Romy Sommer's Blog, page 2
April 24, 2014
A new addition to our family
We gained a new member of the family on Wednesday.
His name is currenly Caramel and I'm tempted to keep it, but will he forgive me when he's a grown man swaggering around the house? My eldest daughter wants the name Pumpkin, my aunt has suggested Marmalade, and my mother's contribution is Marmaduke. (A big name for a very little kitten.)
Any more suggestions?
PS: do you have any idea how hard it is to take pictures of something that moves that fast?!
His name is currenly Caramel and I'm tempted to keep it, but will he forgive me when he's a grown man swaggering around the house? My eldest daughter wants the name Pumpkin, my aunt has suggested Marmalade, and my mother's contribution is Marmaduke. (A big name for a very little kitten.)
Any more suggestions?
PS: do you have any idea how hard it is to take pictures of something that moves that fast?!
April 9, 2014
Kelly Hunter's 'What the Bride Didn't Know'
I read this book in three hours. I know this because at 01:32 I saved my manuscript (according to the computer’s records) and picked up the book. At 4:31 I put the book down and turned out the light.For the first half I still thought I could put the book down at any point and get some sleep. Once past the half way mark I didn’t think about it at all. I just kept turning the pages.
So be warned: it’s that kind of book. If you start reading it late at night, you will not sleep.
I’ve said this in other reviews of Kelly Hunter’s books, but every one of her books is better than the last. I loved Flirting with Intent so much that I was sure What the Bride didn’t Know couldn’t better it.
In fact, having met Lena and Trig in previous books, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to enjoy their book. Lena seemed too difficult and Trig too devoted.
Boy was I wrong. This book was better. In fact, it may just have become my favourite Kelly Hunter (at least until the next book comes out).
This book didn’t lag for one second. The story kept moving, I liked the characters. I laughed at the dialogue and the one-liners. And it has an exotic setting added to the mix, which Ms Hunter is so adept at.
As a writer, I know how difficult it is too make a book like this so easy and fun to read. While I admire her books, and wish I could write like that, I don’t come away feeling “oh my god, how could I ever be that good; I might as well give up now!” Instead, I come away feeling uplifted and inspired. If I can be half as good, I’ll be happy.
And if I ever get to meet Ms Hunter in person, I’ll kiss her hem and thank her for writing so many of my favourite books.
April 1, 2014
Smiles and Tears
This weekend I became an aunt for the first time. I have a nephew!
The as-yet-unnamed little tyke has that gorgeous new baby, warm and cuddly thing going for him, that you just want to hold and hold... until he cries and you hand him back to whichever parent is closest at hand.
My brother and sister-in-law are still searching out names, but they're keen to give him a family name from my father's (ie. the German) side of the family as a middle name. So as the family's resident genealogist, I pulled out the family papers and put together a list of family names for them.
Whenever I go through this particular file, I always get a lump in my throat. Copies of birth and baptismal certificates, my grandparents' death certificates, and then the really interesting papers: an admittance letter to a refugee camp for my grandmother and her three children (no husband in sight as he was in a Russian prisoner of war camp at the time. Whether my grandmother knew this or whether she thought he was missing or dead, we will never now know) and the release papers from the refugee camp, many months later. Then in 1952 the papers confirming their passage by ship from Italy to South Africa, to start a whole new life in a country not destroyed by war.
Then last night, as I packed away the file, I stumbled across a packet of letters I'd never seen before, dated 1950-1952. They were letters from my father, aged 6-8 years old, to his family.
I always knew that my father lived with his grandparents in Berlin for a while, apart from the rest of his family. He was something of a musical prodigy and in order for him to study the piano properly he needed to be in Berlin.
But knowing and understanding are two different things. It was only as I read these letters, no more than a dozen in a child's large handwriting about seemingly inconsequential things like Easter eggs and birthday gifts and a story the teacher told him in class, that I truly understood. For at least two years, in Grades 1 and 2, my father lived so far away from his parents and his siblings that the only contact he had with them was through the lost art of letter writing. No telephones, no cars to nip down the highway for weekend visits, no skype. These were the letters of a child the same age as my own daughters are now, written with effort, saying so little and yet so much.
And yet what brings tears to my eyes isn't this glimpse into past lives. It's the fact that even though my father is sitting in the same room with me, I can't ask him what he remembers of that time. I can't ask him where the rest of his family were living, or how it felt to be reunited with them to make the journey to South Africa, or to ask if he remembers the aunts, uncles, childhood friends he mentions in his letters.
Because that child prodigy is now an empty husk. If I talk to him he smiles at me and nods, and I don't know if he understands or even has any idea who I am. Alzheimers is a cruel disease.
If anyone deserves a do-over, I think my father does. Born in a war, raised in a country wracked by poverty, split from his family, then relocated halfway around the world to a completely foreign land where the talent and opportunities of his youth were stunted, never to see the grandparents who'd raised him again, and now finally to this.
We can't undo the past, but we can damn well ensure that the beautiful new children we're bringing into this world have every opportunity, all the love and family and health, that they deserve. Let's not squander a moment of this precious time. Let's cuddle our babies and be thankful we live in a world where halfway across the globe is no longer an untravellable distance and where we no longer have to rely on a few clumsy words on paper to express our love.
I think of the great big plastic box under my bed, over-flowing with pictures and paintings and school notices and birthday party invites, and first school books, and I can't even imagine how hard it must have been for my grandmother to reduce their lives to the suitcases and boxes that the family brought with them by ship to their new life in Africa.
I am so incredibly grateful that I have so many momentoes of their lives to pass down to my children.
And I will be forever grateful that my grandmother kept a dozen letters from a lifetime ago. I will treasure them as much as she clearly once did.
The as-yet-unnamed little tyke has that gorgeous new baby, warm and cuddly thing going for him, that you just want to hold and hold... until he cries and you hand him back to whichever parent is closest at hand.
My brother and sister-in-law are still searching out names, but they're keen to give him a family name from my father's (ie. the German) side of the family as a middle name. So as the family's resident genealogist, I pulled out the family papers and put together a list of family names for them.
Whenever I go through this particular file, I always get a lump in my throat. Copies of birth and baptismal certificates, my grandparents' death certificates, and then the really interesting papers: an admittance letter to a refugee camp for my grandmother and her three children (no husband in sight as he was in a Russian prisoner of war camp at the time. Whether my grandmother knew this or whether she thought he was missing or dead, we will never now know) and the release papers from the refugee camp, many months later. Then in 1952 the papers confirming their passage by ship from Italy to South Africa, to start a whole new life in a country not destroyed by war.
Then last night, as I packed away the file, I stumbled across a packet of letters I'd never seen before, dated 1950-1952. They were letters from my father, aged 6-8 years old, to his family.
I always knew that my father lived with his grandparents in Berlin for a while, apart from the rest of his family. He was something of a musical prodigy and in order for him to study the piano properly he needed to be in Berlin.
But knowing and understanding are two different things. It was only as I read these letters, no more than a dozen in a child's large handwriting about seemingly inconsequential things like Easter eggs and birthday gifts and a story the teacher told him in class, that I truly understood. For at least two years, in Grades 1 and 2, my father lived so far away from his parents and his siblings that the only contact he had with them was through the lost art of letter writing. No telephones, no cars to nip down the highway for weekend visits, no skype. These were the letters of a child the same age as my own daughters are now, written with effort, saying so little and yet so much.
And yet what brings tears to my eyes isn't this glimpse into past lives. It's the fact that even though my father is sitting in the same room with me, I can't ask him what he remembers of that time. I can't ask him where the rest of his family were living, or how it felt to be reunited with them to make the journey to South Africa, or to ask if he remembers the aunts, uncles, childhood friends he mentions in his letters.
Because that child prodigy is now an empty husk. If I talk to him he smiles at me and nods, and I don't know if he understands or even has any idea who I am. Alzheimers is a cruel disease.
If anyone deserves a do-over, I think my father does. Born in a war, raised in a country wracked by poverty, split from his family, then relocated halfway around the world to a completely foreign land where the talent and opportunities of his youth were stunted, never to see the grandparents who'd raised him again, and now finally to this.
We can't undo the past, but we can damn well ensure that the beautiful new children we're bringing into this world have every opportunity, all the love and family and health, that they deserve. Let's not squander a moment of this precious time. Let's cuddle our babies and be thankful we live in a world where halfway across the globe is no longer an untravellable distance and where we no longer have to rely on a few clumsy words on paper to express our love.
I think of the great big plastic box under my bed, over-flowing with pictures and paintings and school notices and birthday party invites, and first school books, and I can't even imagine how hard it must have been for my grandmother to reduce their lives to the suitcases and boxes that the family brought with them by ship to their new life in Africa.
I am so incredibly grateful that I have so many momentoes of their lives to pass down to my children.
And I will be forever grateful that my grandmother kept a dozen letters from a lifetime ago. I will treasure them as much as she clearly once did.
March 18, 2014
Down with pink!
I cheered when I read this article from The Independent last night
I remember the days of non-gender-specific products, when my brother and I shared the same toys and books. Sometimes even the same clothes. Lego didn't come as pink for girls and dinosaurs for boys. It came in blocks of all colours and we had to make up our own shit.
I have treasured memories of having James and the Giant Peach and The Faraway Tree and Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising series read to us, and we did it as a family, not as "mom reads princesses to little girl, and knights and dragons to little boy".
My brother's got a doctorate from Oxford and I get paid to make up stories, so I think we did just fine without my parents having to buy two sets of everything.
And as much as I love princesses and pink and fairy tales, even I'd get a little ill if my world was monochrome pink. I'm currently reading the first Harry Potter book to my two little girls and they're loving it far more than any other book I've ever read them!
So I hope the Independent's step is the first of many.
I'd rather do laundry than play Stormtroopers - said no kid ever! [Image courtesy of http://aggiesprite.wordpress.com]
I remember the days of non-gender-specific products, when my brother and I shared the same toys and books. Sometimes even the same clothes. Lego didn't come as pink for girls and dinosaurs for boys. It came in blocks of all colours and we had to make up our own shit.
I have treasured memories of having James and the Giant Peach and The Faraway Tree and Susan Cooper's The Dark is Rising series read to us, and we did it as a family, not as "mom reads princesses to little girl, and knights and dragons to little boy".
My brother's got a doctorate from Oxford and I get paid to make up stories, so I think we did just fine without my parents having to buy two sets of everything.
And as much as I love princesses and pink and fairy tales, even I'd get a little ill if my world was monochrome pink. I'm currently reading the first Harry Potter book to my two little girls and they're loving it far more than any other book I've ever read them!
So I hope the Independent's step is the first of many.
I'd rather do laundry than play Stormtroopers - said no kid ever! [Image courtesy of http://aggiesprite.wordpress.com]February 14, 2014
Westerwald Book 3
The tentatively titled Book 3 of the Westerwald series (Life in Technicolour) has given me major headaches considering I started with such a clear idea of what and who the book would be about!
The problems lay in the middle of the book, where I moved scenes around so often that I couldn't remember what was where any more. (and of course, every time I moved a scene, it and everything after it had to be re-written. Again. And again.)
So how did I solve the problem?
Like this:
I cleared my pinboard of all those cute cat pictures and inspirational quotes, and created a note for each scene. Then I stuck the notes up on the board, in the order I'd slotted them into the book. Each time I moved a scene, or changed the chronology, all I had to do was shift little pieces of paper around.
You know that maxim that it takes a lot of work to make something look easy? Now I understand!
Never again will I under-estimate the work an author puts into a book that appears seamless to the reader. Because now I know that the author probably spent weeks wondering what was going on in her own story, how she'd managed to get the days backwards, and whatever happened to that scene...?
PS: Happy Valentine's Day everyone!!
The problems lay in the middle of the book, where I moved scenes around so often that I couldn't remember what was where any more. (and of course, every time I moved a scene, it and everything after it had to be re-written. Again. And again.)
So how did I solve the problem?
Like this:
I cleared my pinboard of all those cute cat pictures and inspirational quotes, and created a note for each scene. Then I stuck the notes up on the board, in the order I'd slotted them into the book. Each time I moved a scene, or changed the chronology, all I had to do was shift little pieces of paper around.
You know that maxim that it takes a lot of work to make something look easy? Now I understand!
Never again will I under-estimate the work an author puts into a book that appears seamless to the reader. Because now I know that the author probably spent weeks wondering what was going on in her own story, how she'd managed to get the days backwards, and whatever happened to that scene...?
PS: Happy Valentine's Day everyone!!
January 27, 2014
The man in my life has returned to me
After turning traitor on me for the last six months or more, Simba has started sleeping with me again.
Those of you who've read The Trouble with Mojitos will already be acquainted with Simba the cat. He is a large, super soft, stripy feline who belongs to Lee, flatmate to my heroine Kenzie. (But while Simba might belong to Lee, it's Kenzie's bed he likes to sleep on. And he tends to hog the bed, too.)
Which is way more info than you get in the book!
Simba is real. He moved in with us a little over a year ago when his previous family moved away and he needed a new home. That's one of the things with having kids in an international school - people come and go quite often.
I think Simba got a little peeved with me because I stayed up late every night writing instead of cuddling with him. It seems I am now forgiven.
And yes, Real Simba hogs the bed too.
Those of you who've read The Trouble with Mojitos will already be acquainted with Simba the cat. He is a large, super soft, stripy feline who belongs to Lee, flatmate to my heroine Kenzie. (But while Simba might belong to Lee, it's Kenzie's bed he likes to sleep on. And he tends to hog the bed, too.)
Which is way more info than you get in the book!
Simba is real. He moved in with us a little over a year ago when his previous family moved away and he needed a new home. That's one of the things with having kids in an international school - people come and go quite often.
I think Simba got a little peeved with me because I stayed up late every night writing instead of cuddling with him. It seems I am now forgiven.
And yes, Real Simba hogs the bed too.
January 21, 2014
Whirligig start to the new year
Wallpaper from www.wallcoo.netI love the word 'whirligig'. It has an old-fashioned and giddy feeling to it. And giddy is definitely how I'm feeling. The year started with me doing my first ever live streamed interview, talking to Lynn Jordan at Regarding Romance about The Trouble with Mojitos. No, I don't understand how mojitos could be trouble either ;-)
There have been reviews for both my Rae Summers books and my Romy ones. A whole new school year has started (accompanied by the attendant wrapping of dozens of books and labelling of every single pencil, pencil crayon and eraser), and last week another highlight: I appeared on the official NaNoWriMo blog!
You can read my blog post here: Finding the right mix for your writing group.
In between all this, I'm back at the day job, am pulling my hair out over Book 3, and have tried to balance out all the hours I tell the kids to "go away because Mommy's writing" with taking them to the circus and Sleeping Beauty on Ice (though I have yet to make good on the promise to take them to see Frozen). And there's exciting news coming soon for South African romance writers. watch this space...
How have you kick-started your new year?
[PS: I'm not really here right now. If anyone asks, I'm in my writing cave editing my NaNoWriMo novel.]
January 2, 2014
Ring out the old, ring in the new
"Ring out the old, ring in the new
A midnight wish to share with you
Your lips are warm, my head is light
Were we alive before tonight? "
"It's New Year's Eve and hopes are high
Dance one year in, kiss one goodbye
Another chance, another start
So many dreams to tease the heart
We don't need a crowded ballroom
Everything we want is here
And face to face we will embrace
The perfect year."
- The Perfect Year, Sunset Boulevard (1994)
Years don't come much better than 2013. For me it was the year in which all the beginnings and fresh starts of 2012 grew into successes.
Last year saw me sign my first multi-book contract with a Big 6 publisher. My first two Romy Sommer books went on sale through Hasrper Impulse, and I self-published two of my Rae Summers novellas.
I'm even more excited for 2014!
This is going to be the year in which Harper Impulse achieves world domination with its Romance Revolution. It's the year in which the Minxes are going to make enough money out of their writing that more of us will become full time writers (and then we're setting our sights on Minx Manor!).
2014 is also the year that both of my beautiful little girls will be in Big School.
Onward and upward!!
Best wishes to everyone who has been there for me in 2013, and to all the new friends I will make in 2014. May your new year be blessed with all those things in life that bring you joy!
From www.wondrouspics.com
A midnight wish to share with you
Your lips are warm, my head is light
Were we alive before tonight? "
"It's New Year's Eve and hopes are high
Dance one year in, kiss one goodbye
Another chance, another start
So many dreams to tease the heart
We don't need a crowded ballroom
Everything we want is here
And face to face we will embrace
The perfect year."
- The Perfect Year, Sunset Boulevard (1994)
Years don't come much better than 2013. For me it was the year in which all the beginnings and fresh starts of 2012 grew into successes.
Last year saw me sign my first multi-book contract with a Big 6 publisher. My first two Romy Sommer books went on sale through Hasrper Impulse, and I self-published two of my Rae Summers novellas.
I'm even more excited for 2014!
This is going to be the year in which Harper Impulse achieves world domination with its Romance Revolution. It's the year in which the Minxes are going to make enough money out of their writing that more of us will become full time writers (and then we're setting our sights on Minx Manor!).
2014 is also the year that both of my beautiful little girls will be in Big School.
Onward and upward!!
Best wishes to everyone who has been there for me in 2013, and to all the new friends I will make in 2014. May your new year be blessed with all those things in life that bring you joy!
From www.wondrouspics.comDecember 13, 2013
The Advent of Christmas
According to German tradition, the celebration of Advent over the four Sundays before Christmas started in an orphanage in Hamburg.
In much the same way children of today count down to big events in terms of the number of sleeps, the orphans counted down the weeks to Christmas using a wreath of candles - six smaller candles for weekdays, and a big white candle for each Sunday. Each day another candle was lit.
Image Source: Wikipedia
Since 28 candles would be a fire hazard in most homes, the wreath was simplified to four candles - one for each Sunday, which is what we use today.
For those of us who celebrate the tradition, Advent is a whole lot more than just an evergreen wreath and a few candles. It's about family, community and about remembering what Christmas is really about.
When I was a child I was blessed to have a large family of aunts, uncles and cousins living close by. Every Sunday evening for the four weeks before Christmas we would get together to sing Christmas carols by the light of candles and the special Advent star.
My mother put together booklets containing dozens of English and German carols, and we each had a turn to select a song, starting with the youngest member of the family (usually my little brother) and ending with Omi, the family matriarch.
The last song was always Silent Night, to be sung in whichever language you chose. I always liked to mix it up and sing alternate verses in different languages.
After the carolling, we kids would do battle to blow out the most candles, and then there'd be coffee and Christmas biscuits (and cooldrinks for us kids). If we were really lucky, my grandmother would ration out the biscuits that came to be known as Omi's Specials, the Elisen biscuits containing almonds, hazelnuts and a spoonful of rum, baked on a rice paper base.
These days the family is scattered around the planet and my children are growing up wthout this wonderful experience. Advent celebrations are usually five of us sitting in the lounge singing along to CDs! At least we still have the Advent star, the candles and the cookies.
On the first Sunday of Advent this year, though, we joined the local German church for their Advent celebration. What a joy to be part of a community again, and to sing with loads of other voices - and the biscuits and cakes always taste so much better shared in company than eaten alone!
For me, the celebration of Advent represents everything that is best about Christmas. Not Santa Claus or gifts or the decorations in all the shopping malls, but family, tradition, and the whole reason for Christmas in the first place: the birth of a child who brought hope and light to the world.
Very apt, even for those of us who celebrate it in the brightness of midsummer rather than the darkness of midwinter.
What is your favourite part of Christmas, and what does it mean to you? I'd love to hear your stories!
In much the same way children of today count down to big events in terms of the number of sleeps, the orphans counted down the weeks to Christmas using a wreath of candles - six smaller candles for weekdays, and a big white candle for each Sunday. Each day another candle was lit.
Image Source: WikipediaSince 28 candles would be a fire hazard in most homes, the wreath was simplified to four candles - one for each Sunday, which is what we use today.
For those of us who celebrate the tradition, Advent is a whole lot more than just an evergreen wreath and a few candles. It's about family, community and about remembering what Christmas is really about.
When I was a child I was blessed to have a large family of aunts, uncles and cousins living close by. Every Sunday evening for the four weeks before Christmas we would get together to sing Christmas carols by the light of candles and the special Advent star.My mother put together booklets containing dozens of English and German carols, and we each had a turn to select a song, starting with the youngest member of the family (usually my little brother) and ending with Omi, the family matriarch.
The last song was always Silent Night, to be sung in whichever language you chose. I always liked to mix it up and sing alternate verses in different languages.
After the carolling, we kids would do battle to blow out the most candles, and then there'd be coffee and Christmas biscuits (and cooldrinks for us kids). If we were really lucky, my grandmother would ration out the biscuits that came to be known as Omi's Specials, the Elisen biscuits containing almonds, hazelnuts and a spoonful of rum, baked on a rice paper base.
These days the family is scattered around the planet and my children are growing up wthout this wonderful experience. Advent celebrations are usually five of us sitting in the lounge singing along to CDs! At least we still have the Advent star, the candles and the cookies.
On the first Sunday of Advent this year, though, we joined the local German church for their Advent celebration. What a joy to be part of a community again, and to sing with loads of other voices - and the biscuits and cakes always taste so much better shared in company than eaten alone!
For me, the celebration of Advent represents everything that is best about Christmas. Not Santa Claus or gifts or the decorations in all the shopping malls, but family, tradition, and the whole reason for Christmas in the first place: the birth of a child who brought hope and light to the world.
Very apt, even for those of us who celebrate it in the brightness of midsummer rather than the darkness of midwinter.
What is your favourite part of Christmas, and what does it mean to you? I'd love to hear your stories!
December 10, 2013
Written Fireside: His Way Home, Part 5
Welcome to the fifth installment in the ongoing round-the-campfire story of His Way Home.
If you haven't yet read the previous installments, you can find them here:
Part 1 - Lori Connelly
Part 2 - Sarah Lefebve
Part 3 - Zara Stoneley
Part 4 - Lynn Marie Hulsman
Source: www.freedigitalphotos.net
Now read on...
Beth’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Matthew wouldn’t believe her anyway. Just last night he’d told her to get her head out the clouds and face reality, and the thought that had started to form... it was too improbable.
Improbable but inescapable. And there wasn’t much time.
“We need to talk,” she told Matthew.
His brow furrowed. “Then talk.”
She drew in a deep breath. She had no idea where to start. She sat in the chair where Walter had sat not so long ago. “Tell me about your grandmother.”
His frown deepened, but he sat in the armchair across from her. “I don’t remember much about her. Towards the end she was a little batty. Kept going on about a slip in time and how she needed to get home to undo the damage she’d done.”
“How did she die?”
Matthew looked away. “One day she walked out into the woods towards Watchtower Hill and she never came home. We searched everywhere but we never found her.”
The tower-shaped hill brooded over the neighbourhood. The woods that surrounded it were dark and eerie, and Beth had never dared ventured there in all the time she’d lived here on the farm with Matthew.
He sighed, and when his gaze again met hers there was sadness in them. “My grandmother grew up in a cabin in those woods. It’s the first place we looked, but the place was a ruin and there was no sign of her.”
Beth squared her shoulders. “Then that’s where we need to start.” She rose and headed for the closet where they stored their emergency gear. They’d worked with search and rescue teams in the area before, helping to find lost hikers. This wouldn’t be much different.
Matthew rose behind her. “Are you insane? Do you have any idea how cold it is outside? And a storm warning’s been issued. That’s why I came home.”
She stopped in her tracks. He was right. Walter would never make it on foot. Not as fast as he was aging. “We’ll have to take the old sled,” she said.
Matthew came around and took her hands. “You’re starting to frighten me, Beth. What’s got into you?”
The door behind him swung open, and Walter stood in the door. They both gasped.
Part Six will be up on Jane Lark's blog on 17th December.
If you haven't yet read the previous installments, you can find them here:
Part 1 - Lori Connelly
Part 2 - Sarah Lefebve
Part 3 - Zara Stoneley
Part 4 - Lynn Marie Hulsman
Source: www.freedigitalphotos.netNow read on...
Beth’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Matthew wouldn’t believe her anyway. Just last night he’d told her to get her head out the clouds and face reality, and the thought that had started to form... it was too improbable.
Improbable but inescapable. And there wasn’t much time.
“We need to talk,” she told Matthew.
His brow furrowed. “Then talk.”
She drew in a deep breath. She had no idea where to start. She sat in the chair where Walter had sat not so long ago. “Tell me about your grandmother.”
His frown deepened, but he sat in the armchair across from her. “I don’t remember much about her. Towards the end she was a little batty. Kept going on about a slip in time and how she needed to get home to undo the damage she’d done.”
“How did she die?”
Matthew looked away. “One day she walked out into the woods towards Watchtower Hill and she never came home. We searched everywhere but we never found her.”
The tower-shaped hill brooded over the neighbourhood. The woods that surrounded it were dark and eerie, and Beth had never dared ventured there in all the time she’d lived here on the farm with Matthew.
He sighed, and when his gaze again met hers there was sadness in them. “My grandmother grew up in a cabin in those woods. It’s the first place we looked, but the place was a ruin and there was no sign of her.”
Beth squared her shoulders. “Then that’s where we need to start.” She rose and headed for the closet where they stored their emergency gear. They’d worked with search and rescue teams in the area before, helping to find lost hikers. This wouldn’t be much different.
Matthew rose behind her. “Are you insane? Do you have any idea how cold it is outside? And a storm warning’s been issued. That’s why I came home.”
She stopped in her tracks. He was right. Walter would never make it on foot. Not as fast as he was aging. “We’ll have to take the old sled,” she said.
Matthew came around and took her hands. “You’re starting to frighten me, Beth. What’s got into you?”
The door behind him swung open, and Walter stood in the door. They both gasped.
Part Six will be up on Jane Lark's blog on 17th December.
