ass today?”She kept walking. She heard Chad tell Robb to go fuck himself. Good friend. Behind the wheel of her Jeep, she pulled down the mirror and applied her tawny-colored lipstick, hoping to look more like a mother than a cop. She also put on some mascara, bringing her hazel eyes to life, and quickly brushed her short auburn hair back behind her ears. A little better. Holly quickly got onto the freeway and sped down the I-8, heading west, noticing the whites of her knuckles as she gripped the wheel tightly. She hated admitting that she had wanted to leave the scene. It wasn’t something she would typically do, although today she did have a good excuse. That poor woman, what she must have suffered . . . Her breasts. My God! She put a hand up to her breasts. He studies his victims, knows them or at least of them and their situation. What’s his motive? Why is he doing this? He wasn’t some recluse, killing randomly. He had specific reasons for the women he chose. He carved up women just like her—young, single, and with a child. It was now up to Holly to track him down before he savagely butchered another family.
June 12, 2019
Writing Ideas
One of the questions I receive most often from people curious about writing is..."Where do you get your ideas from?" Well, I get them from everywhere. I'm constantly inspired. If you want to write an essay, short story, a book, then I can assure you that all you have to do is open your mind to everything. Think about that for a moment. Think about the color yellow and then think about all of the hues that yellow comes in from light to lemon, to burnt, to gold...now take that color and place it on a dress and place that dress on someone and tell me who that person is and why that color of dress means something to her. How old is she? Does she carry memories that create sadness, happiness? What is important to her? Did she see something she shouldn't have? Did she invent something? Did she give in, win, lose, grow, what did she do....who does she want to be? Is she a leader, a victim, a survivor, evil, good, or do we know yet? Is she funny? Is she remorseful? Is she a child or an old woman? Does she carry secrets or is she the light in everyone's world?
Am I making my point?
Story ideas come from questions. Even basic questions.
If you want to write, you will find the stories because stories are everywhere. See someone, something and let your mind run with it by asking questions.
Read the news, listen to what people are talking about, look at history, talk to your parents, talk to your friends, your children, talk to yourself (you have memories, don't you)...talk to strangers (except scary ones---those are the ones that are easy to write about. I am a thriller author). The point again is that stories are everywhere. So, if you want to write and you don't know where to start all you have to do is notice something that intrigues you (it can be as basic as the color yellow) and then begin asking questions. Those questions lead to characters and then ask more questions which lead you to a plot, which lead you to an entire theme, and world.
Stories are everywhere and YOU can create them.
Am I making my point?
Story ideas come from questions. Even basic questions.
If you want to write, you will find the stories because stories are everywhere. See someone, something and let your mind run with it by asking questions.
Read the news, listen to what people are talking about, look at history, talk to your parents, talk to your friends, your children, talk to yourself (you have memories, don't you)...talk to strangers (except scary ones---those are the ones that are easy to write about. I am a thriller author). The point again is that stories are everywhere. So, if you want to write and you don't know where to start all you have to do is notice something that intrigues you (it can be as basic as the color yellow) and then begin asking questions. Those questions lead to characters and then ask more questions which lead you to a plot, which lead you to an entire theme, and world.
Stories are everywhere and YOU can create them.
May 30, 2019
Mental Health Awareness Month
So May is Mental Health Awareness month. May has been observed as such since 1949 and was started by the Mental Health America Organization. I've gone back and forth on addressing this topic, which is quite personal to me and thus decided on the two days before the month's end to go ahead and relay my personal story in dealing with someone who was once very close to me and who suffered from mental illness. I'm sharing this in the hope that someone reading this recognizes any of it as being a piece in their life that they might be comforted, seek help or have some kind of positive result from it. I have shared some of this story almost a decade ago and to this day I receive a few e-mails each year from someone who themself is afflicted with deep depression and having suicidal thoughts, or from someone who has suffered a loss due to suicide. To find that original article, you can check it out here https://parenting.blogs.nytimes.com/2...
I'm not certain where to begin here, so I'll just dive in. I met the father of my sons when I was sixteen. We went to college together and got married at twenty-two. Our first son was born soon after. Our second son was born two years later. They are both amazing, wonderful, intelligent, kind men today (I'm grateful to be their mom). Their dad (Mike) and I divorced when I was twenty-seven. We remained friends through the years until his death and if I'm honest now, we did so because even after our divorce I always felt fairly intimidated by Mike. I knew even as a teenaged girl that he wasn't always nice. In fact, he could be very cruel. However, he also had a funny and decent side. I can remember being a junior in high school and every lunch hour, Mike would go and sit with a kid who was handicapped and in a wheel chair. He and that boy would laugh all through lunch. This endeared me to him. He also loved our boys very much and played with them a lot as little kids. He hugged them a lot, took them to every movie under the sun and played video games with them. He was intelligent and he could also be very funny. However, he had a dark side.
As a young wife and mom, I never knew who I was going to encounter each day. Jeckyll or Hyde? That is an unnerving feeling. Was he going to be the nice, happy guy...or was he going to be angry, sad, distracted? I won't go into specifics but it wasn't an easy relationship. There was verbal, emotional and I can admit it now...there was even some occasional physical abuse. I know people who know me now would never believe I'd tolerate that but I did. Why did I do that? I'm not completely certain as to why other than I really had very low self esteem. I fell into victim mode easily and I lived there for years until I found the strength to say...enough. When I said, "ENOUGH!" it was loud, clear and finding my voice no matter the consequence was worth it.
I want to go back though a bit and discuss that Mike was not really a bad guy. That is not to ever excuse an abuser. If anyone reading this is an abusive situation be it with a spouse, partner, friend, parent...I beg you to reach out and get help, because here is the deal...mental disease begets mental disease. Trust me, if you live with craziness, you will begin to feel crazy at certain points.
I've done enough research and counseling to understand the differences between a narcissist, sociopath, psychopath and someone who is suffering mental illness. I also know what it means to be gas lighted by someone close to me and when dealing with that, you are typically dealing with a narcissist. They are the people who are very good at making you feel as if everything is your fault and they've done nothing wrong in the relationship...and then, you do actually question yourself. It takes on a kind of chaos of a different form. They are manipulative and undermining with a particular goal in mind without a true concern for others. However, that is an entirely other topic. Mike was not a narcissist. He was truly mentally ill. It doesn't excuse the abuse but it has helped me make sense of it.
Once out of the marriage, as I mentioned, we remained friends. We had grown up together. We co parented and he seemed to get help and get better. There was a time that he called me and asked me to forgive him. I told him that I'd forgiven long ago. I'd learned that holding anger, resentment, sadness did no good for my children, myself or for him. It was not easy but it lightened my world and I think in turn at some level it lightened his. Yet, he chose to take his life September 10, 2010. The after math of his suicide was the most horrific experience I've ever endured due to the impact it had on my sons who really loved their dad because as I've written...there was never a doubt that Mike loved his sons.
Looking back now... educating myself on mental health, years of counseling, I have come to realize that I was dealing with someone who was suffering deeply inside. I could never have healed him. However, maybe counseling, maybe meds, maybe something could have. I'll never know. What I do know is that for anyone who wonders who they might encounter each day (Jeckyll or Hyde) know that their illness doesn't excuse them from abuse. Know that some of those people are simply abusive, sadistic assholes and run! For some, they need real help and if they can get it...there is hope. But know that if you or someone you know is in a similar situation that mental illness causes chaos and heartache in so many varying degrees. Sometimes it can be turned around and sometimes it can't. Just know...that no one on either side of mental illness should be suffering. There are so many good people in the world with the tools to help. I wish now that I'd really opened up and talked to someone back then. I wish I'd not stayed a victim for so long. I wish that Mike would've sought help. And, then there is the other side of the coin in that...my sons for all they have been through are strong. They are courageous in ways that many aren't. For myself, I am stronger. I think I'm kinder. I think I recognize pain and can have empathy in ways I never had before. I won't go out there and say that everything happens for a reason, but sometimes we have to look deep to find meaning to the tragic things that occur in our lives. Sometimes discovering those meanings helps us grow and hopefully in turn prevent others from any suffering of the same ilk.
I'm not certain where to begin here, so I'll just dive in. I met the father of my sons when I was sixteen. We went to college together and got married at twenty-two. Our first son was born soon after. Our second son was born two years later. They are both amazing, wonderful, intelligent, kind men today (I'm grateful to be their mom). Their dad (Mike) and I divorced when I was twenty-seven. We remained friends through the years until his death and if I'm honest now, we did so because even after our divorce I always felt fairly intimidated by Mike. I knew even as a teenaged girl that he wasn't always nice. In fact, he could be very cruel. However, he also had a funny and decent side. I can remember being a junior in high school and every lunch hour, Mike would go and sit with a kid who was handicapped and in a wheel chair. He and that boy would laugh all through lunch. This endeared me to him. He also loved our boys very much and played with them a lot as little kids. He hugged them a lot, took them to every movie under the sun and played video games with them. He was intelligent and he could also be very funny. However, he had a dark side.
As a young wife and mom, I never knew who I was going to encounter each day. Jeckyll or Hyde? That is an unnerving feeling. Was he going to be the nice, happy guy...or was he going to be angry, sad, distracted? I won't go into specifics but it wasn't an easy relationship. There was verbal, emotional and I can admit it now...there was even some occasional physical abuse. I know people who know me now would never believe I'd tolerate that but I did. Why did I do that? I'm not completely certain as to why other than I really had very low self esteem. I fell into victim mode easily and I lived there for years until I found the strength to say...enough. When I said, "ENOUGH!" it was loud, clear and finding my voice no matter the consequence was worth it.
I want to go back though a bit and discuss that Mike was not really a bad guy. That is not to ever excuse an abuser. If anyone reading this is an abusive situation be it with a spouse, partner, friend, parent...I beg you to reach out and get help, because here is the deal...mental disease begets mental disease. Trust me, if you live with craziness, you will begin to feel crazy at certain points.
I've done enough research and counseling to understand the differences between a narcissist, sociopath, psychopath and someone who is suffering mental illness. I also know what it means to be gas lighted by someone close to me and when dealing with that, you are typically dealing with a narcissist. They are the people who are very good at making you feel as if everything is your fault and they've done nothing wrong in the relationship...and then, you do actually question yourself. It takes on a kind of chaos of a different form. They are manipulative and undermining with a particular goal in mind without a true concern for others. However, that is an entirely other topic. Mike was not a narcissist. He was truly mentally ill. It doesn't excuse the abuse but it has helped me make sense of it.
Once out of the marriage, as I mentioned, we remained friends. We had grown up together. We co parented and he seemed to get help and get better. There was a time that he called me and asked me to forgive him. I told him that I'd forgiven long ago. I'd learned that holding anger, resentment, sadness did no good for my children, myself or for him. It was not easy but it lightened my world and I think in turn at some level it lightened his. Yet, he chose to take his life September 10, 2010. The after math of his suicide was the most horrific experience I've ever endured due to the impact it had on my sons who really loved their dad because as I've written...there was never a doubt that Mike loved his sons.
Looking back now... educating myself on mental health, years of counseling, I have come to realize that I was dealing with someone who was suffering deeply inside. I could never have healed him. However, maybe counseling, maybe meds, maybe something could have. I'll never know. What I do know is that for anyone who wonders who they might encounter each day (Jeckyll or Hyde) know that their illness doesn't excuse them from abuse. Know that some of those people are simply abusive, sadistic assholes and run! For some, they need real help and if they can get it...there is hope. But know that if you or someone you know is in a similar situation that mental illness causes chaos and heartache in so many varying degrees. Sometimes it can be turned around and sometimes it can't. Just know...that no one on either side of mental illness should be suffering. There are so many good people in the world with the tools to help. I wish now that I'd really opened up and talked to someone back then. I wish I'd not stayed a victim for so long. I wish that Mike would've sought help. And, then there is the other side of the coin in that...my sons for all they have been through are strong. They are courageous in ways that many aren't. For myself, I am stronger. I think I'm kinder. I think I recognize pain and can have empathy in ways I never had before. I won't go out there and say that everything happens for a reason, but sometimes we have to look deep to find meaning to the tragic things that occur in our lives. Sometimes discovering those meanings helps us grow and hopefully in turn prevent others from any suffering of the same ilk.
May 29, 2019
Co Authoring
Being a writer tends be a solitary experience outside of read and critique groups or conferences. However, those experiences are more about learning and discovering ways to improve our writing. They're where writers go to socialize...because as I already noted, it is a solitary profession. Except, when you have a co-author.
Writing with a co-author is a different experience in some ways but also the same in some ways as when you write a book on your own.
I'll explain how I've worked with two of my friends and co-authors in the past and what the differences and similarities are in the writing experience itself.
When I worked with JR Rain on our PSI series (Psychic Sensory Intelligence), I had come up with an idea I really liked but in a genre where I hadn't really developed a readership. My main readership is in the thriller and mystery genres, so doing a paranormal urban fantasy type of book wasn't something I'd really done before. JR had been a friend of mine for years and also a good mentor. He really knows the publishing business and he's a great writer. I reached out, told him my idea and we decided to collaborate as he had a readership in that genre. JR had worked with several co-authors at this point so I figured if I was going to do it that he was the right person to work with. I'd never worked with a co-author before and I was anxious because writing is solitary and personal. It's one thing to put a book out into the world and receive criticism (good or bad) from readers you don't know to writing a book with a colleague whose writing you respect and enjoy. But JR and I were on the same page (no pun intended...well, maybe) and we devised the way we wanted to work together. Since the overall idea was mine, I wrote out an extensive outline and character bios. Once I'd done that, I wrote the first chapter and sent it over to JR. Then, he wrote the second one...and back and forth in this manner until we had a completed manuscript. What was interesting though in this process is that storytelling has to be fluid, so even though there might be an outline at play, characters may decide (yes on their own...we are writers and characters do talk to us) that they want to deviate from the outline. This happened a bit writing the series with JR and at first I would sit back and read it...thinking...hmmm, that's not how the outline went...but then, I'd reread it and usually agree that the story had taken a turn for the better, that my co-author's idea worked to move the story forward in a more interesting way. What I really enjoyed about this was then figuring out how to write the next scene outside of the box that had been created by the outline. It sort of became like a game and I discovered something about myself as a writer. That was that I could be less rigid and free flow the writing at times rather than always being so focused on the outline. JR and I wrote four books this way and had a great time doing it.
I also worked with my good friend Jen Greyson on another urban paranormal/fantasy series. We talked a lot on the phone and e-mailed our ideas back and forth, which generated some great energy around the stories. We worked in tandem quite a bit in that we developed the characters and outline together through direct communication. Then, Jen would write a few chapters and send them to me. I'd edit, add to, delete etc and anywhere I felt the story needed to play out differently, Jen and I would discuss it and compromise or agree. I loved working with Jen and writing that series. We're currently figuring out how we continue it as we both have quite a few projects at the moment. I believe though that we will get back to it. It was just too much fun not to continue.
Writing with a co-author does eliminate the solitude to a degree because you're communicating with the other writer on a regular basis and sharing ideas, developing characters, themes, etc...Both Jen and JR live in other states so there was still the actual planting my self in a chair and writing the pages on my own. The nerve wracking part was when sending back pages to another writer and hoping they like them! There's also the accountability factor. When you agree to go into this type of partnership, you both have expectations of writing something good in a time limit that works for everyone and the hopes are you reach readers who love the books. At the end of the day when the book is published you are there for each other in a way that no one is there for an author who hasn't written with another writer. If the book bombs you can either support one another or point fingers (don't do that...) and if the book takes off, a celebration is in order.
Here is the best take away I think I can give on co-authoring...if you're considering it and you like the other person's writing style, their stories and appreciate and respect them as a person, then go for it. It can be a lot of fun and I found that I grew a great deal as a writer working with other writers. Growth is what it's really all about in my opinion. Not just in writing but life in all areas. As Benjamin Franklin said, "Without continual growth and progress, such words as improvement, achievement, and success have no meaning."
Writing with a co-author is a different experience in some ways but also the same in some ways as when you write a book on your own.
I'll explain how I've worked with two of my friends and co-authors in the past and what the differences and similarities are in the writing experience itself.
When I worked with JR Rain on our PSI series (Psychic Sensory Intelligence), I had come up with an idea I really liked but in a genre where I hadn't really developed a readership. My main readership is in the thriller and mystery genres, so doing a paranormal urban fantasy type of book wasn't something I'd really done before. JR had been a friend of mine for years and also a good mentor. He really knows the publishing business and he's a great writer. I reached out, told him my idea and we decided to collaborate as he had a readership in that genre. JR had worked with several co-authors at this point so I figured if I was going to do it that he was the right person to work with. I'd never worked with a co-author before and I was anxious because writing is solitary and personal. It's one thing to put a book out into the world and receive criticism (good or bad) from readers you don't know to writing a book with a colleague whose writing you respect and enjoy. But JR and I were on the same page (no pun intended...well, maybe) and we devised the way we wanted to work together. Since the overall idea was mine, I wrote out an extensive outline and character bios. Once I'd done that, I wrote the first chapter and sent it over to JR. Then, he wrote the second one...and back and forth in this manner until we had a completed manuscript. What was interesting though in this process is that storytelling has to be fluid, so even though there might be an outline at play, characters may decide (yes on their own...we are writers and characters do talk to us) that they want to deviate from the outline. This happened a bit writing the series with JR and at first I would sit back and read it...thinking...hmmm, that's not how the outline went...but then, I'd reread it and usually agree that the story had taken a turn for the better, that my co-author's idea worked to move the story forward in a more interesting way. What I really enjoyed about this was then figuring out how to write the next scene outside of the box that had been created by the outline. It sort of became like a game and I discovered something about myself as a writer. That was that I could be less rigid and free flow the writing at times rather than always being so focused on the outline. JR and I wrote four books this way and had a great time doing it.
I also worked with my good friend Jen Greyson on another urban paranormal/fantasy series. We talked a lot on the phone and e-mailed our ideas back and forth, which generated some great energy around the stories. We worked in tandem quite a bit in that we developed the characters and outline together through direct communication. Then, Jen would write a few chapters and send them to me. I'd edit, add to, delete etc and anywhere I felt the story needed to play out differently, Jen and I would discuss it and compromise or agree. I loved working with Jen and writing that series. We're currently figuring out how we continue it as we both have quite a few projects at the moment. I believe though that we will get back to it. It was just too much fun not to continue.
Writing with a co-author does eliminate the solitude to a degree because you're communicating with the other writer on a regular basis and sharing ideas, developing characters, themes, etc...Both Jen and JR live in other states so there was still the actual planting my self in a chair and writing the pages on my own. The nerve wracking part was when sending back pages to another writer and hoping they like them! There's also the accountability factor. When you agree to go into this type of partnership, you both have expectations of writing something good in a time limit that works for everyone and the hopes are you reach readers who love the books. At the end of the day when the book is published you are there for each other in a way that no one is there for an author who hasn't written with another writer. If the book bombs you can either support one another or point fingers (don't do that...) and if the book takes off, a celebration is in order.
Here is the best take away I think I can give on co-authoring...if you're considering it and you like the other person's writing style, their stories and appreciate and respect them as a person, then go for it. It can be a lot of fun and I found that I grew a great deal as a writer working with other writers. Growth is what it's really all about in my opinion. Not just in writing but life in all areas. As Benjamin Franklin said, "Without continual growth and progress, such words as improvement, achievement, and success have no meaning."
May 8, 2019
Dead Celeb Chapter One
Of all the books I've written, The Dead Celeb has received the most favorable reviews (4.8 stares on amazon), requests for more in the series and more readers e-mail me about this book than any other. So I thought it might be fun to post a chapter of it here every few days. Let me know if you want more of Evie and her cohorts (alive and dead)...
FANS OF SOOKIE STACKHOUSE WILL LOVE EVIE PRESTON!
"Skirting the edge of gritty and glossy Los Angeles, Michele Scott takes paranormal mystery in a new direction with romance, humor, intrigue, and a fantastic leading lady. I can’t wait to read the next in the series." -Elizabeth Hunter, best-selling author of the Elemental Mysteries.
“A sexy irresistible supernatural mystery, mixed with a big cast of colorful characters. A fun, twisting plot worthy of Alfred Hitchcock that had me guessing until the very end (and guessing wrong I might add!). Michele Scott is a tremendous talent and The Dead Celeb is a helluva lot of fun to read."
--J.R. Rain, bestselling author of Moon Dance and Vampire Games.
What happens when a small town girl moves to Hollywood to pursue her dreams and winds up smack dab in the middle of a murder investigation, haunted by famous dead celebs, and working for the biggest pop star in the music industry?
Introducing Evie Preston: Small-town girl and under-the-radar healer, currently trapped in a po-dunk Texas town but yearning for something more. When fate gives her the opportunity to move to Hollywood to follow her dreams, Evie finds herself navigating through the land of glitz and glamour, and the realm of (dead) celebrities…
Raised in Brady, Texas by her minister father and her beauty shop-owner mother, Evie has been trying to get out of town for years. When an old family friend gives her an unexpected gift on her birthday, Evie finally gets the chance to start fresh out west. Against her father’s wishes, she packs up her guitar, her dog, Mama Cass, and heads for California.
Once in L.A., Evie finds a singing gig at a local dive bar where she meets a slew of interesting characters including the owner himself, a former child star with a hidden past. She also scores a day job doing make-up for a famous and foul-mouthed pop diva. One of the job perks includes house sitting at a Hollywood Hills mansion. But what Evie doesn’t know is the house is also home to some famous celebrity spirits, including the essence of former Grunge rocker, Lucas Minx.
As if things weren’t complicated enough, Evie finds herself in the middle of a murder mystery and discovers she’s being targeted by some nasty spirits. And to top things off, she’s developed a Texas-sized crush on her hot, but very dead, roommate, Lucas.
Maybe her dad was right and the City of Angels really is the City of Devils—all of them after her.
WARNING: Strong language, sexual content, and mild violence.
DEAD CELEBDEAD CELEB SERIES — BOOK ONEMICHELE SCOTT
DEDICATIONFor you Debbie Rosen because you get it!.
CHAPTER ONEMY NAME IS EVIE PRESTON and I hang out with dead rock stars. Oh, and the occasional dead movie star or two. I’ve learned quite a bit about those who live on the other side over the past few months. For instance, they aren’t all ghostly and transparent. Oh no. The ones I see are almost always in full- color and 3-D except when they exert, ah … certain energies. Then they go a bit hazy. Oh, and they prefer to be called spirits.Yeah, I know … I sound completely insane. Like, “commit me” insane. But honestly, I am not crazy. Believe me, the first time I saw Bob Marley in my place (well, technically not my place, but I’ll get to that) in the Hollywood Hills, getting high and singing “Buffalo Soldier,” I thought I was either dreaming, hallucinating, or, yes, completely nuts. Thankfully, it was none of the above. In fact, Bob is a very real, very dead guy who likes to hang out with me, along with a handful of other deceased, famous rock musicians (and a few who never quite made the charts, one of whom I’ve recently developed feelings for—more about him later). So, not only do I hang out with dead rock stars, I also think I am in love with one, or at least in lust… which makes me totally screwed up. But I am not crazy. I swear.Before I go any further, though, I need to take you back a few months to the day after my twenty-eighth birthday. Welcome to Brady, Texas—population 5,500—and, according to the sign on the main road into town, “The Heart of Texas.” Truth be told, the signs were everywhere. Signs, that is, telling me to get the hell out of Brady.I was at Mrs. Betty LaRue’s place. Her house smelled of Tide, home cooking, and mothballs. Betty was comforting me over the dismal turnout of my Mary Kay presentation—my latest attempt at becoming an entrepreneur—which she’d kindly hosted.We were drinking apple-cranberry tea, with her Lhasa Apso, Princess, curled in a ball under Betty’s chair, and my dog (of indeterminate breed … possibly part-coyote and part-lab, with a dash of border collie in there), Mama Cass, across my feet. I loved how Betty always let me bring Cass in the house. My dog went everywhere with me, but not everyone was as gracious about her presence as Betty.“I really thought this would go much better,” I said, bringing the warm cup of tea to my lips.Betty smiled sympathetically, the fine lines in her eighty- something face creasing deeper into her skin, “Oh, honey, I don’t know what happened to my girls today. I am so sorry. I thought there’d be at least ten of us. They all love my snickerdoodles. But you know how some of us old gals are; we forget things.” She twirled a yellow-white wisp of curled hair around her finger. The rest of it was pulled up into a loose bun (or chignon as Mama calls it). She’d obviously been in to see my mother that morning for her weekly hair appointment.I nodded. “It’s okay, Betty. Thanks for hosting anyway, and the cookies were delicious. Three isn’t such a bad turnout.” Thing was, only Betty bought anything. Her friends, Margaret and Hazel, came for the cookies and samples. “And I made about ten dollars, so that will buy me a couple of meals. You’ll love that anti-wrinkle cream, by the way.”Betty ran a hand over her face and laughed sweetly. “Child, ain’t nothing gonna work on this face now. And I’m proud of these lines. I earned them.”I laughed back. “So you only bought the cream because you felt sorry for me?” Cass’s ears perked up and she lifted her head to peer at me.Betty sighed. “Evie Preston, I have known you since you started kicking up a fuss in your mama’s belly.” She winked at me. “I’ve watched you try so hard to be exactly what your mama and daddy wanted, especially after all that bad business. And there was that unfortunate situation with—” She paused. “What was his name?”She brought her cup to her lips, her hand shaking ever so slightly. I sighed, knowing exactly what bad business she was referring to. As for the unfortunate situation, he was the star quarterback my senior year and the lucky recipient of my virginity. Sadly, he was also the jerk who then decided to share the news with the entire town. Thank God my mother was able to intercept that little tidbit before it reached my father’s ears.Betty waved her free hand in the air as if to brush the painful thoughts away. “I know you were hoping to be a good Texas girl and marry a good Texas boy and have babies and run a family like your folks did, not because you really wanted it,” she said, shaking a finger at me. “But because your parents wanted it for you. And now, my dear,” Betty leaned over and gave me one of her rare, stern looks. “It’s high time you stopped pretending and started living!”“What do you mean?”“You got a God-given talent. You need to get out there and do something with it.”She tried to set the tea cup down on the side table and almost missed. I grabbed it and set it down for her. Betty beamed at me. “Thank you, honey! Always so polite.”I looked down at my dog, licking the unpolished toes peeking out of the only pair of high-heeled sandals I owned. “Fact is, Betty, I know I’m good, but there are a lot of good musicians out there.” I dejectedly twirled the ends of my long, baby-fine hair. Mama always said God hadn’t been paying close attention when it came time to give me hair. It was stick straight, dark brown, and silky. I couldn’t do a darn thing with it, except put it into ponytails.Betty waved her hand again. “Nonsense!” Placing her hands on the sides of her chair, she slowly pushed herself up to a stand and ambled over to the white brick mantle. She grabbed an envelope and handed it to me.“What’s this?” I asked.“Your birthday was yesterday, wasn’t it?”“You remembered?”She frowned. “I may be old, Evie, but I don’t forget birthdays. Especially when they’re for people I care about.”“That is so sweet of you.” I was flattered and grateful someone seemed happy to have me around.“Oh honey, you know you’re one of my favorite people. You got spunk! Had it since you came out ass-backward, showing the world what you thought of it.”“Thank you, I think.” I couldn’t help smiling. Betty was the only one I knew who spoke the truth without holding back. Betty was authenticity at it’s finest. She didn’t tiptoe around stuff like my family. Tiptoeing was what we did best.“Open it! I don’t have all day. It’s about time for my nap.”I tore open the envelope and found a check inside for five thousand dollars, made out to me. I gasped.“Betty! What…” Cass jumped up, her huge ears pricked forward, tail wagging, watching me like a hawk. “It’s okay, girl.” She lay back down but still alert.“I was twenty-eight once too, you know, and I had dreams … big dreams.” Betty’s blue eyes glazed over for a moment. “I wanted to be a movie star, and I could have, too. I was damn good, like you are at what you do, and, believe it or not, I used to be good looking.” She winked at me again, but there were tears in her eyes. I knew about Betty’s dreams from long ago. I also knew there was a part of her life that hadn’t been so good.“But then my folks, like yours, had other ideas and I decided to play by their rules. I don’t regret it … well, maybe I do a little. Thing is, young lady, you can sing like a nightingale and you can play the guitar like nobody’s business. You need to get the hell out of this town before you wind up like every other girl here—knocked up, changing dirty diapers, and cleaning up after some idiot male who spends his nights with a beer in one hand and a TV remote in the other.”I frowned. I’d already seen almost every girl from my high school graduating class living the life Betty had just described. The lucky ones skipped town and went to college. I hadn’t been quite that lucky for a variety of reasons. I had the grades and the desire, but life had other ideas. On the positive side, which is where I like to go, I’d at least not had the misfortune of marrying some guy who didn’t appreciate me, expected his dinner on the table when he got home from his shift at Walmart, and wanted his wife and children to obey, just because he said so.“Betty, I really do appreciate your vote of confidence but still, I can’t accept this.” I held the check towards her.“Yes, you can, and you will. Go live your life, Evie Preston. Pack up that van of yours, your guitar, and Mama Cass, and head west. You sing your heart out in every bar, every café, every church—I don’t care where you go, but go and sing. I know one thing: you have what it takes to be a star. Forget all about them cosmetics you’re trying to pawn…”“Mary Kay,” I interrupted. “It is a really good line. Mama swears by it.”She frowned and waved that hand at me. “Just forget all that, because you and I both know it won’t get you nowhere. That kind of thing is for people like Shirley Swan up the road trying to make an extra buck to take care of those four kids of hers. Take the money, cut your losses, and run. You gotta stop living for your mama and daddy. You didn’t cause what happened and you can’t never change it.” She shook her head vehemently. “Go on and live life. Do it for me. Humor an old woman, please?” Her blue eyes watered, the creases crinkling as she choked back emotion.How could I refuse after a plea like that? I tried one last time, for the sake of courtesy. “But my daddy—”Betty dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. “He’ll get over it. And your mama is gonna secretly be cheering you on. It’ll be hard on them, but this’ll be the best thing for all of you.” She sighed heavily. “Especially you, Evie. Trust me.” So I did. I trusted Betty LaRue.The next day I packed up my 1974 VW bus, a suitcase of clothes, my Rosewood Gibson acoustic guitar, and Mama Cass. I pulled out of my parents’ driveway while Daddy waved his arms wildly in the air, yelling, “You’re gonna ruin your life out there, Evangeline!” (He’s the only one who ever calls me by my full name.) “Los Angeles isn’t the city of angels. It’s a city of heathens and devils!”I knew he was just scared. I’m pretty sure if I looked closer, I’d see tears in his eyes. But Betty was right. This was something I had to do.I could see tears for sure in my mother’s big hazel eyes, the same color as my own, as she mouthed, “I love you.”I rolled down the window, choking back my own sobs. “I love you, too! I’ll call. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”With blurred eyes, Mama Cass’s head in my lap, a Patsy Cline cassette in the tape deck (thank God for eBay—you have no idea how hard it is to find cassette tapes these days), I headed west to the City of Angels. For the first time in sixteen years, I felt like I could finally breathe again. I was leaving behind the only two people I knew who I had never been able to heal even a little bit, and I didn’t think I ever could.
FANS OF SOOKIE STACKHOUSE WILL LOVE EVIE PRESTON!
"Skirting the edge of gritty and glossy Los Angeles, Michele Scott takes paranormal mystery in a new direction with romance, humor, intrigue, and a fantastic leading lady. I can’t wait to read the next in the series." -Elizabeth Hunter, best-selling author of the Elemental Mysteries.
“A sexy irresistible supernatural mystery, mixed with a big cast of colorful characters. A fun, twisting plot worthy of Alfred Hitchcock that had me guessing until the very end (and guessing wrong I might add!). Michele Scott is a tremendous talent and The Dead Celeb is a helluva lot of fun to read."
--J.R. Rain, bestselling author of Moon Dance and Vampire Games.
What happens when a small town girl moves to Hollywood to pursue her dreams and winds up smack dab in the middle of a murder investigation, haunted by famous dead celebs, and working for the biggest pop star in the music industry?
Introducing Evie Preston: Small-town girl and under-the-radar healer, currently trapped in a po-dunk Texas town but yearning for something more. When fate gives her the opportunity to move to Hollywood to follow her dreams, Evie finds herself navigating through the land of glitz and glamour, and the realm of (dead) celebrities…
Raised in Brady, Texas by her minister father and her beauty shop-owner mother, Evie has been trying to get out of town for years. When an old family friend gives her an unexpected gift on her birthday, Evie finally gets the chance to start fresh out west. Against her father’s wishes, she packs up her guitar, her dog, Mama Cass, and heads for California.
Once in L.A., Evie finds a singing gig at a local dive bar where she meets a slew of interesting characters including the owner himself, a former child star with a hidden past. She also scores a day job doing make-up for a famous and foul-mouthed pop diva. One of the job perks includes house sitting at a Hollywood Hills mansion. But what Evie doesn’t know is the house is also home to some famous celebrity spirits, including the essence of former Grunge rocker, Lucas Minx.
As if things weren’t complicated enough, Evie finds herself in the middle of a murder mystery and discovers she’s being targeted by some nasty spirits. And to top things off, she’s developed a Texas-sized crush on her hot, but very dead, roommate, Lucas.
Maybe her dad was right and the City of Angels really is the City of Devils—all of them after her.
WARNING: Strong language, sexual content, and mild violence.
DEAD CELEBDEAD CELEB SERIES — BOOK ONEMICHELE SCOTT
DEDICATIONFor you Debbie Rosen because you get it!.
CHAPTER ONEMY NAME IS EVIE PRESTON and I hang out with dead rock stars. Oh, and the occasional dead movie star or two. I’ve learned quite a bit about those who live on the other side over the past few months. For instance, they aren’t all ghostly and transparent. Oh no. The ones I see are almost always in full- color and 3-D except when they exert, ah … certain energies. Then they go a bit hazy. Oh, and they prefer to be called spirits.Yeah, I know … I sound completely insane. Like, “commit me” insane. But honestly, I am not crazy. Believe me, the first time I saw Bob Marley in my place (well, technically not my place, but I’ll get to that) in the Hollywood Hills, getting high and singing “Buffalo Soldier,” I thought I was either dreaming, hallucinating, or, yes, completely nuts. Thankfully, it was none of the above. In fact, Bob is a very real, very dead guy who likes to hang out with me, along with a handful of other deceased, famous rock musicians (and a few who never quite made the charts, one of whom I’ve recently developed feelings for—more about him later). So, not only do I hang out with dead rock stars, I also think I am in love with one, or at least in lust… which makes me totally screwed up. But I am not crazy. I swear.Before I go any further, though, I need to take you back a few months to the day after my twenty-eighth birthday. Welcome to Brady, Texas—population 5,500—and, according to the sign on the main road into town, “The Heart of Texas.” Truth be told, the signs were everywhere. Signs, that is, telling me to get the hell out of Brady.I was at Mrs. Betty LaRue’s place. Her house smelled of Tide, home cooking, and mothballs. Betty was comforting me over the dismal turnout of my Mary Kay presentation—my latest attempt at becoming an entrepreneur—which she’d kindly hosted.We were drinking apple-cranberry tea, with her Lhasa Apso, Princess, curled in a ball under Betty’s chair, and my dog (of indeterminate breed … possibly part-coyote and part-lab, with a dash of border collie in there), Mama Cass, across my feet. I loved how Betty always let me bring Cass in the house. My dog went everywhere with me, but not everyone was as gracious about her presence as Betty.“I really thought this would go much better,” I said, bringing the warm cup of tea to my lips.Betty smiled sympathetically, the fine lines in her eighty- something face creasing deeper into her skin, “Oh, honey, I don’t know what happened to my girls today. I am so sorry. I thought there’d be at least ten of us. They all love my snickerdoodles. But you know how some of us old gals are; we forget things.” She twirled a yellow-white wisp of curled hair around her finger. The rest of it was pulled up into a loose bun (or chignon as Mama calls it). She’d obviously been in to see my mother that morning for her weekly hair appointment.I nodded. “It’s okay, Betty. Thanks for hosting anyway, and the cookies were delicious. Three isn’t such a bad turnout.” Thing was, only Betty bought anything. Her friends, Margaret and Hazel, came for the cookies and samples. “And I made about ten dollars, so that will buy me a couple of meals. You’ll love that anti-wrinkle cream, by the way.”Betty ran a hand over her face and laughed sweetly. “Child, ain’t nothing gonna work on this face now. And I’m proud of these lines. I earned them.”I laughed back. “So you only bought the cream because you felt sorry for me?” Cass’s ears perked up and she lifted her head to peer at me.Betty sighed. “Evie Preston, I have known you since you started kicking up a fuss in your mama’s belly.” She winked at me. “I’ve watched you try so hard to be exactly what your mama and daddy wanted, especially after all that bad business. And there was that unfortunate situation with—” She paused. “What was his name?”She brought her cup to her lips, her hand shaking ever so slightly. I sighed, knowing exactly what bad business she was referring to. As for the unfortunate situation, he was the star quarterback my senior year and the lucky recipient of my virginity. Sadly, he was also the jerk who then decided to share the news with the entire town. Thank God my mother was able to intercept that little tidbit before it reached my father’s ears.Betty waved her free hand in the air as if to brush the painful thoughts away. “I know you were hoping to be a good Texas girl and marry a good Texas boy and have babies and run a family like your folks did, not because you really wanted it,” she said, shaking a finger at me. “But because your parents wanted it for you. And now, my dear,” Betty leaned over and gave me one of her rare, stern looks. “It’s high time you stopped pretending and started living!”“What do you mean?”“You got a God-given talent. You need to get out there and do something with it.”She tried to set the tea cup down on the side table and almost missed. I grabbed it and set it down for her. Betty beamed at me. “Thank you, honey! Always so polite.”I looked down at my dog, licking the unpolished toes peeking out of the only pair of high-heeled sandals I owned. “Fact is, Betty, I know I’m good, but there are a lot of good musicians out there.” I dejectedly twirled the ends of my long, baby-fine hair. Mama always said God hadn’t been paying close attention when it came time to give me hair. It was stick straight, dark brown, and silky. I couldn’t do a darn thing with it, except put it into ponytails.Betty waved her hand again. “Nonsense!” Placing her hands on the sides of her chair, she slowly pushed herself up to a stand and ambled over to the white brick mantle. She grabbed an envelope and handed it to me.“What’s this?” I asked.“Your birthday was yesterday, wasn’t it?”“You remembered?”She frowned. “I may be old, Evie, but I don’t forget birthdays. Especially when they’re for people I care about.”“That is so sweet of you.” I was flattered and grateful someone seemed happy to have me around.“Oh honey, you know you’re one of my favorite people. You got spunk! Had it since you came out ass-backward, showing the world what you thought of it.”“Thank you, I think.” I couldn’t help smiling. Betty was the only one I knew who spoke the truth without holding back. Betty was authenticity at it’s finest. She didn’t tiptoe around stuff like my family. Tiptoeing was what we did best.“Open it! I don’t have all day. It’s about time for my nap.”I tore open the envelope and found a check inside for five thousand dollars, made out to me. I gasped.“Betty! What…” Cass jumped up, her huge ears pricked forward, tail wagging, watching me like a hawk. “It’s okay, girl.” She lay back down but still alert.“I was twenty-eight once too, you know, and I had dreams … big dreams.” Betty’s blue eyes glazed over for a moment. “I wanted to be a movie star, and I could have, too. I was damn good, like you are at what you do, and, believe it or not, I used to be good looking.” She winked at me again, but there were tears in her eyes. I knew about Betty’s dreams from long ago. I also knew there was a part of her life that hadn’t been so good.“But then my folks, like yours, had other ideas and I decided to play by their rules. I don’t regret it … well, maybe I do a little. Thing is, young lady, you can sing like a nightingale and you can play the guitar like nobody’s business. You need to get the hell out of this town before you wind up like every other girl here—knocked up, changing dirty diapers, and cleaning up after some idiot male who spends his nights with a beer in one hand and a TV remote in the other.”I frowned. I’d already seen almost every girl from my high school graduating class living the life Betty had just described. The lucky ones skipped town and went to college. I hadn’t been quite that lucky for a variety of reasons. I had the grades and the desire, but life had other ideas. On the positive side, which is where I like to go, I’d at least not had the misfortune of marrying some guy who didn’t appreciate me, expected his dinner on the table when he got home from his shift at Walmart, and wanted his wife and children to obey, just because he said so.“Betty, I really do appreciate your vote of confidence but still, I can’t accept this.” I held the check towards her.“Yes, you can, and you will. Go live your life, Evie Preston. Pack up that van of yours, your guitar, and Mama Cass, and head west. You sing your heart out in every bar, every café, every church—I don’t care where you go, but go and sing. I know one thing: you have what it takes to be a star. Forget all about them cosmetics you’re trying to pawn…”“Mary Kay,” I interrupted. “It is a really good line. Mama swears by it.”She frowned and waved that hand at me. “Just forget all that, because you and I both know it won’t get you nowhere. That kind of thing is for people like Shirley Swan up the road trying to make an extra buck to take care of those four kids of hers. Take the money, cut your losses, and run. You gotta stop living for your mama and daddy. You didn’t cause what happened and you can’t never change it.” She shook her head vehemently. “Go on and live life. Do it for me. Humor an old woman, please?” Her blue eyes watered, the creases crinkling as she choked back emotion.How could I refuse after a plea like that? I tried one last time, for the sake of courtesy. “But my daddy—”Betty dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. “He’ll get over it. And your mama is gonna secretly be cheering you on. It’ll be hard on them, but this’ll be the best thing for all of you.” She sighed heavily. “Especially you, Evie. Trust me.” So I did. I trusted Betty LaRue.The next day I packed up my 1974 VW bus, a suitcase of clothes, my Rosewood Gibson acoustic guitar, and Mama Cass. I pulled out of my parents’ driveway while Daddy waved his arms wildly in the air, yelling, “You’re gonna ruin your life out there, Evangeline!” (He’s the only one who ever calls me by my full name.) “Los Angeles isn’t the city of angels. It’s a city of heathens and devils!”I knew he was just scared. I’m pretty sure if I looked closer, I’d see tears in his eyes. But Betty was right. This was something I had to do.I could see tears for sure in my mother’s big hazel eyes, the same color as my own, as she mouthed, “I love you.”I rolled down the window, choking back my own sobs. “I love you, too! I’ll call. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”With blurred eyes, Mama Cass’s head in my lap, a Patsy Cline cassette in the tape deck (thank God for eBay—you have no idea how hard it is to find cassette tapes these days), I headed west to the City of Angels. For the first time in sixteen years, I felt like I could finally breathe again. I was leaving behind the only two people I knew who I had never been able to heal even a little bit, and I didn’t think I ever could.April 22, 2019
Murder Uncorked
Nikki Sands was like every other aspiring actress—waiting tables between jobs. But Nikki had taken serving wines to heart. She knew enough to impress Napa Valley’s golden boy, Derek Malveaux, who offered her a job at his vineyard. And though Nikki may have left her dreams of stardom behind, the world of wine is ripe with intrigue—and the seeds of sleuthing are planted…
Nikki has just set foot on Napa Valley’s rich soil when she realizes her new job may not be as safe as she thought. First off, Derek Malveaux is disconcertingly sexy. Second, his top winemaker is dead in the bushes outside Nikki’s cottage. It doesn’t take a connoisseur of foul play to know something’s taken a terrible turn…
Murder Uncorked was where it all began for me as far as becoming a published author. It wasn't the beginning for me as a writer. I'd been writing manuscripts for a dozen years at the point that I came up with the idea for this mystery series. Nikki Sands is still one of my all time favorite characters. Thought I'd share the first chapter of the first book. There are seven in total and two novellas in the series, along with a cookbook compiling the recipes from all the books...if you haven't read any of the books, then I'll explain. In the chapters where Nikki makes a meal or eats out, I included the recipes and wine pairings, which made for some fun research! Hope you enjoy!
Cheers,
Michele
Chapter 1
Nikki Sands hated her job almost as much as she hated her past. She straightened her crisp white blouse and put on her best smile. She approached the couple at the table she was serving, and couldn’t help but notice the woman watching her with that unmistakable glint of self-importance that judged Nikki to be nothing but the peon who was waiting on them. The woman had a glamour-girl theme about her, but that hair needed a good hairdresser. Hadn’t she heard that frizzy platinum blonde was passé? Not to mention the Pat Benatar smoldering-eye-makeup look. “Tell me about your wine list. What do you recommend as a good red?” the man asked her. His look, compared to his date’s, was all-the-way chic. Dark blond hair with exactly the right amount of wave to it, mesmerizing ocean-blue eyes, high cheekbones, a golden tan, and a few fine lines gave him the right amount of that rugged-man look. Nikki couldn’t help thinking that Casanova was luscious. “I’m partial to this nice Medoc-Grand Cru Classe. It’s an excellent choice,” she said, pointing to one of the more expensive wines on the list. “The Bordeaux blend is smooth, and there’s a hint of fruit to it, so it’s not too dry.” If she’d had the money, the stylish Bordeaux would’ve been her first choice. The Medoc wines dated all the way back to Napoleon, and since that time had remained as some of the best out there. “But if you prefer something lighter, a good Red Zinfandel would be nice. We have a small production wine from Napa from the Downing Vineyards. It’s right here.” Nikki’s finger moved to the red zin. Glancing down at the man, her stomach lurched. He smiled up at her. “The Fly by Night Zinfandel,” she said. “I think we’ll go with the Medoc,” the man replied with an approving smile. Nikki walked back to the bar to order the drinks from her pal and bartender, Maurice. She winced when an instrumental version of “Stormy Weather” started playing over the stereo system.“What is it, doll?” Maurice asked. “You don’t like the oldies but goodies?” “Are you kidding? I love them. What I can’t stand is that this place is supposed to be so upscale, yet we have to pipe in music on a system. I think management should really go all out and get a pianist in here.” “They’re too cheap,” Maurice replied. They both laughed, knowing that was the reality. Nikki glanced around to make sure their manager, Steve, wasn’t lurking. Nikki loved music of all kinds. She compartmentalized areas of her life by listening to music and songs. Stressful times, happy times, the handful of boyfriends, life in Los Angeles, and life in Tennessee, even her mother—all of them were associated with their own song, and each of them conjured up memories when she listened. Nikki noticed that the woman from the table she was waiting got up to go to the powder room, Manolo Blahnik pumps click-clacking as she sauntered across the hardwood floor. She caught up with Nikki at the bar.“Do us right, hon. I’d like tonight to be special, because I don’t want this one getting away.” She lowered her voice and leaned into Nikki, who got a whiff of her strong gardenia-scented perfume. “Tone down the wine expertise for me, okay?” The overblown blonde winked at Nikki, then proceeded into the rest room, coming back out after a few moments with her collagen-plumped lips painted raspberry-pink. Something was wrong with this picture, but it wasn’t up to Nikki to make a judgment call. Lately, she’d been attempting to try something very anti-L.A. The concept of not judging others—something she found exceedingly difficult to do, especially in this case. However, after that out-of-place comment and the trip to the bathroom to do the lacquer thing on those lips, Nikki shamefully threw her new practice out the window and made her first—okay, maybe third—judgment call of the evening. She dubbed the woman “The Bimbo.” What was that asking her to tone down the wine advice about anyway? She was supposed to make suggestions about wines. It was part of her job. The Bimbo wore something that resembled a Band-Aid across her chest, with a skirt so tight and short that her date looked to be guaranteed to get a return on his dinner investment in the next few hours. Nikki’s stomach knotted, noticing the way The Bimbo stared at her, as if she were so much better than Nikki, just because she could snag some rich guy. Although her night job was far from glamorous, Nikki was an aspiring actress, after all—a profession, which seemed to garner notice from some men. But, at that moment the thought of being an aspiring actress-cum-waitress made her feel slightly queasy. She’d checked the mirror before coming to work, and there were signs of age that wise women referred to as “the signs of a life well lived.” Nikki called them what they were: crow’s feet. And crow’s feet were the death of every aspiring actress. The pesky wrinkles aside, Nikki felt pretty good about her looks. She still maintained her natural blonde hair, which she wore just past her shoulders, and she thought her eyes were her best feature. They were kind of a mix between green, gray, and blue, depending on what she was wearing. The handful of boyfriends Nikki had in the past always told her that she was beautiful, even sexy. She was comfortable with her looks, but she didn’t think of herself as a sexpot by any means. Besides, all those compliments had come from men who were hopeful to get a little booty and shake as paybacks to their endearments and attention. Most of the men she’d dated had turned out to be no good . . . But this was no time to think about rotten men. There was wine to be poured. Nikki filled Casanova’s glass with a tasting of the velvety red potion. He swirled, smelled, sipped, swished, and swallowed. “Excellent,” he said. “It’s got a different flavor to it. I can taste the berry, but . . .” He looked up at her. Nikki glanced at The Bimbo, who at that moment looked like a cat about to pounce on her prey. Nikki smiled sweetly. The hell with it. “You’re right, the berry is a currant, but it also has a very smoky blend, with tobacco and fatty flavors,” she replied, while filling both of their glasses.“It does.” “Fatty?” The Bimbo asked. “She’s talking about a bacon-type fat. It’s not put into the wines, but it has to do with the fermentation process, as well as the age of the wood in which the wine gets barreled.”“Fascinating.” The Bimbo looked up at Nikki. She was vibing some serious daggers. “I see you don’t serve foie gras?” “Actually, we do,” Nikki replied. “But it’s not always available. May I suggest the escargot? It’s excellent. The chef does it in a puff pastry shell with a white wine and garlic sauce. It would also complement your wine.” The Bimbo batted her false eyelashes and waved her hand in front of her nose. “I don’t like snails. I find them repulsive.” Sure, but you’ll eat a poor little duck’s liver. Casanova didn’t look like he had much empathy for his date. This was getting amusing. Nikki stifled a smile. “I’m certain there must be something on the menu you’d like,” he chuckled. “I wanted foie gras,” she whined. “I don’t know if I really want to eat here. It’s not like the service has been spectacular.” She looked Nikki up and down, finally glaring at her. “I think the service is excellent,” Casanova said mildly. “Why don’t you take another moment to decide, and I’ll be right back. I might add that, if you’d care for oysters, we are serving them tonight, and they are divine, and we have a lovely Pinot Grigio to complement them with.” “Super,” The Bimbo replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. “While you’re back there, can you bring me a scotch and water? I’m not much of a wine drinker.” Boy, this woman was scoring points with Casanova. Was she the same gal who only moments ago asked Nikki not to blow it for her? Her man had plunked down a mean chunk of change on a superb bottle of wine. Now, because she wasn’t getting her duck liver, she needed to make a scene. Nikki figured that from a man’s point of view, she must be good in bed, because why else would anyone put up with that? Nikki walked to the bar and ordered The Bimbo’s drink. “Hey, gorgeous, back so soon? Looks like you’ve got your hands full over there tonight.” Maurice nodded in the direction of Casanova and The Bimbo’s table. “What else is new?” “You tell me. How’s the acting going?” “Honestly? It doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. It would appear I’m past my prime at thirty-four,” she said. “Since the few shows I did as Detective Sydney Martini bombed so badly, I don’t know, Maurice. Maybe it’s time for a career change. I don’t think I can handle working here forever.” Maurice picked up a butter knife and feigned stabbing himself in the heart. “Oh, my apple dumpling, how those words hurt.” Nikki waved a hand at him and giggled. She and Maurice did have a wonderful friendship, one they’d built over the past three years since she’d started work at the Chez la Mer. He was thirty years her senior and always a good listener. Nikki thought of him as the father she’d never had. “Face it, you love it here. You’ve been here for what, ten years?” “Twelve,” he replied. “Twelve. Okay. But bartending is like being a psychologist. Sure, people place orders, but I’ve watched you, and I know how great you are with people. They talk to you. With me, it’s a rare smile and plenty of orders. If it isn’t just so, then I’m the fall guy.” “Excuse me,” The Bimbo sang out over the din, “Yoohoo.” Maurice handed her the drink. “I could put a little magic in there, if you know what I mean.” He slyly took out a bottle of eyedrops from his shirt pocket. “She’d leave him high and dry and have to head for the drug store, for a box of Imodium AD.” “Nah, that’s okay. That’d be bad karma, and I’ve racked up plenty of that already. I can handle her.” Nikki placed the drink on her tray and walked back over to the table. “It’s about time. Did you enjoy your chat with the bartender?” The Bimbo asked her.“Sabrina,” the man chided gently. “She’s doing her job.” Nikki smiled at him. The Bimbo cleared her throat, as if Nikki were committing a crime by smiling at her date. “I apologize. Consider it on the house,” Nikki said, setting down the drink. But as she did, the woman shifted and started to stand. The drink spilled all over her short skirt.The Bimbo gasped, her eyes wide with shock from the cold drink seeping down her scantily clad body. “You idiot! Are you totally incompetent? What the hell is wrong with you? This is a freaking Versace. You know Versace?” She rolled her eyes at Nikki. “Why am I bothering to say this to someone who buys her clothes at Wal-Mart?” That hurt. Especially since she’d bought her shirt at Target, which she pronounced “Tarjay.” Don’t go there. Don’t tell her what she really is. Don’t . . . “I certainly didn’t mean to. I really am sorry. I’m sure it can be cleaned. Please send us the cleaning bill.” Nikki could hear the trace of her Southern accent coming through. At that moment, she looked around and noticed the entire clientele was observing the scene, and that both the chef and manager had stepped forward. The Bimbo pointed a finger at her and blurted, “No. It won’t come clean. It’s ruined. I can’t go out like this,” she said, then turned her focus to Nikki’s manager. “She can’t do her job, it’s obvious. She’s flirted with my date, had a gab session with the bartender, and now she spills a drink on me. I don’t think so.” Casanova took The Bimbo by the arm. “Quiet down. Let’s all relax. It was an accident, okay?” The Bimbo yanked her arm out of his hand. “Accident, my ass. That clumsy woman spilled my drink all over me and ruined my fifteen-hundred-dollar outfit.” “I wouldn’t have spent fifteen dollars on that,” Nikki muttered. Oops. Self-control was another issue Nikki was working on, but a person can only take so much abuse, and this broad had tried her patience. Not to mention she’d insulted her fashion sense. “I heard that. Now she insults me. Unbelievable,” The Bimbo said, spinning back around to face Steve, the restaurant manager. “I want her fired. I have a lot of friends in high places. I’ll tell all of them how terrible this place is, if you don’t do something about her.” She pointed a long lacquered nail at Nikki. “Nikki,” Steve said, his face beet-red. Casanova pulled The Bimbo to the side and was saying something to her. Even though the manager beckoned Nikki, she couldn’t help notice out of the corner of her eye that the cute guy seemed to be chewing out The Bimbo. “Listen—” Nikki held up her hand before her manager could continue. “Don’t bother, Steve. I know what you’re going to say. I’m sorry I caused such a problem tonight. It’s not a big deal. I’ll make it easy for you.” Nikki could see by the look in Steve’s eyes that he did feel bad, but she knew he had no choice. She couldn’t blame him at all. She went into the kitchen and grabbed her purse. Maurice followed her. He held out a drink to her. “Hundred-year-old scotch, princess. Drink it with me.” She smiled and fought back any emotion. Why was she so upset anyway? She hated this job and its bad sound system. It was a miserable job. Well, except for Maurice. Steve was okay, too. “You have customers.” “Forget ’em. They can wait a few while I have a nip with you.” “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I certainly don’t want to get you canned, too. Actually, I wasn’t fired, not technically. I quit,” she said, half-laughing. She was trying really hard to fight back her tears, which were a mixture of anger, shame, and that feeling of failure that sticks in the gut. He waved a hand at her like she was being silly, which she knew she was. Steve would never fire Maurice. He was as much a part of Chez la Mer as the pristine crystal chandelier in the entryway. He held up his glass. “To bigger and better things for the princess.” She clinked her highball with his and watched as the amber liquid swirled around inside the glass. She took a sip of the bold smoky drink. Very smooth—all the way down. Her stomach warmed. “That is good,” she said. The chef came in, poured himself a glass, too, and nodded at Nikki with a smile. He was a man of few words, but he could make dirt taste divine, and Nikki knew that he liked her. He was always giving her his latest dessert invention to try first or to take home with her. She’d miss him, too. The chef took his glass, walked back over to the stove, and picked up where he’d left off. Nikki finished the contents of her glass, leaned in, and gave Maurice a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said. “I won’t.” “You shouldn’t be alone. Are you going home?” “In a bit. I think I’ll stop off at the Liquid Potion and have another drink,” she said. “Be careful.” Nikki pulled on her sweater and went out the back entrance, not wanting to have any more contact with The Bimbo or Casanova. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, tears finally flowing freely. So she’d hated the job, wanted to move on . . . This was simply the catalyst to get her to do so. But the reality was, she had no prospects. Her acting career was pretty much sunk. Now she’d have to figure out what her thing really was, because the rent would come due in a couple of weeks, and Nikki was already low on cash. She knew that Aunt Cara would help her out if things got completely desperate, but Nikki didn’t want to put either one of them in that position. She wiped away the tears, stood up straight, and started walking up the street. No more of this feeling sorry for herself. That Nikki Sands was far, far away. The new Nikki Sands was a survivor who could figure out what she wanted from life. She had to, because there was no way, no-how, Nikki was going backward after coming this far. She walked a few blocks up the street and entered the wine bar off Wilshire Boulevard, looked around and found an empty seat at the counter bar. It was a bit early yet for the party crowd. She was glad, because the patrons who were already there were dressed to the nines, and her cheap white blouse, as crisp as it might be, along with her waitress’s standard black crepe pants, were not working with this crowd. Yes indeed, wine was in order. “What can I get you?” the bartender asked. Young, California-tanned, and athletic, he matched the decor of the place—faux-finish golden walls, candles in Gothic iron candelabras, crushed copper velvet draperies. Segovia’s guitar music played in the background. Very Hollywood. Maybe she should’ve walked a bit farther east and found something more like a dive to drown her sorrows in. She was looking a bit pool-bar girl for such a swanky place. Screw it. She was here and ready for some vino. “I’ll take a glass of your Saddleback Sauvignon Blanc,” she answered. “And can you fill that to the brim, please?” It was a bit pricier than what Nikki wanted to pay, but it isn’t every day that a bimbo wanting desperately to be Paris Hilton turns your life inside out. So why not splurge?“Nice wine,” a deep voice from behind her said. “This seat taken?” Nikki lifted her head to see none other than Casanova sliding onto the stool next to her. “I thought I might buy you a glass of wine, as well as apologize for my date’s rudeness. You ran out before I got the chance.” Silenced by surprise, Nikki shifted on the suede-covered bar stool and nodded, then shook her head. “Wait.” She found her voice, ironed out the drawl in it before speaking again. “Let me get this straight. You’re here to apologize to me and buy me a drink?” She searched the bar. “What’s the deal? Where’s Ms. Thing? Is she hiding in the wings? How did you find me, anyway?” “Bring me a bottle of the Saddleback Cellars,” Casanova said to the bartender, who set Nikki’s glass down in front of her. Casanova then picked up the appetizer menu and scanned it. “Can we also have a plate of your goat cheese and mixed mushroom bruschetta?” He turned back to her and stuck out his hand. “I’m Derek Malveaux. I hope you don’t mind an appetizer. Sauvignon Blanc goes so well with mushrooms.” Nikki hesitantly returned the handshake. “Okay.” She couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say at the moment. She was stunned at the turn of events. “I’m not here to prove anything. I felt terrible about the incident at Chez la Mer. My date treated you horribly. I called for a car to take her home. And as for finding you? Seems your bartender friend agreed with me that you would appreciate an apology. I got your job back, too, if you want it.” For the second time in less than five minutes, a wave of shock overtook her. Nikki shut her trap again, having to think hard for a response. She had no clue as to what to make of this man. Why on God’s green earth would he do such a thing for her? After all, he had it in the bag with The Bimbo. What was his deal? “I get it. You’ve decided to go for the vulnerable girl, the one who’s just lost her job.” She knew she was far more of a challenge than The Bimbo, and men supposedly liked the thrill of the chase. He eyed her. “No. I really am here to tell you that I’m sorry and buy you a drink.” “Okay.” He was hot, he had good taste in wine, and she didn’t have any other prospects. But Nikki wasn’t a bimbo, and memories of her last breakup warned her to tread carefully. She promised herself to keep it all together, including blouse buttons and pants zipper. The next man she allowed to get her naked would most certainly be one she was in love with. Gorgeous or not, she was sure that Casanova was far more interested in getting naked than in experiencing love.Nikki held up her glass of wine. “Here’s to apologies accepted.” They clinked their glasses and brought them to their lips. Derek’s lips were full, with a perfect cupid bow in the center of the upper one. They were very sexy, and kissable. The bartender set the bruschetta in front of them. They each took a bite. “You’re right. The Sauvignon Blanc works well with this. Good idea. So, tell me, Mr. Malveaux . . .” “Derek, please.” “Okay, Derek. Tell me what happened to your date. She didn’t exactly seem to be your type. And, to be blunt, are you hitting on me?” “Sabrina, my date for the evening, was not someone I would have asked out. I can tell you that much. I don’t live here in Los Angeles. I’m down for business, and one of my clients set the two of us up. Trust me. All I wanted to do today was have my meetings and go back to the Century Plaza, maybe have a massage in the spa, order room service, and retire for the night. And, no, I am not hitting on you. I’m apologizing to you over a glass of wine.” Nikki sized him up. Was this really the truth? Hard to say. There were plenty of men out there who knew how to tell a good story. This was L.A., and for all she knew, Derek was an aspiring actor with a bunch of fables ready to tell to any damsel he wished to bed. “Why didn’t you cancel the date?” “My client said she was a nice woman, and—” “Had a nice bod.” “Yes, he did add that. I should’ve canceled, anyway, even if I might lose an account.” “I can’t believe that. Over a defunct date?” “She’s best friends with my client’s wife.” “Then he’d have to be one shallow jerk. I hope that’s not the case. I’d feel even guiltier for losing you your client than for spilling a drink all over your date’s designer outfit.” She laughed. The wine was making what he was saying easy to buy into. He poured her a second glass. They polished off the bruschetta. “Tell you what,” Derek said. “Why don’t we go back to the Plaza? Have dinner with me. I’ll get you a car back to your place afterward.” Nikki shook her head. “I don’t know about that.” “It’s only dinner.” It wasn’t like he was coming on to her. In fact, Nikki felt a bit irritated at the fact that he hadn’t come on to her—at all. Was her getup that bad? Oh, God. Maybe she should’ve checked herself in the mirror in the bathroom. What if her mascara had run all over the place? And stress could make her break out in hives, too! What if Derek was staring at a red, rash-pocked face with a running black mascara mess? Not to mention, she hadn’t taken a comb to her hair since walking from Chez la Mer to the bar, and there’d been a slight wind. This could not be good. She’d been dead wrong about Derek Malveaux. He really had only wanted to apologize to the pitiful waitress. “What’s the matter, Nikki?” “I, you know, should really get home. I’m sure you’re tired. I’m tired. It’s been a stressful evening for me.” He frowned, and the few lines on his forehead crinkled together, as he appeared hurt by her response. She touched his hand. “This has been great, and I really appreciate the apology. But, please, you don’t have to do any more for me tonight.” “I don’t get you,” he said. “One minute, you think I’m making a play for you. The next minute, I’m Saint Derek.”“I don’t know. At first I thought you were trying to score with the ditzy waitress, which by the way, I am not. But, I’ve sat here with you for a while, and not once have you even tried to flirt with me.” “Let’s start from the beginning, okay? I think you are a very beautiful woman. I’m sorry that the woman I was out with was so horrendous to you; so, yes, I felt that an apology was in order. Yes, I did, and do, want to get to know you better. However—” Nikki started to comment. He held up his hand to her, and she closed her mouth in response. “However, I am not trying to get you into bed. I’d like to have dinner with you, and I actually may have a proposal for you. Something you might be interested in.” “Are you some positive-thinking guru? You know, the kind who teaches that you can do anything you want as long as you try? Achieve your dreams, blah, blah, blah.” “No, but I believe in that way of thinking. I own a winery. That’s how I make my money.” Then it hit her. Malveaux Estate. Some of the best Cabernets and Merlots to come out of the Napa Valley region. A major winery. They also produced a Chardonnay that was quite good. Nikki couldn’t afford the wines, but working at Chez la Mer, she’d tasted a few. It now made sense to her why The Bimbo had made that comment to her about her wine expertise. Nikki was a threat to her. “Derek Malveaux,” she replied in wonderment. “Of Malveaux Estate?” He nodded. “What do you say, we head over to the Plaza, have dinner, and I’ll tell you my proposition?” “I’d say you’re on.”
The evening hadn’t gone as planned, but it certainly hadn’t been boring. And, Nikki had to admit, she couldn’t help wondering what Derek Malveaux’s proposal might be.
Goat Cheese and Mixed Mushroom Bruschetta
If you want to make an elegant but easy appetizer, try the Goat Cheese and Mixed Mushroom Bruschetta. Sauvignon Blanc is a good choice to accompany this treat. It is light and fruity, which enhances the earthy flavors in the bruschetta. Nikki and Derek shared a delightful bottle of Saddleback Cellars Sauvignon Blanc with their appetizer. The Sauvignon Blanc contains a citrus and hibiscus nose with a wonderful gold/green color. The wine is crisp, with a clean acid balance and light sweet oak; it’s youthful and is a perfect food wine. It will give you the flavors of summer and the pleasures that come from a well-crafted wine. Enjoy!
5 ounces Portobello mushrooms 4 ounces shiitake mushrooms 2 ounces oyster mushrooms 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 tablespoon unsalted butter 2 shallots minced cloves of garlic ¼ cup chicken broth ⅓ cup dry white wine 1 teaspoon dried thyme 1 teaspoon dried basil salt and red pepper flakes 12 slices of rustic baguette: sourdough, Italian, even whole grain for the health conscious 4 ounces goat cheese ripe red tomatoes, cored & diced
Chop the mushrooms. Heat olive oil and butter over medium heat in a sauté pan. Add the shallots and garlic and mix for 1-2 minutes, stirring often. Add the mushrooms and raise the heat a bit. Mix everything for about 8 minutes. Add chicken broth, white wine, and dried seasonings and cook until the liquid is evaporated. Season with salt for taste. Preheat broiler. Spread the bread slices with goat cheese and spoon the mushroom mixture evenly over the bread. Place the tomatoes on top. Broil for 4 minutes, or until mushrooms begin to brown. Serves six.
Nikki has just set foot on Napa Valley’s rich soil when she realizes her new job may not be as safe as she thought. First off, Derek Malveaux is disconcertingly sexy. Second, his top winemaker is dead in the bushes outside Nikki’s cottage. It doesn’t take a connoisseur of foul play to know something’s taken a terrible turn…
Murder Uncorked was where it all began for me as far as becoming a published author. It wasn't the beginning for me as a writer. I'd been writing manuscripts for a dozen years at the point that I came up with the idea for this mystery series. Nikki Sands is still one of my all time favorite characters. Thought I'd share the first chapter of the first book. There are seven in total and two novellas in the series, along with a cookbook compiling the recipes from all the books...if you haven't read any of the books, then I'll explain. In the chapters where Nikki makes a meal or eats out, I included the recipes and wine pairings, which made for some fun research! Hope you enjoy!Cheers,
Michele
Chapter 1
Nikki Sands hated her job almost as much as she hated her past. She straightened her crisp white blouse and put on her best smile. She approached the couple at the table she was serving, and couldn’t help but notice the woman watching her with that unmistakable glint of self-importance that judged Nikki to be nothing but the peon who was waiting on them. The woman had a glamour-girl theme about her, but that hair needed a good hairdresser. Hadn’t she heard that frizzy platinum blonde was passé? Not to mention the Pat Benatar smoldering-eye-makeup look. “Tell me about your wine list. What do you recommend as a good red?” the man asked her. His look, compared to his date’s, was all-the-way chic. Dark blond hair with exactly the right amount of wave to it, mesmerizing ocean-blue eyes, high cheekbones, a golden tan, and a few fine lines gave him the right amount of that rugged-man look. Nikki couldn’t help thinking that Casanova was luscious. “I’m partial to this nice Medoc-Grand Cru Classe. It’s an excellent choice,” she said, pointing to one of the more expensive wines on the list. “The Bordeaux blend is smooth, and there’s a hint of fruit to it, so it’s not too dry.” If she’d had the money, the stylish Bordeaux would’ve been her first choice. The Medoc wines dated all the way back to Napoleon, and since that time had remained as some of the best out there. “But if you prefer something lighter, a good Red Zinfandel would be nice. We have a small production wine from Napa from the Downing Vineyards. It’s right here.” Nikki’s finger moved to the red zin. Glancing down at the man, her stomach lurched. He smiled up at her. “The Fly by Night Zinfandel,” she said. “I think we’ll go with the Medoc,” the man replied with an approving smile. Nikki walked back to the bar to order the drinks from her pal and bartender, Maurice. She winced when an instrumental version of “Stormy Weather” started playing over the stereo system.“What is it, doll?” Maurice asked. “You don’t like the oldies but goodies?” “Are you kidding? I love them. What I can’t stand is that this place is supposed to be so upscale, yet we have to pipe in music on a system. I think management should really go all out and get a pianist in here.” “They’re too cheap,” Maurice replied. They both laughed, knowing that was the reality. Nikki glanced around to make sure their manager, Steve, wasn’t lurking. Nikki loved music of all kinds. She compartmentalized areas of her life by listening to music and songs. Stressful times, happy times, the handful of boyfriends, life in Los Angeles, and life in Tennessee, even her mother—all of them were associated with their own song, and each of them conjured up memories when she listened. Nikki noticed that the woman from the table she was waiting got up to go to the powder room, Manolo Blahnik pumps click-clacking as she sauntered across the hardwood floor. She caught up with Nikki at the bar.“Do us right, hon. I’d like tonight to be special, because I don’t want this one getting away.” She lowered her voice and leaned into Nikki, who got a whiff of her strong gardenia-scented perfume. “Tone down the wine expertise for me, okay?” The overblown blonde winked at Nikki, then proceeded into the rest room, coming back out after a few moments with her collagen-plumped lips painted raspberry-pink. Something was wrong with this picture, but it wasn’t up to Nikki to make a judgment call. Lately, she’d been attempting to try something very anti-L.A. The concept of not judging others—something she found exceedingly difficult to do, especially in this case. However, after that out-of-place comment and the trip to the bathroom to do the lacquer thing on those lips, Nikki shamefully threw her new practice out the window and made her first—okay, maybe third—judgment call of the evening. She dubbed the woman “The Bimbo.” What was that asking her to tone down the wine advice about anyway? She was supposed to make suggestions about wines. It was part of her job. The Bimbo wore something that resembled a Band-Aid across her chest, with a skirt so tight and short that her date looked to be guaranteed to get a return on his dinner investment in the next few hours. Nikki’s stomach knotted, noticing the way The Bimbo stared at her, as if she were so much better than Nikki, just because she could snag some rich guy. Although her night job was far from glamorous, Nikki was an aspiring actress, after all—a profession, which seemed to garner notice from some men. But, at that moment the thought of being an aspiring actress-cum-waitress made her feel slightly queasy. She’d checked the mirror before coming to work, and there were signs of age that wise women referred to as “the signs of a life well lived.” Nikki called them what they were: crow’s feet. And crow’s feet were the death of every aspiring actress. The pesky wrinkles aside, Nikki felt pretty good about her looks. She still maintained her natural blonde hair, which she wore just past her shoulders, and she thought her eyes were her best feature. They were kind of a mix between green, gray, and blue, depending on what she was wearing. The handful of boyfriends Nikki had in the past always told her that she was beautiful, even sexy. She was comfortable with her looks, but she didn’t think of herself as a sexpot by any means. Besides, all those compliments had come from men who were hopeful to get a little booty and shake as paybacks to their endearments and attention. Most of the men she’d dated had turned out to be no good . . . But this was no time to think about rotten men. There was wine to be poured. Nikki filled Casanova’s glass with a tasting of the velvety red potion. He swirled, smelled, sipped, swished, and swallowed. “Excellent,” he said. “It’s got a different flavor to it. I can taste the berry, but . . .” He looked up at her. Nikki glanced at The Bimbo, who at that moment looked like a cat about to pounce on her prey. Nikki smiled sweetly. The hell with it. “You’re right, the berry is a currant, but it also has a very smoky blend, with tobacco and fatty flavors,” she replied, while filling both of their glasses.“It does.” “Fatty?” The Bimbo asked. “She’s talking about a bacon-type fat. It’s not put into the wines, but it has to do with the fermentation process, as well as the age of the wood in which the wine gets barreled.”“Fascinating.” The Bimbo looked up at Nikki. She was vibing some serious daggers. “I see you don’t serve foie gras?” “Actually, we do,” Nikki replied. “But it’s not always available. May I suggest the escargot? It’s excellent. The chef does it in a puff pastry shell with a white wine and garlic sauce. It would also complement your wine.” The Bimbo batted her false eyelashes and waved her hand in front of her nose. “I don’t like snails. I find them repulsive.” Sure, but you’ll eat a poor little duck’s liver. Casanova didn’t look like he had much empathy for his date. This was getting amusing. Nikki stifled a smile. “I’m certain there must be something on the menu you’d like,” he chuckled. “I wanted foie gras,” she whined. “I don’t know if I really want to eat here. It’s not like the service has been spectacular.” She looked Nikki up and down, finally glaring at her. “I think the service is excellent,” Casanova said mildly. “Why don’t you take another moment to decide, and I’ll be right back. I might add that, if you’d care for oysters, we are serving them tonight, and they are divine, and we have a lovely Pinot Grigio to complement them with.” “Super,” The Bimbo replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. “While you’re back there, can you bring me a scotch and water? I’m not much of a wine drinker.” Boy, this woman was scoring points with Casanova. Was she the same gal who only moments ago asked Nikki not to blow it for her? Her man had plunked down a mean chunk of change on a superb bottle of wine. Now, because she wasn’t getting her duck liver, she needed to make a scene. Nikki figured that from a man’s point of view, she must be good in bed, because why else would anyone put up with that? Nikki walked to the bar and ordered The Bimbo’s drink. “Hey, gorgeous, back so soon? Looks like you’ve got your hands full over there tonight.” Maurice nodded in the direction of Casanova and The Bimbo’s table. “What else is new?” “You tell me. How’s the acting going?” “Honestly? It doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. It would appear I’m past my prime at thirty-four,” she said. “Since the few shows I did as Detective Sydney Martini bombed so badly, I don’t know, Maurice. Maybe it’s time for a career change. I don’t think I can handle working here forever.” Maurice picked up a butter knife and feigned stabbing himself in the heart. “Oh, my apple dumpling, how those words hurt.” Nikki waved a hand at him and giggled. She and Maurice did have a wonderful friendship, one they’d built over the past three years since she’d started work at the Chez la Mer. He was thirty years her senior and always a good listener. Nikki thought of him as the father she’d never had. “Face it, you love it here. You’ve been here for what, ten years?” “Twelve,” he replied. “Twelve. Okay. But bartending is like being a psychologist. Sure, people place orders, but I’ve watched you, and I know how great you are with people. They talk to you. With me, it’s a rare smile and plenty of orders. If it isn’t just so, then I’m the fall guy.” “Excuse me,” The Bimbo sang out over the din, “Yoohoo.” Maurice handed her the drink. “I could put a little magic in there, if you know what I mean.” He slyly took out a bottle of eyedrops from his shirt pocket. “She’d leave him high and dry and have to head for the drug store, for a box of Imodium AD.” “Nah, that’s okay. That’d be bad karma, and I’ve racked up plenty of that already. I can handle her.” Nikki placed the drink on her tray and walked back over to the table. “It’s about time. Did you enjoy your chat with the bartender?” The Bimbo asked her.“Sabrina,” the man chided gently. “She’s doing her job.” Nikki smiled at him. The Bimbo cleared her throat, as if Nikki were committing a crime by smiling at her date. “I apologize. Consider it on the house,” Nikki said, setting down the drink. But as she did, the woman shifted and started to stand. The drink spilled all over her short skirt.The Bimbo gasped, her eyes wide with shock from the cold drink seeping down her scantily clad body. “You idiot! Are you totally incompetent? What the hell is wrong with you? This is a freaking Versace. You know Versace?” She rolled her eyes at Nikki. “Why am I bothering to say this to someone who buys her clothes at Wal-Mart?” That hurt. Especially since she’d bought her shirt at Target, which she pronounced “Tarjay.” Don’t go there. Don’t tell her what she really is. Don’t . . . “I certainly didn’t mean to. I really am sorry. I’m sure it can be cleaned. Please send us the cleaning bill.” Nikki could hear the trace of her Southern accent coming through. At that moment, she looked around and noticed the entire clientele was observing the scene, and that both the chef and manager had stepped forward. The Bimbo pointed a finger at her and blurted, “No. It won’t come clean. It’s ruined. I can’t go out like this,” she said, then turned her focus to Nikki’s manager. “She can’t do her job, it’s obvious. She’s flirted with my date, had a gab session with the bartender, and now she spills a drink on me. I don’t think so.” Casanova took The Bimbo by the arm. “Quiet down. Let’s all relax. It was an accident, okay?” The Bimbo yanked her arm out of his hand. “Accident, my ass. That clumsy woman spilled my drink all over me and ruined my fifteen-hundred-dollar outfit.” “I wouldn’t have spent fifteen dollars on that,” Nikki muttered. Oops. Self-control was another issue Nikki was working on, but a person can only take so much abuse, and this broad had tried her patience. Not to mention she’d insulted her fashion sense. “I heard that. Now she insults me. Unbelievable,” The Bimbo said, spinning back around to face Steve, the restaurant manager. “I want her fired. I have a lot of friends in high places. I’ll tell all of them how terrible this place is, if you don’t do something about her.” She pointed a long lacquered nail at Nikki. “Nikki,” Steve said, his face beet-red. Casanova pulled The Bimbo to the side and was saying something to her. Even though the manager beckoned Nikki, she couldn’t help notice out of the corner of her eye that the cute guy seemed to be chewing out The Bimbo. “Listen—” Nikki held up her hand before her manager could continue. “Don’t bother, Steve. I know what you’re going to say. I’m sorry I caused such a problem tonight. It’s not a big deal. I’ll make it easy for you.” Nikki could see by the look in Steve’s eyes that he did feel bad, but she knew he had no choice. She couldn’t blame him at all. She went into the kitchen and grabbed her purse. Maurice followed her. He held out a drink to her. “Hundred-year-old scotch, princess. Drink it with me.” She smiled and fought back any emotion. Why was she so upset anyway? She hated this job and its bad sound system. It was a miserable job. Well, except for Maurice. Steve was okay, too. “You have customers.” “Forget ’em. They can wait a few while I have a nip with you.” “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I certainly don’t want to get you canned, too. Actually, I wasn’t fired, not technically. I quit,” she said, half-laughing. She was trying really hard to fight back her tears, which were a mixture of anger, shame, and that feeling of failure that sticks in the gut. He waved a hand at her like she was being silly, which she knew she was. Steve would never fire Maurice. He was as much a part of Chez la Mer as the pristine crystal chandelier in the entryway. He held up his glass. “To bigger and better things for the princess.” She clinked her highball with his and watched as the amber liquid swirled around inside the glass. She took a sip of the bold smoky drink. Very smooth—all the way down. Her stomach warmed. “That is good,” she said. The chef came in, poured himself a glass, too, and nodded at Nikki with a smile. He was a man of few words, but he could make dirt taste divine, and Nikki knew that he liked her. He was always giving her his latest dessert invention to try first or to take home with her. She’d miss him, too. The chef took his glass, walked back over to the stove, and picked up where he’d left off. Nikki finished the contents of her glass, leaned in, and gave Maurice a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said. “I won’t.” “You shouldn’t be alone. Are you going home?” “In a bit. I think I’ll stop off at the Liquid Potion and have another drink,” she said. “Be careful.” Nikki pulled on her sweater and went out the back entrance, not wanting to have any more contact with The Bimbo or Casanova. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, tears finally flowing freely. So she’d hated the job, wanted to move on . . . This was simply the catalyst to get her to do so. But the reality was, she had no prospects. Her acting career was pretty much sunk. Now she’d have to figure out what her thing really was, because the rent would come due in a couple of weeks, and Nikki was already low on cash. She knew that Aunt Cara would help her out if things got completely desperate, but Nikki didn’t want to put either one of them in that position. She wiped away the tears, stood up straight, and started walking up the street. No more of this feeling sorry for herself. That Nikki Sands was far, far away. The new Nikki Sands was a survivor who could figure out what she wanted from life. She had to, because there was no way, no-how, Nikki was going backward after coming this far. She walked a few blocks up the street and entered the wine bar off Wilshire Boulevard, looked around and found an empty seat at the counter bar. It was a bit early yet for the party crowd. She was glad, because the patrons who were already there were dressed to the nines, and her cheap white blouse, as crisp as it might be, along with her waitress’s standard black crepe pants, were not working with this crowd. Yes indeed, wine was in order. “What can I get you?” the bartender asked. Young, California-tanned, and athletic, he matched the decor of the place—faux-finish golden walls, candles in Gothic iron candelabras, crushed copper velvet draperies. Segovia’s guitar music played in the background. Very Hollywood. Maybe she should’ve walked a bit farther east and found something more like a dive to drown her sorrows in. She was looking a bit pool-bar girl for such a swanky place. Screw it. She was here and ready for some vino. “I’ll take a glass of your Saddleback Sauvignon Blanc,” she answered. “And can you fill that to the brim, please?” It was a bit pricier than what Nikki wanted to pay, but it isn’t every day that a bimbo wanting desperately to be Paris Hilton turns your life inside out. So why not splurge?“Nice wine,” a deep voice from behind her said. “This seat taken?” Nikki lifted her head to see none other than Casanova sliding onto the stool next to her. “I thought I might buy you a glass of wine, as well as apologize for my date’s rudeness. You ran out before I got the chance.” Silenced by surprise, Nikki shifted on the suede-covered bar stool and nodded, then shook her head. “Wait.” She found her voice, ironed out the drawl in it before speaking again. “Let me get this straight. You’re here to apologize to me and buy me a drink?” She searched the bar. “What’s the deal? Where’s Ms. Thing? Is she hiding in the wings? How did you find me, anyway?” “Bring me a bottle of the Saddleback Cellars,” Casanova said to the bartender, who set Nikki’s glass down in front of her. Casanova then picked up the appetizer menu and scanned it. “Can we also have a plate of your goat cheese and mixed mushroom bruschetta?” He turned back to her and stuck out his hand. “I’m Derek Malveaux. I hope you don’t mind an appetizer. Sauvignon Blanc goes so well with mushrooms.” Nikki hesitantly returned the handshake. “Okay.” She couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say at the moment. She was stunned at the turn of events. “I’m not here to prove anything. I felt terrible about the incident at Chez la Mer. My date treated you horribly. I called for a car to take her home. And as for finding you? Seems your bartender friend agreed with me that you would appreciate an apology. I got your job back, too, if you want it.” For the second time in less than five minutes, a wave of shock overtook her. Nikki shut her trap again, having to think hard for a response. She had no clue as to what to make of this man. Why on God’s green earth would he do such a thing for her? After all, he had it in the bag with The Bimbo. What was his deal? “I get it. You’ve decided to go for the vulnerable girl, the one who’s just lost her job.” She knew she was far more of a challenge than The Bimbo, and men supposedly liked the thrill of the chase. He eyed her. “No. I really am here to tell you that I’m sorry and buy you a drink.” “Okay.” He was hot, he had good taste in wine, and she didn’t have any other prospects. But Nikki wasn’t a bimbo, and memories of her last breakup warned her to tread carefully. She promised herself to keep it all together, including blouse buttons and pants zipper. The next man she allowed to get her naked would most certainly be one she was in love with. Gorgeous or not, she was sure that Casanova was far more interested in getting naked than in experiencing love.Nikki held up her glass of wine. “Here’s to apologies accepted.” They clinked their glasses and brought them to their lips. Derek’s lips were full, with a perfect cupid bow in the center of the upper one. They were very sexy, and kissable. The bartender set the bruschetta in front of them. They each took a bite. “You’re right. The Sauvignon Blanc works well with this. Good idea. So, tell me, Mr. Malveaux . . .” “Derek, please.” “Okay, Derek. Tell me what happened to your date. She didn’t exactly seem to be your type. And, to be blunt, are you hitting on me?” “Sabrina, my date for the evening, was not someone I would have asked out. I can tell you that much. I don’t live here in Los Angeles. I’m down for business, and one of my clients set the two of us up. Trust me. All I wanted to do today was have my meetings and go back to the Century Plaza, maybe have a massage in the spa, order room service, and retire for the night. And, no, I am not hitting on you. I’m apologizing to you over a glass of wine.” Nikki sized him up. Was this really the truth? Hard to say. There were plenty of men out there who knew how to tell a good story. This was L.A., and for all she knew, Derek was an aspiring actor with a bunch of fables ready to tell to any damsel he wished to bed. “Why didn’t you cancel the date?” “My client said she was a nice woman, and—” “Had a nice bod.” “Yes, he did add that. I should’ve canceled, anyway, even if I might lose an account.” “I can’t believe that. Over a defunct date?” “She’s best friends with my client’s wife.” “Then he’d have to be one shallow jerk. I hope that’s not the case. I’d feel even guiltier for losing you your client than for spilling a drink all over your date’s designer outfit.” She laughed. The wine was making what he was saying easy to buy into. He poured her a second glass. They polished off the bruschetta. “Tell you what,” Derek said. “Why don’t we go back to the Plaza? Have dinner with me. I’ll get you a car back to your place afterward.” Nikki shook her head. “I don’t know about that.” “It’s only dinner.” It wasn’t like he was coming on to her. In fact, Nikki felt a bit irritated at the fact that he hadn’t come on to her—at all. Was her getup that bad? Oh, God. Maybe she should’ve checked herself in the mirror in the bathroom. What if her mascara had run all over the place? And stress could make her break out in hives, too! What if Derek was staring at a red, rash-pocked face with a running black mascara mess? Not to mention, she hadn’t taken a comb to her hair since walking from Chez la Mer to the bar, and there’d been a slight wind. This could not be good. She’d been dead wrong about Derek Malveaux. He really had only wanted to apologize to the pitiful waitress. “What’s the matter, Nikki?” “I, you know, should really get home. I’m sure you’re tired. I’m tired. It’s been a stressful evening for me.” He frowned, and the few lines on his forehead crinkled together, as he appeared hurt by her response. She touched his hand. “This has been great, and I really appreciate the apology. But, please, you don’t have to do any more for me tonight.” “I don’t get you,” he said. “One minute, you think I’m making a play for you. The next minute, I’m Saint Derek.”“I don’t know. At first I thought you were trying to score with the ditzy waitress, which by the way, I am not. But, I’ve sat here with you for a while, and not once have you even tried to flirt with me.” “Let’s start from the beginning, okay? I think you are a very beautiful woman. I’m sorry that the woman I was out with was so horrendous to you; so, yes, I felt that an apology was in order. Yes, I did, and do, want to get to know you better. However—” Nikki started to comment. He held up his hand to her, and she closed her mouth in response. “However, I am not trying to get you into bed. I’d like to have dinner with you, and I actually may have a proposal for you. Something you might be interested in.” “Are you some positive-thinking guru? You know, the kind who teaches that you can do anything you want as long as you try? Achieve your dreams, blah, blah, blah.” “No, but I believe in that way of thinking. I own a winery. That’s how I make my money.” Then it hit her. Malveaux Estate. Some of the best Cabernets and Merlots to come out of the Napa Valley region. A major winery. They also produced a Chardonnay that was quite good. Nikki couldn’t afford the wines, but working at Chez la Mer, she’d tasted a few. It now made sense to her why The Bimbo had made that comment to her about her wine expertise. Nikki was a threat to her. “Derek Malveaux,” she replied in wonderment. “Of Malveaux Estate?” He nodded. “What do you say, we head over to the Plaza, have dinner, and I’ll tell you my proposition?” “I’d say you’re on.”
The evening hadn’t gone as planned, but it certainly hadn’t been boring. And, Nikki had to admit, she couldn’t help wondering what Derek Malveaux’s proposal might be.
Goat Cheese and Mixed Mushroom Bruschetta
If you want to make an elegant but easy appetizer, try the Goat Cheese and Mixed Mushroom Bruschetta. Sauvignon Blanc is a good choice to accompany this treat. It is light and fruity, which enhances the earthy flavors in the bruschetta. Nikki and Derek shared a delightful bottle of Saddleback Cellars Sauvignon Blanc with their appetizer. The Sauvignon Blanc contains a citrus and hibiscus nose with a wonderful gold/green color. The wine is crisp, with a clean acid balance and light sweet oak; it’s youthful and is a perfect food wine. It will give you the flavors of summer and the pleasures that come from a well-crafted wine. Enjoy!
5 ounces Portobello mushrooms 4 ounces shiitake mushrooms 2 ounces oyster mushrooms 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 tablespoon unsalted butter 2 shallots minced cloves of garlic ¼ cup chicken broth ⅓ cup dry white wine 1 teaspoon dried thyme 1 teaspoon dried basil salt and red pepper flakes 12 slices of rustic baguette: sourdough, Italian, even whole grain for the health conscious 4 ounces goat cheese ripe red tomatoes, cored & diced
Chop the mushrooms. Heat olive oil and butter over medium heat in a sauté pan. Add the shallots and garlic and mix for 1-2 minutes, stirring often. Add the mushrooms and raise the heat a bit. Mix everything for about 8 minutes. Add chicken broth, white wine, and dried seasonings and cook until the liquid is evaporated. Season with salt for taste. Preheat broiler. Spread the bread slices with goat cheese and spoon the mushroom mixture evenly over the bread. Place the tomatoes on top. Broil for 4 minutes, or until mushrooms begin to brown. Serves six.
Nikki Sands was like every other aspiring actress—waiting...
Nikki Sands was like every other aspiring actress—waiting tables between jobs. But Nikki had taken serving wines to heart. She knew enough to impress Napa Valley’s golden boy, Derek Malveaux, who offered her a job at his vineyard. And though Nikki may have left her dreams of stardom behind, the world of wine is ripe with intrigue—and the seeds of sleuthing are planted…
Nikki has just set foot on Napa Valley’s rich soil when she realizes her new job may not be as safe as she thought. First off, Derek Malveaux is disconcertingly sexy. Second, his top winemaker is dead in the bushes outside Nikki’s cottage. It doesn’t take a connoisseur of foul play to know something’s taken a terrible turn…
Murder Uncorked was where it all began for me as far as becoming a published author. It wasn't the beginning for me as a writer. I'd been writing manuscripts for a dozen years at the point that I came up with the idea for this mystery series. Nikki Sands is still one of my all time favorite characters. Thought I'd share the first chapter of the first book. There are seven in total and two novellas in the series, along with a cookbook compiling the recipes from all the books...if you haven't read any of the books, then I'll explain. In the chapters where Nikki makes a meal or eats out, I included the recipes and wine pairings, which made for some fun research! Hope you enjoy!
Cheers,
Michele
Chapter 1
Nikki Sands hated her job almost as much as she hated her past. She straightened her crisp white blouse and put on her best smile. She approached the couple at the table she was serving, and couldn’t help but notice the woman watching her with that unmistakable glint of self-importance that judged Nikki to be nothing but the peon who was waiting on them. The woman had a glamour-girl theme about her, but that hair needed a good hairdresser. Hadn’t she heard that frizzy platinum blonde was passé? Not to mention the Pat Benatar smoldering-eye-makeup look. “Tell me about your wine list. What do you recommend as a good red?” the man asked her. His look, compared to his date’s, was all-the-way chic. Dark blond hair with exactly the right amount of wave to it, mesmerizing ocean-blue eyes, high cheekbones, a golden tan, and a few fine lines gave him the right amount of that rugged-man look. Nikki couldn’t help thinking that Casanova was luscious. “I’m partial to this nice Medoc-Grand Cru Classe. It’s an excellent choice,” she said, pointing to one of the more expensive wines on the list. “The Bordeaux blend is smooth, and there’s a hint of fruit to it, so it’s not too dry.” If she’d had the money, the stylish Bordeaux would’ve been her first choice. The Medoc wines dated all the way back to Napoleon, and since that time had remained as some of the best out there. “But if you prefer something lighter, a good Red Zinfandel would be nice. We have a small production wine from Napa from the Downing Vineyards. It’s right here.” Nikki’s finger moved to the red zin. Glancing down at the man, her stomach lurched. He smiled up at her. “The Fly by Night Zinfandel,” she said. “I think we’ll go with the Medoc,” the man replied with an approving smile. Nikki walked back to the bar to order the drinks from her pal and bartender, Maurice. She winced when an instrumental version of “Stormy Weather” started playing over the stereo system.“What is it, doll?” Maurice asked. “You don’t like the oldies but goodies?” “Are you kidding? I love them. What I can’t stand is that this place is supposed to be so upscale, yet we have to pipe in music on a system. I think management should really go all out and get a pianist in here.” “They’re too cheap,” Maurice replied. They both laughed, knowing that was the reality. Nikki glanced around to make sure their manager, Steve, wasn’t lurking. Nikki loved music of all kinds. She compartmentalized areas of her life by listening to music and songs. Stressful times, happy times, the handful of boyfriends, life in Los Angeles, and life in Tennessee, even her mother—all of them were associated with their own song, and each of them conjured up memories when she listened. Nikki noticed that the woman from the table she was waiting got up to go to the powder room, Manolo Blahnik pumps click-clacking as she sauntered across the hardwood floor. She caught up with Nikki at the bar.“Do us right, hon. I’d like tonight to be special, because I don’t want this one getting away.” She lowered her voice and leaned into Nikki, who got a whiff of her strong gardenia-scented perfume. “Tone down the wine expertise for me, okay?” The overblown blonde winked at Nikki, then proceeded into the rest room, coming back out after a few moments with her collagen-plumped lips painted raspberry-pink. Something was wrong with this picture, but it wasn’t up to Nikki to make a judgment call. Lately, she’d been attempting to try something very anti-L.A. The concept of not judging others—something she found exceedingly difficult to do, especially in this case. However, after that out-of-place comment and the trip to the bathroom to do the lacquer thing on those lips, Nikki shamefully threw her new practice out the window and made her first—okay, maybe third—judgment call of the evening. She dubbed the woman “The Bimbo.” What was that asking her to tone down the wine advice about anyway? She was supposed to make suggestions about wines. It was part of her job. The Bimbo wore something that resembled a Band-Aid across her chest, with a skirt so tight and short that her date looked to be guaranteed to get a return on his dinner investment in the next few hours. Nikki’s stomach knotted, noticing the way The Bimbo stared at her, as if she were so much better than Nikki, just because she could snag some rich guy. Although her night job was far from glamorous, Nikki was an aspiring actress, after all—a profession, which seemed to garner notice from some men. But, at that moment the thought of being an aspiring actress-cum-waitress made her feel slightly queasy. She’d checked the mirror before coming to work, and there were signs of age that wise women referred to as “the signs of a life well lived.” Nikki called them what they were: crow’s feet. And crow’s feet were the death of every aspiring actress. The pesky wrinkles aside, Nikki felt pretty good about her looks. She still maintained her natural blonde hair, which she wore just past her shoulders, and she thought her eyes were her best feature. They were kind of a mix between green, gray, and blue, depending on what she was wearing. The handful of boyfriends Nikki had in the past always told her that she was beautiful, even sexy. She was comfortable with her looks, but she didn’t think of herself as a sexpot by any means. Besides, all those compliments had come from men who were hopeful to get a little booty and shake as paybacks to their endearments and attention. Most of the men she’d dated had turned out to be no good . . . But this was no time to think about rotten men. There was wine to be poured. Nikki filled Casanova’s glass with a tasting of the velvety red potion. He swirled, smelled, sipped, swished, and swallowed. “Excellent,” he said. “It’s got a different flavor to it. I can taste the berry, but . . .” He looked up at her. Nikki glanced at The Bimbo, who at that moment looked like a cat about to pounce on her prey. Nikki smiled sweetly. The hell with it. “You’re right, the berry is a currant, but it also has a very smoky blend, with tobacco and fatty flavors,” she replied, while filling both of their glasses.“It does.” “Fatty?” The Bimbo asked. “She’s talking about a bacon-type fat. It’s not put into the wines, but it has to do with the fermentation process, as well as the age of the wood in which the wine gets barreled.”“Fascinating.” The Bimbo looked up at Nikki. She was vibing some serious daggers. “I see you don’t serve foie gras?” “Actually, we do,” Nikki replied. “But it’s not always available. May I suggest the escargot? It’s excellent. The chef does it in a puff pastry shell with a white wine and garlic sauce. It would also complement your wine.” The Bimbo batted her false eyelashes and waved her hand in front of her nose. “I don’t like snails. I find them repulsive.” Sure, but you’ll eat a poor little duck’s liver. Casanova didn’t look like he had much empathy for his date. This was getting amusing. Nikki stifled a smile. “I’m certain there must be something on the menu you’d like,” he chuckled. “I wanted foie gras,” she whined. “I don’t know if I really want to eat here. It’s not like the service has been spectacular.” She looked Nikki up and down, finally glaring at her. “I think the service is excellent,” Casanova said mildly. “Why don’t you take another moment to decide, and I’ll be right back. I might add that, if you’d care for oysters, we are serving them tonight, and they are divine, and we have a lovely Pinot Grigio to complement them with.” “Super,” The Bimbo replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. “While you’re back there, can you bring me a scotch and water? I’m not much of a wine drinker.” Boy, this woman was scoring points with Casanova. Was she the same gal who only moments ago asked Nikki not to blow it for her? Her man had plunked down a mean chunk of change on a superb bottle of wine. Now, because she wasn’t getting her duck liver, she needed to make a scene. Nikki figured that from a man’s point of view, she must be good in bed, because why else would anyone put up with that? Nikki walked to the bar and ordered The Bimbo’s drink. “Hey, gorgeous, back so soon? Looks like you’ve got your hands full over there tonight.” Maurice nodded in the direction of Casanova and The Bimbo’s table. “What else is new?” “You tell me. How’s the acting going?” “Honestly? It doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. It would appear I’m past my prime at thirty-four,” she said. “Since the few shows I did as Detective Sydney Martini bombed so badly, I don’t know, Maurice. Maybe it’s time for a career change. I don’t think I can handle working here forever.” Maurice picked up a butter knife and feigned stabbing himself in the heart. “Oh, my apple dumpling, how those words hurt.” Nikki waved a hand at him and giggled. She and Maurice did have a wonderful friendship, one they’d built over the past three years since she’d started work at the Chez la Mer. He was thirty years her senior and always a good listener. Nikki thought of him as the father she’d never had. “Face it, you love it here. You’ve been here for what, ten years?” “Twelve,” he replied. “Twelve. Okay. But bartending is like being a psychologist. Sure, people place orders, but I’ve watched you, and I know how great you are with people. They talk to you. With me, it’s a rare smile and plenty of orders. If it isn’t just so, then I’m the fall guy.” “Excuse me,” The Bimbo sang out over the din, “Yoohoo.” Maurice handed her the drink. “I could put a little magic in there, if you know what I mean.” He slyly took out a bottle of eyedrops from his shirt pocket. “She’d leave him high and dry and have to head for the drug store, for a box of Imodium AD.” “Nah, that’s okay. That’d be bad karma, and I’ve racked up plenty of that already. I can handle her.” Nikki placed the drink on her tray and walked back over to the table. “It’s about time. Did you enjoy your chat with the bartender?” The Bimbo asked her.“Sabrina,” the man chided gently. “She’s doing her job.” Nikki smiled at him. The Bimbo cleared her throat, as if Nikki were committing a crime by smiling at her date. “I apologize. Consider it on the house,” Nikki said, setting down the drink. But as she did, the woman shifted and started to stand. The drink spilled all over her short skirt.The Bimbo gasped, her eyes wide with shock from the cold drink seeping down her scantily clad body. “You idiot! Are you totally incompetent? What the hell is wrong with you? This is a freaking Versace. You know Versace?” She rolled her eyes at Nikki. “Why am I bothering to say this to someone who buys her clothes at Wal-Mart?” That hurt. Especially since she’d bought her shirt at Target, which she pronounced “Tarjay.” Don’t go there. Don’t tell her what she really is. Don’t . . . “I certainly didn’t mean to. I really am sorry. I’m sure it can be cleaned. Please send us the cleaning bill.” Nikki could hear the trace of her Southern accent coming through. At that moment, she looked around and noticed the entire clientele was observing the scene, and that both the chef and manager had stepped forward. The Bimbo pointed a finger at her and blurted, “No. It won’t come clean. It’s ruined. I can’t go out like this,” she said, then turned her focus to Nikki’s manager. “She can’t do her job, it’s obvious. She’s flirted with my date, had a gab session with the bartender, and now she spills a drink on me. I don’t think so.” Casanova took The Bimbo by the arm. “Quiet down. Let’s all relax. It was an accident, okay?” The Bimbo yanked her arm out of his hand. “Accident, my ass. That clumsy woman spilled my drink all over me and ruined my fifteen-hundred-dollar outfit.” “I wouldn’t have spent fifteen dollars on that,” Nikki muttered. Oops. Self-control was another issue Nikki was working on, but a person can only take so much abuse, and this broad had tried her patience. Not to mention she’d insulted her fashion sense. “I heard that. Now she insults me. Unbelievable,” The Bimbo said, spinning back around to face Steve, the restaurant manager. “I want her fired. I have a lot of friends in high places. I’ll tell all of them how terrible this place is, if you don’t do something about her.” She pointed a long lacquered nail at Nikki. “Nikki,” Steve said, his face beet-red. Casanova pulled The Bimbo to the side and was saying something to her. Even though the manager beckoned Nikki, she couldn’t help notice out of the corner of her eye that the cute guy seemed to be chewing out The Bimbo. “Listen—” Nikki held up her hand before her manager could continue. “Don’t bother, Steve. I know what you’re going to say. I’m sorry I caused such a problem tonight. It’s not a big deal. I’ll make it easy for you.” Nikki could see by the look in Steve’s eyes that he did feel bad, but she knew he had no choice. She couldn’t blame him at all. She went into the kitchen and grabbed her purse. Maurice followed her. He held out a drink to her. “Hundred-year-old scotch, princess. Drink it with me.” She smiled and fought back any emotion. Why was she so upset anyway? She hated this job and its bad sound system. It was a miserable job. Well, except for Maurice. Steve was okay, too. “You have customers.” “Forget ’em. They can wait a few while I have a nip with you.” “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I certainly don’t want to get you canned, too. Actually, I wasn’t fired, not technically. I quit,” she said, half-laughing. She was trying really hard to fight back her tears, which were a mixture of anger, shame, and that feeling of failure that sticks in the gut. He waved a hand at her like she was being silly, which she knew she was. Steve would never fire Maurice. He was as much a part of Chez la Mer as the pristine crystal chandelier in the entryway. He held up his glass. “To bigger and better things for the princess.” She clinked her highball with his and watched as the amber liquid swirled around inside the glass. She took a sip of the bold smoky drink. Very smooth—all the way down. Her stomach warmed. “That is good,” she said. The chef came in, poured himself a glass, too, and nodded at Nikki with a smile. He was a man of few words, but he could make dirt taste divine, and Nikki knew that he liked her. He was always giving her his latest dessert invention to try first or to take home with her. She’d miss him, too. The chef took his glass, walked back over to the stove, and picked up where he’d left off. Nikki finished the contents of her glass, leaned in, and gave Maurice a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said. “I won’t.” “You shouldn’t be alone. Are you going home?” “In a bit. I think I’ll stop off at the Liquid Potion and have another drink,” she said. “Be careful.” Nikki pulled on her sweater and went out the back entrance, not wanting to have any more contact with The Bimbo or Casanova. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, tears finally flowing freely. So she’d hated the job, wanted to move on . . . This was simply the catalyst to get her to do so. But the reality was, she had no prospects. Her acting career was pretty much sunk. Now she’d have to figure out what her thing really was, because the rent would come due in a couple of weeks, and Nikki was already low on cash. She knew that Aunt Cara would help her out if things got completely desperate, but Nikki didn’t want to put either one of them in that position. She wiped away the tears, stood up straight, and started walking up the street. No more of this feeling sorry for herself. That Nikki Sands was far, far away. The new Nikki Sands was a survivor who could figure out what she wanted from life. She had to, because there was no way, no-how, Nikki was going backward after coming this far. She walked a few blocks up the street and entered the wine bar off Wilshire Boulevard, looked around and found an empty seat at the counter bar. It was a bit early yet for the party crowd. She was glad, because the patrons who were already there were dressed to the nines, and her cheap white blouse, as crisp as it might be, along with her waitress’s standard black crepe pants, were not working with this crowd. Yes indeed, wine was in order. “What can I get you?” the bartender asked. Young, California-tanned, and athletic, he matched the decor of the place—faux-finish golden walls, candles in Gothic iron candelabras, crushed copper velvet draperies. Segovia’s guitar music played in the background. Very Hollywood. Maybe she should’ve walked a bit farther east and found something more like a dive to drown her sorrows in. She was looking a bit pool-bar girl for such a swanky place. Screw it. She was here and ready for some vino. “I’ll take a glass of your Saddleback Sauvignon Blanc,” she answered. “And can you fill that to the brim, please?” It was a bit pricier than what Nikki wanted to pay, but it isn’t every day that a bimbo wanting desperately to be Paris Hilton turns your life inside out. So why not splurge?“Nice wine,” a deep voice from behind her said. “This seat taken?” Nikki lifted her head to see none other than Casanova sliding onto the stool next to her. “I thought I might buy you a glass of wine, as well as apologize for my date’s rudeness. You ran out before I got the chance.” Silenced by surprise, Nikki shifted on the suede-covered bar stool and nodded, then shook her head. “Wait.” She found her voice, ironed out the drawl in it before speaking again. “Let me get this straight. You’re here to apologize to me and buy me a drink?” She searched the bar. “What’s the deal? Where’s Ms. Thing? Is she hiding in the wings? How did you find me, anyway?” “Bring me a bottle of the Saddleback Cellars,” Casanova said to the bartender, who set Nikki’s glass down in front of her. Casanova then picked up the appetizer menu and scanned it. “Can we also have a plate of your goat cheese and mixed mushroom bruschetta?” He turned back to her and stuck out his hand. “I’m Derek Malveaux. I hope you don’t mind an appetizer. Sauvignon Blanc goes so well with mushrooms.” Nikki hesitantly returned the handshake. “Okay.” She couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say at the moment. She was stunned at the turn of events. “I’m not here to prove anything. I felt terrible about the incident at Chez la Mer. My date treated you horribly. I called for a car to take her home. And as for finding you? Seems your bartender friend agreed with me that you would appreciate an apology. I got your job back, too, if you want it.” For the second time in less than five minutes, a wave of shock overtook her. Nikki shut her trap again, having to think hard for a response. She had no clue as to what to make of this man. Why on God’s green earth would he do such a thing for her? After all, he had it in the bag with The Bimbo. What was his deal? “I get it. You’ve decided to go for the vulnerable girl, the one who’s just lost her job.” She knew she was far more of a challenge than The Bimbo, and men supposedly liked the thrill of the chase. He eyed her. “No. I really am here to tell you that I’m sorry and buy you a drink.” “Okay.” He was hot, he had good taste in wine, and she didn’t have any other prospects. But Nikki wasn’t a bimbo, and memories of her last breakup warned her to tread carefully. She promised herself to keep it all together, including blouse buttons and pants zipper. The next man she allowed to get her naked would most certainly be one she was in love with. Gorgeous or not, she was sure that Casanova was far more interested in getting naked than in experiencing love.Nikki held up her glass of wine. “Here’s to apologies accepted.” They clinked their glasses and brought them to their lips. Derek’s lips were full, with a perfect cupid bow in the center of the upper one. They were very sexy, and kissable. The bartender set the bruschetta in front of them. They each took a bite. “You’re right. The Sauvignon Blanc works well with this. Good idea. So, tell me, Mr. Malveaux . . .” “Derek, please.” “Okay, Derek. Tell me what happened to your date. She didn’t exactly seem to be your type. And, to be blunt, are you hitting on me?” “Sabrina, my date for the evening, was not someone I would have asked out. I can tell you that much. I don’t live here in Los Angeles. I’m down for business, and one of my clients set the two of us up. Trust me. All I wanted to do today was have my meetings and go back to the Century Plaza, maybe have a massage in the spa, order room service, and retire for the night. And, no, I am not hitting on you. I’m apologizing to you over a glass of wine.” Nikki sized him up. Was this really the truth? Hard to say. There were plenty of men out there who knew how to tell a good story. This was L.A., and for all she knew, Derek was an aspiring actor with a bunch of fables ready to tell to any damsel he wished to bed. “Why didn’t you cancel the date?” “My client said she was a nice woman, and—” “Had a nice bod.” “Yes, he did add that. I should’ve canceled, anyway, even if I might lose an account.” “I can’t believe that. Over a defunct date?” “She’s best friends with my client’s wife.” “Then he’d have to be one shallow jerk. I hope that’s not the case. I’d feel even guiltier for losing you your client than for spilling a drink all over your date’s designer outfit.” She laughed. The wine was making what he was saying easy to buy into. He poured her a second glass. They polished off the bruschetta. “Tell you what,” Derek said. “Why don’t we go back to the Plaza? Have dinner with me. I’ll get you a car back to your place afterward.” Nikki shook her head. “I don’t know about that.” “It’s only dinner.” It wasn’t like he was coming on to her. In fact, Nikki felt a bit irritated at the fact that he hadn’t come on to her—at all. Was her getup that bad? Oh, God. Maybe she should’ve checked herself in the mirror in the bathroom. What if her mascara had run all over the place? And stress could make her break out in hives, too! What if Derek was staring at a red, rash-pocked face with a running black mascara mess? Not to mention, she hadn’t taken a comb to her hair since walking from Chez la Mer to the bar, and there’d been a slight wind. This could not be good. She’d been dead wrong about Derek Malveaux. He really had only wanted to apologize to the pitiful waitress. “What’s the matter, Nikki?” “I, you know, should really get home. I’m sure you’re tired. I’m tired. It’s been a stressful evening for me.” He frowned, and the few lines on his forehead crinkled together, as he appeared hurt by her response. She touched his hand. “This has been great, and I really appreciate the apology. But, please, you don’t have to do any more for me tonight.” “I don’t get you,” he said. “One minute, you think I’m making a play for you. The next minute, I’m Saint Derek.”“I don’t know. At first I thought you were trying to score with the ditzy waitress, which by the way, I am not. But, I’ve sat here with you for a while, and not once have you even tried to flirt with me.” “Let’s start from the beginning, okay? I think you are a very beautiful woman. I’m sorry that the woman I was out with was so horrendous to you; so, yes, I felt that an apology was in order. Yes, I did, and do, want to get to know you better. However—” Nikki started to comment. He held up his hand to her, and she closed her mouth in response. “However, I am not trying to get you into bed. I’d like to have dinner with you, and I actually may have a proposal for you. Something you might be interested in.” “Are you some positive-thinking guru? You know, the kind who teaches that you can do anything you want as long as you try? Achieve your dreams, blah, blah, blah.” “No, but I believe in that way of thinking. I own a winery. That’s how I make my money.” Then it hit her. Malveaux Estate. Some of the best Cabernets and Merlots to come out of the Napa Valley region. A major winery. They also produced a Chardonnay that was quite good. Nikki couldn’t afford the wines, but working at Chez la Mer, she’d tasted a few. It now made sense to her why The Bimbo had made that comment to her about her wine expertise. Nikki was a threat to her. “Derek Malveaux,” she replied in wonderment. “Of Malveaux Estate?” He nodded. “What do you say, we head over to the Plaza, have dinner, and I’ll tell you my proposition?” “I’d say you’re on.”
The evening hadn’t gone as planned, but it certainly hadn’t been boring. And, Nikki had to admit, she couldn’t help wondering what Derek Malveaux’s proposal might be.
Goat Cheese and Mixed Mushroom Bruschetta
If you want to make an elegant but easy appetizer, try the Goat Cheese and Mixed Mushroom Bruschetta. Sauvignon Blanc is a good choice to accompany this treat. It is light and fruity, which enhances the earthy flavors in the bruschetta. Nikki and Derek shared a delightful bottle of Saddleback Cellars Sauvignon Blanc with their appetizer. The Sauvignon Blanc contains a citrus and hibiscus nose with a wonderful gold/green color. The wine is crisp, with a clean acid balance and light sweet oak; it’s youthful and is a perfect food wine. It will give you the flavors of summer and the pleasures that come from a well-crafted wine. Enjoy!
5 ounces Portobello mushrooms 4 ounces shiitake mushrooms 2 ounces oyster mushrooms 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 tablespoon unsalted butter 2 shallots minced cloves of garlic ¼ cup chicken broth ⅓ cup dry white wine 1 teaspoon dried thyme 1 teaspoon dried basil salt and red pepper flakes 12 slices of rustic baguette: sourdough, Italian, even whole grain for the health conscious 4 ounces goat cheese ripe red tomatoes, cored & diced
Chop the mushrooms. Heat olive oil and butter over medium heat in a sauté pan. Add the shallots and garlic and mix for 1-2 minutes, stirring often. Add the mushrooms and raise the heat a bit. Mix everything for about 8 minutes. Add chicken broth, white wine, and dried seasonings and cook until the liquid is evaporated. Season with salt for taste. Preheat broiler. Spread the bread slices with goat cheese and spoon the mushroom mixture evenly over the bread. Place the tomatoes on top. Broil for 4 minutes, or until mushrooms begin to brown. Serves six.
Nikki has just set foot on Napa Valley’s rich soil when she realizes her new job may not be as safe as she thought. First off, Derek Malveaux is disconcertingly sexy. Second, his top winemaker is dead in the bushes outside Nikki’s cottage. It doesn’t take a connoisseur of foul play to know something’s taken a terrible turn…
Murder Uncorked was where it all began for me as far as becoming a published author. It wasn't the beginning for me as a writer. I'd been writing manuscripts for a dozen years at the point that I came up with the idea for this mystery series. Nikki Sands is still one of my all time favorite characters. Thought I'd share the first chapter of the first book. There are seven in total and two novellas in the series, along with a cookbook compiling the recipes from all the books...if you haven't read any of the books, then I'll explain. In the chapters where Nikki makes a meal or eats out, I included the recipes and wine pairings, which made for some fun research! Hope you enjoy!Cheers,
Michele
Chapter 1
Nikki Sands hated her job almost as much as she hated her past. She straightened her crisp white blouse and put on her best smile. She approached the couple at the table she was serving, and couldn’t help but notice the woman watching her with that unmistakable glint of self-importance that judged Nikki to be nothing but the peon who was waiting on them. The woman had a glamour-girl theme about her, but that hair needed a good hairdresser. Hadn’t she heard that frizzy platinum blonde was passé? Not to mention the Pat Benatar smoldering-eye-makeup look. “Tell me about your wine list. What do you recommend as a good red?” the man asked her. His look, compared to his date’s, was all-the-way chic. Dark blond hair with exactly the right amount of wave to it, mesmerizing ocean-blue eyes, high cheekbones, a golden tan, and a few fine lines gave him the right amount of that rugged-man look. Nikki couldn’t help thinking that Casanova was luscious. “I’m partial to this nice Medoc-Grand Cru Classe. It’s an excellent choice,” she said, pointing to one of the more expensive wines on the list. “The Bordeaux blend is smooth, and there’s a hint of fruit to it, so it’s not too dry.” If she’d had the money, the stylish Bordeaux would’ve been her first choice. The Medoc wines dated all the way back to Napoleon, and since that time had remained as some of the best out there. “But if you prefer something lighter, a good Red Zinfandel would be nice. We have a small production wine from Napa from the Downing Vineyards. It’s right here.” Nikki’s finger moved to the red zin. Glancing down at the man, her stomach lurched. He smiled up at her. “The Fly by Night Zinfandel,” she said. “I think we’ll go with the Medoc,” the man replied with an approving smile. Nikki walked back to the bar to order the drinks from her pal and bartender, Maurice. She winced when an instrumental version of “Stormy Weather” started playing over the stereo system.“What is it, doll?” Maurice asked. “You don’t like the oldies but goodies?” “Are you kidding? I love them. What I can’t stand is that this place is supposed to be so upscale, yet we have to pipe in music on a system. I think management should really go all out and get a pianist in here.” “They’re too cheap,” Maurice replied. They both laughed, knowing that was the reality. Nikki glanced around to make sure their manager, Steve, wasn’t lurking. Nikki loved music of all kinds. She compartmentalized areas of her life by listening to music and songs. Stressful times, happy times, the handful of boyfriends, life in Los Angeles, and life in Tennessee, even her mother—all of them were associated with their own song, and each of them conjured up memories when she listened. Nikki noticed that the woman from the table she was waiting got up to go to the powder room, Manolo Blahnik pumps click-clacking as she sauntered across the hardwood floor. She caught up with Nikki at the bar.“Do us right, hon. I’d like tonight to be special, because I don’t want this one getting away.” She lowered her voice and leaned into Nikki, who got a whiff of her strong gardenia-scented perfume. “Tone down the wine expertise for me, okay?” The overblown blonde winked at Nikki, then proceeded into the rest room, coming back out after a few moments with her collagen-plumped lips painted raspberry-pink. Something was wrong with this picture, but it wasn’t up to Nikki to make a judgment call. Lately, she’d been attempting to try something very anti-L.A. The concept of not judging others—something she found exceedingly difficult to do, especially in this case. However, after that out-of-place comment and the trip to the bathroom to do the lacquer thing on those lips, Nikki shamefully threw her new practice out the window and made her first—okay, maybe third—judgment call of the evening. She dubbed the woman “The Bimbo.” What was that asking her to tone down the wine advice about anyway? She was supposed to make suggestions about wines. It was part of her job. The Bimbo wore something that resembled a Band-Aid across her chest, with a skirt so tight and short that her date looked to be guaranteed to get a return on his dinner investment in the next few hours. Nikki’s stomach knotted, noticing the way The Bimbo stared at her, as if she were so much better than Nikki, just because she could snag some rich guy. Although her night job was far from glamorous, Nikki was an aspiring actress, after all—a profession, which seemed to garner notice from some men. But, at that moment the thought of being an aspiring actress-cum-waitress made her feel slightly queasy. She’d checked the mirror before coming to work, and there were signs of age that wise women referred to as “the signs of a life well lived.” Nikki called them what they were: crow’s feet. And crow’s feet were the death of every aspiring actress. The pesky wrinkles aside, Nikki felt pretty good about her looks. She still maintained her natural blonde hair, which she wore just past her shoulders, and she thought her eyes were her best feature. They were kind of a mix between green, gray, and blue, depending on what she was wearing. The handful of boyfriends Nikki had in the past always told her that she was beautiful, even sexy. She was comfortable with her looks, but she didn’t think of herself as a sexpot by any means. Besides, all those compliments had come from men who were hopeful to get a little booty and shake as paybacks to their endearments and attention. Most of the men she’d dated had turned out to be no good . . . But this was no time to think about rotten men. There was wine to be poured. Nikki filled Casanova’s glass with a tasting of the velvety red potion. He swirled, smelled, sipped, swished, and swallowed. “Excellent,” he said. “It’s got a different flavor to it. I can taste the berry, but . . .” He looked up at her. Nikki glanced at The Bimbo, who at that moment looked like a cat about to pounce on her prey. Nikki smiled sweetly. The hell with it. “You’re right, the berry is a currant, but it also has a very smoky blend, with tobacco and fatty flavors,” she replied, while filling both of their glasses.“It does.” “Fatty?” The Bimbo asked. “She’s talking about a bacon-type fat. It’s not put into the wines, but it has to do with the fermentation process, as well as the age of the wood in which the wine gets barreled.”“Fascinating.” The Bimbo looked up at Nikki. She was vibing some serious daggers. “I see you don’t serve foie gras?” “Actually, we do,” Nikki replied. “But it’s not always available. May I suggest the escargot? It’s excellent. The chef does it in a puff pastry shell with a white wine and garlic sauce. It would also complement your wine.” The Bimbo batted her false eyelashes and waved her hand in front of her nose. “I don’t like snails. I find them repulsive.” Sure, but you’ll eat a poor little duck’s liver. Casanova didn’t look like he had much empathy for his date. This was getting amusing. Nikki stifled a smile. “I’m certain there must be something on the menu you’d like,” he chuckled. “I wanted foie gras,” she whined. “I don’t know if I really want to eat here. It’s not like the service has been spectacular.” She looked Nikki up and down, finally glaring at her. “I think the service is excellent,” Casanova said mildly. “Why don’t you take another moment to decide, and I’ll be right back. I might add that, if you’d care for oysters, we are serving them tonight, and they are divine, and we have a lovely Pinot Grigio to complement them with.” “Super,” The Bimbo replied, her voice laced with sarcasm. “While you’re back there, can you bring me a scotch and water? I’m not much of a wine drinker.” Boy, this woman was scoring points with Casanova. Was she the same gal who only moments ago asked Nikki not to blow it for her? Her man had plunked down a mean chunk of change on a superb bottle of wine. Now, because she wasn’t getting her duck liver, she needed to make a scene. Nikki figured that from a man’s point of view, she must be good in bed, because why else would anyone put up with that? Nikki walked to the bar and ordered The Bimbo’s drink. “Hey, gorgeous, back so soon? Looks like you’ve got your hands full over there tonight.” Maurice nodded in the direction of Casanova and The Bimbo’s table. “What else is new?” “You tell me. How’s the acting going?” “Honestly? It doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. It would appear I’m past my prime at thirty-four,” she said. “Since the few shows I did as Detective Sydney Martini bombed so badly, I don’t know, Maurice. Maybe it’s time for a career change. I don’t think I can handle working here forever.” Maurice picked up a butter knife and feigned stabbing himself in the heart. “Oh, my apple dumpling, how those words hurt.” Nikki waved a hand at him and giggled. She and Maurice did have a wonderful friendship, one they’d built over the past three years since she’d started work at the Chez la Mer. He was thirty years her senior and always a good listener. Nikki thought of him as the father she’d never had. “Face it, you love it here. You’ve been here for what, ten years?” “Twelve,” he replied. “Twelve. Okay. But bartending is like being a psychologist. Sure, people place orders, but I’ve watched you, and I know how great you are with people. They talk to you. With me, it’s a rare smile and plenty of orders. If it isn’t just so, then I’m the fall guy.” “Excuse me,” The Bimbo sang out over the din, “Yoohoo.” Maurice handed her the drink. “I could put a little magic in there, if you know what I mean.” He slyly took out a bottle of eyedrops from his shirt pocket. “She’d leave him high and dry and have to head for the drug store, for a box of Imodium AD.” “Nah, that’s okay. That’d be bad karma, and I’ve racked up plenty of that already. I can handle her.” Nikki placed the drink on her tray and walked back over to the table. “It’s about time. Did you enjoy your chat with the bartender?” The Bimbo asked her.“Sabrina,” the man chided gently. “She’s doing her job.” Nikki smiled at him. The Bimbo cleared her throat, as if Nikki were committing a crime by smiling at her date. “I apologize. Consider it on the house,” Nikki said, setting down the drink. But as she did, the woman shifted and started to stand. The drink spilled all over her short skirt.The Bimbo gasped, her eyes wide with shock from the cold drink seeping down her scantily clad body. “You idiot! Are you totally incompetent? What the hell is wrong with you? This is a freaking Versace. You know Versace?” She rolled her eyes at Nikki. “Why am I bothering to say this to someone who buys her clothes at Wal-Mart?” That hurt. Especially since she’d bought her shirt at Target, which she pronounced “Tarjay.” Don’t go there. Don’t tell her what she really is. Don’t . . . “I certainly didn’t mean to. I really am sorry. I’m sure it can be cleaned. Please send us the cleaning bill.” Nikki could hear the trace of her Southern accent coming through. At that moment, she looked around and noticed the entire clientele was observing the scene, and that both the chef and manager had stepped forward. The Bimbo pointed a finger at her and blurted, “No. It won’t come clean. It’s ruined. I can’t go out like this,” she said, then turned her focus to Nikki’s manager. “She can’t do her job, it’s obvious. She’s flirted with my date, had a gab session with the bartender, and now she spills a drink on me. I don’t think so.” Casanova took The Bimbo by the arm. “Quiet down. Let’s all relax. It was an accident, okay?” The Bimbo yanked her arm out of his hand. “Accident, my ass. That clumsy woman spilled my drink all over me and ruined my fifteen-hundred-dollar outfit.” “I wouldn’t have spent fifteen dollars on that,” Nikki muttered. Oops. Self-control was another issue Nikki was working on, but a person can only take so much abuse, and this broad had tried her patience. Not to mention she’d insulted her fashion sense. “I heard that. Now she insults me. Unbelievable,” The Bimbo said, spinning back around to face Steve, the restaurant manager. “I want her fired. I have a lot of friends in high places. I’ll tell all of them how terrible this place is, if you don’t do something about her.” She pointed a long lacquered nail at Nikki. “Nikki,” Steve said, his face beet-red. Casanova pulled The Bimbo to the side and was saying something to her. Even though the manager beckoned Nikki, she couldn’t help notice out of the corner of her eye that the cute guy seemed to be chewing out The Bimbo. “Listen—” Nikki held up her hand before her manager could continue. “Don’t bother, Steve. I know what you’re going to say. I’m sorry I caused such a problem tonight. It’s not a big deal. I’ll make it easy for you.” Nikki could see by the look in Steve’s eyes that he did feel bad, but she knew he had no choice. She couldn’t blame him at all. She went into the kitchen and grabbed her purse. Maurice followed her. He held out a drink to her. “Hundred-year-old scotch, princess. Drink it with me.” She smiled and fought back any emotion. Why was she so upset anyway? She hated this job and its bad sound system. It was a miserable job. Well, except for Maurice. Steve was okay, too. “You have customers.” “Forget ’em. They can wait a few while I have a nip with you.” “I don’t think that’s such a good idea. I certainly don’t want to get you canned, too. Actually, I wasn’t fired, not technically. I quit,” she said, half-laughing. She was trying really hard to fight back her tears, which were a mixture of anger, shame, and that feeling of failure that sticks in the gut. He waved a hand at her like she was being silly, which she knew she was. Steve would never fire Maurice. He was as much a part of Chez la Mer as the pristine crystal chandelier in the entryway. He held up his glass. “To bigger and better things for the princess.” She clinked her highball with his and watched as the amber liquid swirled around inside the glass. She took a sip of the bold smoky drink. Very smooth—all the way down. Her stomach warmed. “That is good,” she said. The chef came in, poured himself a glass, too, and nodded at Nikki with a smile. He was a man of few words, but he could make dirt taste divine, and Nikki knew that he liked her. He was always giving her his latest dessert invention to try first or to take home with her. She’d miss him, too. The chef took his glass, walked back over to the stove, and picked up where he’d left off. Nikki finished the contents of her glass, leaned in, and gave Maurice a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said. “I won’t.” “You shouldn’t be alone. Are you going home?” “In a bit. I think I’ll stop off at the Liquid Potion and have another drink,” she said. “Be careful.” Nikki pulled on her sweater and went out the back entrance, not wanting to have any more contact with The Bimbo or Casanova. She shut the door behind her and leaned against it, tears finally flowing freely. So she’d hated the job, wanted to move on . . . This was simply the catalyst to get her to do so. But the reality was, she had no prospects. Her acting career was pretty much sunk. Now she’d have to figure out what her thing really was, because the rent would come due in a couple of weeks, and Nikki was already low on cash. She knew that Aunt Cara would help her out if things got completely desperate, but Nikki didn’t want to put either one of them in that position. She wiped away the tears, stood up straight, and started walking up the street. No more of this feeling sorry for herself. That Nikki Sands was far, far away. The new Nikki Sands was a survivor who could figure out what she wanted from life. She had to, because there was no way, no-how, Nikki was going backward after coming this far. She walked a few blocks up the street and entered the wine bar off Wilshire Boulevard, looked around and found an empty seat at the counter bar. It was a bit early yet for the party crowd. She was glad, because the patrons who were already there were dressed to the nines, and her cheap white blouse, as crisp as it might be, along with her waitress’s standard black crepe pants, were not working with this crowd. Yes indeed, wine was in order. “What can I get you?” the bartender asked. Young, California-tanned, and athletic, he matched the decor of the place—faux-finish golden walls, candles in Gothic iron candelabras, crushed copper velvet draperies. Segovia’s guitar music played in the background. Very Hollywood. Maybe she should’ve walked a bit farther east and found something more like a dive to drown her sorrows in. She was looking a bit pool-bar girl for such a swanky place. Screw it. She was here and ready for some vino. “I’ll take a glass of your Saddleback Sauvignon Blanc,” she answered. “And can you fill that to the brim, please?” It was a bit pricier than what Nikki wanted to pay, but it isn’t every day that a bimbo wanting desperately to be Paris Hilton turns your life inside out. So why not splurge?“Nice wine,” a deep voice from behind her said. “This seat taken?” Nikki lifted her head to see none other than Casanova sliding onto the stool next to her. “I thought I might buy you a glass of wine, as well as apologize for my date’s rudeness. You ran out before I got the chance.” Silenced by surprise, Nikki shifted on the suede-covered bar stool and nodded, then shook her head. “Wait.” She found her voice, ironed out the drawl in it before speaking again. “Let me get this straight. You’re here to apologize to me and buy me a drink?” She searched the bar. “What’s the deal? Where’s Ms. Thing? Is she hiding in the wings? How did you find me, anyway?” “Bring me a bottle of the Saddleback Cellars,” Casanova said to the bartender, who set Nikki’s glass down in front of her. Casanova then picked up the appetizer menu and scanned it. “Can we also have a plate of your goat cheese and mixed mushroom bruschetta?” He turned back to her and stuck out his hand. “I’m Derek Malveaux. I hope you don’t mind an appetizer. Sauvignon Blanc goes so well with mushrooms.” Nikki hesitantly returned the handshake. “Okay.” She couldn’t think of anything more intelligent to say at the moment. She was stunned at the turn of events. “I’m not here to prove anything. I felt terrible about the incident at Chez la Mer. My date treated you horribly. I called for a car to take her home. And as for finding you? Seems your bartender friend agreed with me that you would appreciate an apology. I got your job back, too, if you want it.” For the second time in less than five minutes, a wave of shock overtook her. Nikki shut her trap again, having to think hard for a response. She had no clue as to what to make of this man. Why on God’s green earth would he do such a thing for her? After all, he had it in the bag with The Bimbo. What was his deal? “I get it. You’ve decided to go for the vulnerable girl, the one who’s just lost her job.” She knew she was far more of a challenge than The Bimbo, and men supposedly liked the thrill of the chase. He eyed her. “No. I really am here to tell you that I’m sorry and buy you a drink.” “Okay.” He was hot, he had good taste in wine, and she didn’t have any other prospects. But Nikki wasn’t a bimbo, and memories of her last breakup warned her to tread carefully. She promised herself to keep it all together, including blouse buttons and pants zipper. The next man she allowed to get her naked would most certainly be one she was in love with. Gorgeous or not, she was sure that Casanova was far more interested in getting naked than in experiencing love.Nikki held up her glass of wine. “Here’s to apologies accepted.” They clinked their glasses and brought them to their lips. Derek’s lips were full, with a perfect cupid bow in the center of the upper one. They were very sexy, and kissable. The bartender set the bruschetta in front of them. They each took a bite. “You’re right. The Sauvignon Blanc works well with this. Good idea. So, tell me, Mr. Malveaux . . .” “Derek, please.” “Okay, Derek. Tell me what happened to your date. She didn’t exactly seem to be your type. And, to be blunt, are you hitting on me?” “Sabrina, my date for the evening, was not someone I would have asked out. I can tell you that much. I don’t live here in Los Angeles. I’m down for business, and one of my clients set the two of us up. Trust me. All I wanted to do today was have my meetings and go back to the Century Plaza, maybe have a massage in the spa, order room service, and retire for the night. And, no, I am not hitting on you. I’m apologizing to you over a glass of wine.” Nikki sized him up. Was this really the truth? Hard to say. There were plenty of men out there who knew how to tell a good story. This was L.A., and for all she knew, Derek was an aspiring actor with a bunch of fables ready to tell to any damsel he wished to bed. “Why didn’t you cancel the date?” “My client said she was a nice woman, and—” “Had a nice bod.” “Yes, he did add that. I should’ve canceled, anyway, even if I might lose an account.” “I can’t believe that. Over a defunct date?” “She’s best friends with my client’s wife.” “Then he’d have to be one shallow jerk. I hope that’s not the case. I’d feel even guiltier for losing you your client than for spilling a drink all over your date’s designer outfit.” She laughed. The wine was making what he was saying easy to buy into. He poured her a second glass. They polished off the bruschetta. “Tell you what,” Derek said. “Why don’t we go back to the Plaza? Have dinner with me. I’ll get you a car back to your place afterward.” Nikki shook her head. “I don’t know about that.” “It’s only dinner.” It wasn’t like he was coming on to her. In fact, Nikki felt a bit irritated at the fact that he hadn’t come on to her—at all. Was her getup that bad? Oh, God. Maybe she should’ve checked herself in the mirror in the bathroom. What if her mascara had run all over the place? And stress could make her break out in hives, too! What if Derek was staring at a red, rash-pocked face with a running black mascara mess? Not to mention, she hadn’t taken a comb to her hair since walking from Chez la Mer to the bar, and there’d been a slight wind. This could not be good. She’d been dead wrong about Derek Malveaux. He really had only wanted to apologize to the pitiful waitress. “What’s the matter, Nikki?” “I, you know, should really get home. I’m sure you’re tired. I’m tired. It’s been a stressful evening for me.” He frowned, and the few lines on his forehead crinkled together, as he appeared hurt by her response. She touched his hand. “This has been great, and I really appreciate the apology. But, please, you don’t have to do any more for me tonight.” “I don’t get you,” he said. “One minute, you think I’m making a play for you. The next minute, I’m Saint Derek.”“I don’t know. At first I thought you were trying to score with the ditzy waitress, which by the way, I am not. But, I’ve sat here with you for a while, and not once have you even tried to flirt with me.” “Let’s start from the beginning, okay? I think you are a very beautiful woman. I’m sorry that the woman I was out with was so horrendous to you; so, yes, I felt that an apology was in order. Yes, I did, and do, want to get to know you better. However—” Nikki started to comment. He held up his hand to her, and she closed her mouth in response. “However, I am not trying to get you into bed. I’d like to have dinner with you, and I actually may have a proposal for you. Something you might be interested in.” “Are you some positive-thinking guru? You know, the kind who teaches that you can do anything you want as long as you try? Achieve your dreams, blah, blah, blah.” “No, but I believe in that way of thinking. I own a winery. That’s how I make my money.” Then it hit her. Malveaux Estate. Some of the best Cabernets and Merlots to come out of the Napa Valley region. A major winery. They also produced a Chardonnay that was quite good. Nikki couldn’t afford the wines, but working at Chez la Mer, she’d tasted a few. It now made sense to her why The Bimbo had made that comment to her about her wine expertise. Nikki was a threat to her. “Derek Malveaux,” she replied in wonderment. “Of Malveaux Estate?” He nodded. “What do you say, we head over to the Plaza, have dinner, and I’ll tell you my proposition?” “I’d say you’re on.”
The evening hadn’t gone as planned, but it certainly hadn’t been boring. And, Nikki had to admit, she couldn’t help wondering what Derek Malveaux’s proposal might be.
Goat Cheese and Mixed Mushroom Bruschetta
If you want to make an elegant but easy appetizer, try the Goat Cheese and Mixed Mushroom Bruschetta. Sauvignon Blanc is a good choice to accompany this treat. It is light and fruity, which enhances the earthy flavors in the bruschetta. Nikki and Derek shared a delightful bottle of Saddleback Cellars Sauvignon Blanc with their appetizer. The Sauvignon Blanc contains a citrus and hibiscus nose with a wonderful gold/green color. The wine is crisp, with a clean acid balance and light sweet oak; it’s youthful and is a perfect food wine. It will give you the flavors of summer and the pleasures that come from a well-crafted wine. Enjoy!
5 ounces Portobello mushrooms 4 ounces shiitake mushrooms 2 ounces oyster mushrooms 2 tablespoons olive oil 1 tablespoon unsalted butter 2 shallots minced cloves of garlic ¼ cup chicken broth ⅓ cup dry white wine 1 teaspoon dried thyme 1 teaspoon dried basil salt and red pepper flakes 12 slices of rustic baguette: sourdough, Italian, even whole grain for the health conscious 4 ounces goat cheese ripe red tomatoes, cored & diced
Chop the mushrooms. Heat olive oil and butter over medium heat in a sauté pan. Add the shallots and garlic and mix for 1-2 minutes, stirring often. Add the mushrooms and raise the heat a bit. Mix everything for about 8 minutes. Add chicken broth, white wine, and dried seasonings and cook until the liquid is evaporated. Season with salt for taste. Preheat broiler. Spread the bread slices with goat cheese and spoon the mushroom mixture evenly over the bread. Place the tomatoes on top. Broil for 4 minutes, or until mushrooms begin to brown. Serves six.
March 25, 2019
Peace
Finally getting to the fifth "P" in my five "p's" to publishing...(in reality, I've found that they work for pretty much any goal you want to achieve).
The first four "P's" were 1. Purpose 2. Passion 3. Perseverance 4. Patience...and now Peace.
What do I mean by having peace when working toward a goal? It's similar in some ways as to having patience. We tend to have to be patient to see our goals come to fruition. After all, it is the journey not the destination where we find a lot of joy. However, the difference in having patience versus peace along the way is that patience obviously implies waiting. Peace on the other hand is a sense within ourselves. When I've written a book and have made the decision that it's ready to be sent off to my agent, editor or out into the world, I have to sit back and realize that I have to be comfortable with that decision. It's important that I conclude I've done my best work, I'm happy with it and I'm ready to release it. This is a gut thing. We all know when we've done our best and when we haven't. I admit that I did put a book out a few years ago that I knew wasn't my best work and I was uneasy about it. I published it independently and had felt pressure to get another book out and I caved under the pressure. After a few months, I knew I needed to take that book off of all the publishing platforms and rewrite certain scenes, add a few chapters and do some more editing. Only after I had done that did I feel the sense of peace that I think is needed when trying to achieve our goals. That particular book has never gone on to be a bestseller, but, I'm satisfied that it is now the best I could write it at this point and so I can have peace of mind in letting it go out into the hands of the readers. Being at peace with something is a great feeling. Even with something small like cooking a meal for my family. I really enjoy cooking so I always set out to do my best and when I set food out on the table it's nice to have a sense of peace that I'm feeding good, healthy food to my family. Granted... it's not until I hear the words, "This is good, Mom," that I breathe a sigh of relief and that peaceful feeling comes over me.
Having peace in your work, in your life, in the small things is about doing the best that you can in all that you do. Some days that's easier than others, so we can't be too hard on ourselves when we flap. I've been guilty of a frozen pizza for dinner here and there (and, I am not admitting to the occasional In N Out Burger, although I have it on good word that extra crispy fries there might be really great...with animal sauce)...and as I said in a more important goal...not putting out my best book.
There you have it... my five personal "P's" to achieving. Hope you've enjoyed it.
Next week, I'll be doing something different...possibly posting new chapters, old chapters, ruminating on whatever I want. That's the nice thing about having a blog, you can write what you want. I'm not sure anyone reads this blog and that's okay. Keeps me writing anyway and I'm at peace with that. :)
Have a wonderful week!
Cheers,
Michele
The first four "P's" were 1. Purpose 2. Passion 3. Perseverance 4. Patience...and now Peace.
What do I mean by having peace when working toward a goal? It's similar in some ways as to having patience. We tend to have to be patient to see our goals come to fruition. After all, it is the journey not the destination where we find a lot of joy. However, the difference in having patience versus peace along the way is that patience obviously implies waiting. Peace on the other hand is a sense within ourselves. When I've written a book and have made the decision that it's ready to be sent off to my agent, editor or out into the world, I have to sit back and realize that I have to be comfortable with that decision. It's important that I conclude I've done my best work, I'm happy with it and I'm ready to release it. This is a gut thing. We all know when we've done our best and when we haven't. I admit that I did put a book out a few years ago that I knew wasn't my best work and I was uneasy about it. I published it independently and had felt pressure to get another book out and I caved under the pressure. After a few months, I knew I needed to take that book off of all the publishing platforms and rewrite certain scenes, add a few chapters and do some more editing. Only after I had done that did I feel the sense of peace that I think is needed when trying to achieve our goals. That particular book has never gone on to be a bestseller, but, I'm satisfied that it is now the best I could write it at this point and so I can have peace of mind in letting it go out into the hands of the readers. Being at peace with something is a great feeling. Even with something small like cooking a meal for my family. I really enjoy cooking so I always set out to do my best and when I set food out on the table it's nice to have a sense of peace that I'm feeding good, healthy food to my family. Granted... it's not until I hear the words, "This is good, Mom," that I breathe a sigh of relief and that peaceful feeling comes over me.
Having peace in your work, in your life, in the small things is about doing the best that you can in all that you do. Some days that's easier than others, so we can't be too hard on ourselves when we flap. I've been guilty of a frozen pizza for dinner here and there (and, I am not admitting to the occasional In N Out Burger, although I have it on good word that extra crispy fries there might be really great...with animal sauce)...and as I said in a more important goal...not putting out my best book.
There you have it... my five personal "P's" to achieving. Hope you've enjoyed it.
Next week, I'll be doing something different...possibly posting new chapters, old chapters, ruminating on whatever I want. That's the nice thing about having a blog, you can write what you want. I'm not sure anyone reads this blog and that's okay. Keeps me writing anyway and I'm at peace with that. :)
Have a wonderful week!
Cheers,
Michele
March 11, 2019
Patience
The fourth "P" on this path to what is a pretty simplistic path to achievement (but sometimes simplicity is the best approach) is patience. Again--it's not up to me to decide how someone reaches their goals. I'm just expressing my opinion and what has worked for me...in particularly in the area of my writing.
So, patience..., this one of all of the "P's," might be the hardest to master for some. We live in a society of "NOW"--Fast food, binge watching, the availability to download books on a whim, online shopping, access to all sorts of things that interest us can be found immediately in the "google culture," etc. Therefore, waiting for anything can be difficult at best and tormenting at worst. I think it'll become increasingly difficult for younger generations to accept and process that patience is really a virtue. I do believe (again, my opinion) that good things come to those who wait and to take that a step further, I believe that good things come to those who learn, apply, allow and accept.
What do what I mean by that? I'll use my own life as a writer as an example. I was fortunate to know at a young age that I wanted to be a writer. But, when you get ready to go to college and want to tell your parents that you want to be a novelist it doesn't always equate in parents' minds that this is a solid way to make a living. So, I decided that journalism would at least seem more of a credible idea. But, I never lost the dream and fortunately fate (or God, The Universe) has a way of redirecting our paths back to our original intentions even though we don't always understand that is what is happening in the moment. I became pregnant at 21 (my last year in college) and when Alex made his way into the world he was six weeks premature and needed to stay in the hospital for a period and then come home with monitors and needing a lot of care (side note...he is now a fully healthy, amazing adult). So, with a newborn baby at home I started dreaming about writing fiction again. And, that is what I did. But before that, I began reading everything I could on the craft. Then, I set a goal. I was going to write a book. Goal set, learning taking place and then what? Application. I took a correspondence course via Writer's Digest and after almost a year I had a completed manuscript.
Now, comes the patient part! I repeated the first two habits almost daily for twelve years. I learned consistently through reading, workshops, read and critique groups and applying myself by writing eight more manuscripts and as many partials. I queried literary agents every week. I would call Mondays...marketing Monday. That's when I'd write my query letters and go to the post office and mail them out. I'd try to do 3-5 every week. And, every week...rejection letters would show up in the mailbox. I think the postman wanted to run away from the crazy woman waiting for her mail every day and then swearing or tearing up the the mail. Yet, I knew deep down that if just one agent out there believed in me then I had a real chance and after twelve years that happened. I was lucky enough that my agent did truly believe in my work and sold three books of mine in three weeks, and then another three within nine months. Time sort of caught up with me during that "allowing" phase. Allowing is another way of viewing patience. Good things typically take time. They take time to grow. It takes time to get good at something and we never really master anything because that would be boring. It's in the learning and applying that the adventure takes place, and when you live with purpose and passion and you've been persistent, I think that allowing patience to take hold becomes an easier practice.
Patience isn't always easy. It rarely is. I like the way Benjamin Franklin thought of it... "He that can have patience can have what he will."
I'll tackle "acceptance," and my final "P," in a few days. I'd love to hear thoughts on any of my "P's" so far and what processes you utilize or believe in that help you achieve goals.
Cheers,
Michele
So, patience..., this one of all of the "P's," might be the hardest to master for some. We live in a society of "NOW"--Fast food, binge watching, the availability to download books on a whim, online shopping, access to all sorts of things that interest us can be found immediately in the "google culture," etc. Therefore, waiting for anything can be difficult at best and tormenting at worst. I think it'll become increasingly difficult for younger generations to accept and process that patience is really a virtue. I do believe (again, my opinion) that good things come to those who wait and to take that a step further, I believe that good things come to those who learn, apply, allow and accept.
What do what I mean by that? I'll use my own life as a writer as an example. I was fortunate to know at a young age that I wanted to be a writer. But, when you get ready to go to college and want to tell your parents that you want to be a novelist it doesn't always equate in parents' minds that this is a solid way to make a living. So, I decided that journalism would at least seem more of a credible idea. But, I never lost the dream and fortunately fate (or God, The Universe) has a way of redirecting our paths back to our original intentions even though we don't always understand that is what is happening in the moment. I became pregnant at 21 (my last year in college) and when Alex made his way into the world he was six weeks premature and needed to stay in the hospital for a period and then come home with monitors and needing a lot of care (side note...he is now a fully healthy, amazing adult). So, with a newborn baby at home I started dreaming about writing fiction again. And, that is what I did. But before that, I began reading everything I could on the craft. Then, I set a goal. I was going to write a book. Goal set, learning taking place and then what? Application. I took a correspondence course via Writer's Digest and after almost a year I had a completed manuscript.
Now, comes the patient part! I repeated the first two habits almost daily for twelve years. I learned consistently through reading, workshops, read and critique groups and applying myself by writing eight more manuscripts and as many partials. I queried literary agents every week. I would call Mondays...marketing Monday. That's when I'd write my query letters and go to the post office and mail them out. I'd try to do 3-5 every week. And, every week...rejection letters would show up in the mailbox. I think the postman wanted to run away from the crazy woman waiting for her mail every day and then swearing or tearing up the the mail. Yet, I knew deep down that if just one agent out there believed in me then I had a real chance and after twelve years that happened. I was lucky enough that my agent did truly believe in my work and sold three books of mine in three weeks, and then another three within nine months. Time sort of caught up with me during that "allowing" phase. Allowing is another way of viewing patience. Good things typically take time. They take time to grow. It takes time to get good at something and we never really master anything because that would be boring. It's in the learning and applying that the adventure takes place, and when you live with purpose and passion and you've been persistent, I think that allowing patience to take hold becomes an easier practice.
Patience isn't always easy. It rarely is. I like the way Benjamin Franklin thought of it... "He that can have patience can have what he will."
I'll tackle "acceptance," and my final "P," in a few days. I'd love to hear thoughts on any of my "P's" so far and what processes you utilize or believe in that help you achieve goals.
Cheers,
Michele
March 4, 2019
Persistence
The third "P." If you've been following the blog over the past few weeks, you know I've been going back over my 5 "P" belief system. It's pretty basic and simple. It's truly what I have found in the past to guide me on the journey to achieving my goals and dreams. If you didn't read the first two "P's"...read them.
