C.P. Smith's Blog, page 5
April 13, 2015
Chapter One Property Of
Everyone thought romance novelists had exciting sex lives—if they only knew . . . I needed a hero first.
To date, I have published twenty historical romances filled with “danger, passion, humor, and huge hulking heroes that take your breath away.” That, incidentally, was a quote from a review of my novel “Highlander’s Woman.” I, of course, wouldn’t have a clue about huge hulking men who took your breath away. I just created them.
My name is Nicola Grace Royse—though I write under the pen name Grace Martin—and I’m a romance novelist slash romance junkie slash eternal believer that love conquers all. I have been since I was old enough to understand a woman swooning would capture a knight's attention. I’m also a tiny bit dramatic in my thinking. For example, a purple flower is not a purple flower, but a violet colored masterpiece given to men from God in order to capture a lady’s heart. As I said, I’m dramatic.
As a child, I played with dolls and dreamed up magical lands where Prince Charming carried Barbie away on his trusty steed. As a teen, I didn’t date much because of my overprotective twin brothers. I had to satisfy my need for romance by devouring passionate novels where Barbie finally graduated to Guinevere and Ken became the Knights of the Round Table. Then, one day, I picked up a book about Scottish Highlanders. They were big, they were bold, and they wore a kilt with nothing underneath. If I could have transported myself back in time to the Highlands of Scotland and those sexy Scottish clansmen, I wouldn’t have hesitated. The mere thought of being manhandled and thrown over the shoulder of a gigantic Scotsman with a sexy brogue . . . well, it damn near occupied my every waking dream.
My love for the past earned me a bachelor’s degree in education, with a focus on medieval history. My love for history and the romance of it all, along with a healthy appetite for reading, found its way onto a word document one boring weekend in June when I was twenty-two. And the rest, as they say, was history.
All those years I played make-believe, read historical romances, and daydreamed about the perfect man who one-day would sweep me off my feet had translated into a bestseller by the time I was twenty-five. Unfortunately, for me, though, my strapping Highlander, Lowlander, or plain old Prince Charming had never made an appearance.
I’m thirty-two, and never been married—hell, I’d never even been close. Which, by the way, was a sore spot with my mother. She liked to blame my single status on the unrealistic characters I’d written about in my books.
“Nicola Grace Royse,” she always said, “men like that don’t exist, for goodness sake.”
I’d like to point out that my brothers still weren’t married either, yet she never seemed to worry about their single status.
“They’ll marry when they stop being boys and start being men,” she explained. I, however, had my doubts on whether or not they’d stop being boys.
My brother’s aside, I held out hope that one day I could prove my mother wrong. You see, like all good daughters in their twenties, I knew more than my mother did. Now, in my thirties, my biological clock ticked away, and the only thing I had to show for the last ten years was my books. Sadly, I’d come to the frightening realization that my mother, in fact, may have been right all along.
Part of the reason I haven’t found a man who appeals to me is because men aren’t raised to be men anymore, in my opinion. Gone are the take-the-bull-by-the-horns, never-say-die men legends are made of.
So, I write my own legends.
Men who are fearless, handsome, great between the sheets, love their women with all their hearts, and take care of them or die trying—Scottish Highlanders.
***
“Broderick gently lay his precious Rebecca on the dewy grass. The sun shone on her golden tresses, creating a halo around her head. Her eyes were hooded and as she reached toward her husband, she had but one thing on her mind.
“Are you my Laird or my husband in this moment?”
“I am one and the same, wife.”
“‘Tis true. But right now, I prefer the gentle hand of my husband than that of my Laird.”
“Aye, you’ll get my gentle hand and my strong back, my love, as I drive into ghaeahtabaejt’apppppppppppp pppppppppppppp
“Oh, come on. Get off the keyboard, Snape!” I shouted at my feline child.
Snatching the offending orange tabby (who reminded me of Garfield on a good day) off my desk, I placed him on the floor just as the sound of liquid spilling and glass breaking grabbed my attention. My other cat, Simi, who was solid gray in color with big green eyes that reminded me of emeralds, had taken Snape’s place on my desk, knocking over my cup of coffee.
“Seriously, guys? I only had one coffee pod left and that was my favorite mug, you annoying cats.” Simi’s responding meow caught my attention so I answered, “Yes, I’m talking to you. Who else would I be talking to, huh?”
Lifting Simi into my arms, I kissed the ornery cat as I stood up to grab some paper towels. My office was located off my kitchen in the three-bedroom house I’d bought and renovated with the help of my brothers. Nestled in a quiet older neighborhood in midtown Tulsa, the Arts and Crafts bungalow had once been the home of my favorite romance author’s distant cousin. On his father’s side, twice removed—or so I’m told. Of course, hearing that, I just had to buy it. The large wraparound porch on the quiet street was a huge selling point as well. I could see myself sitting on a porch swing with a cup of coffee and a notebook plotting my novels as I watched the sun set in a clear Oklahoma sky.
When I hit the bestseller list, everyone thought that I’d take off for New York or Chicago. But there was no way I’d ever leave my family. Born and raised in a state where the skies are blue, people look you in the eyes when you walk down the street, and hold God, family, and country close to their hearts, I knew I’d never be happy in a fast-paced big city. So I stayed, even though my agent recommended I move.
Speaking of why I stayed—brothers only a sister could love.
Just as I walked into the kitchen to grab some paper towels to clean up Simi’s mess, my side door banged open and my brothers, known to all as Bo and Finn, came walking in. They treated my house as their own and came over unannounced whenever they felt like it. They owned their own construction company, specializing in home renovations, and had a large crew they supervised. This gave Bo and Finn the freedom to work when they wanted, and ample time to keep tabs on me, which, for some reason only known to them, they thought was necessary.
“Do either of you know how to knock?”
Bo, who liked to call himself the oldest of our threesome, responded with, “If we knock, we lose the element of surprise.”
“Element of surprise for what?” I asked, confused.
“Really, Nic?” Finn sighed with exaggeration as if speaking with a small child. “How else can we kick some guy’s ass for messing with our baby sister if he has fair warning?”
“Explain to me again why I put up with you two?”
“It’s the fraternal bond,” Finn explained, “and the fact that we’re so damn charming.”
Did I mention that not only were they my twin brothers, but I also happened to be born at the same time? Finn and Bo liked to refer to themselves as the twins since they’re identical, and that I just came along for the ride. However, technically, we’re triplets. Though, most days I don’t claim either.
I rolled my eyes at my frustrating, but lovable, brothers and I grabbed a handful of paper towels. I wasn’t about to agree with either of them—it would only feed their egos. However, they were right. They were charming in a Nordic, overbearing, Neanderthal kind of way.
Finn and Bo were tall, broad, and classically handsome with strong, square jaws, heavy brows, and big blue eyes that melted women’s hearts around the world. They could thank our Norwegian heritage for their good looks. All three of us had light blonde hair and fair skin, though I ended up with light-green eyes as opposed to their blue. Basically, Bo and Finn were Vikings, plundering and pillaging helpless maidens and trailing heartache in their wake.
As I walked to my desk to clean up the spilled coffee, Bo opened my refrigerator and started searching for food. I kept a well-stocked pantry and fridge just for my brothers. They were bottomless pits and it was easier to keep food in the house than it was to listen to them complain about my empty fridge.
Just as I finished picking up the broken glass, I heard the TV mounted over the rock fireplace in my living room turn on.
Instantly alert and slightly alarmed that they appeared to be settling in for a day of binge eating and sports, I turned towards my living room to get them out of my hair. I had too much work to do on my novel and wanted to write in peace. Besides, they had their own homes in which to veg, they didn’t need to do it on my new leather sofa. I hadn’t even vegged out on my new leather sofa yet. If anyone was getting crumbs on the cushions while devouring a bag of chips, it was going to be me.
Rounding the corner, I entered my living room with its kickass view of Swan Lake. Swan Lake wasn’t really a lake but a park directly across the street with a large pond that was home to swans.
Ready to insist that Frick and Frack make haste leaving my home, I stopped suddenly, the TV catching my attention. There was a news report showing police standing in a field on the west bank of the Arkansas River and a body bag being placed on a coroner's gurney. As shocking and sad as that was, it was, however, the man occupying the screen that caught my eye as much as the body bag. He was tall, dark, and dangerous-looking as he scowled at the cameras. He had a policeman’s shield clipped to his belt and I could see his weapon holstered at his hip. His hair was dark-brown, maybe even black, and styled in a not-so-standard issue policeman’s cut. It was longer than most men wore all over, but not on purpose. You could tell he just didn’t have time, or the inclination, to care if he kept it clipped short. Dressed in jeans, boots, and a black Henley Thermal covered in a black leather jacket, he stood out among the crowd of police officers. He was, in my opinion, the perfect romance novel hero and my writer’s mind started taking notes while the woman in me came alive.
“The body of a young woman was discovered overnight in a shallow grave. Police are withholding the name of the victim until family members are notified. This is the third body of a woman found in a shallow grave in the past sixteen months. The first two victims, twenty-five-year-old Lisa Kerns Flanagan of Bixby and twenty-nine-year-old Rosemarie McKenzie of Broken Arrow, were both found in shallow graves three months apart in 2014. Police are cautioning women to be aware of their surroundings when entering their cars and homes. The News on Six contacted the Tulsa Police Department, asking them to comment, but they have yet to respond. We’ll keep you up-to-date on any further developments concerning the discovery of what appears to be the third victim of whom police have dubbed “The Shallow Grave Killer,” here, on News Channel Six.”
“Those poor women.”
Intrigued on a creative level, since the story included an honest-to-goodness romance hero, I dashed to grab my notebook from my cluttered desk in order to write down the specifics of the case. I began this habit many years ago when I first started writing. There were pages of news reports, internet folly, and interactions with strangers to help spark my creativity. As I flipped through it, looking for a blank page, I sighed when I saw how full it was. I had a never-ending supply of other people’s lives to fuel my stories. Sadly, my own life, or lack thereof, gave me no inspiration. A writer writes what he or she knows, but since I had no real life experiences other than my books and friends, I had to steal snippets from other people’s lives to fuel my imagination.
“Meow,” Snape said from the comfort of my office chair as stood there, writing down my impressions of the cop and the terrifying murders of three women.
“Don’t mind me, Snape, I’ll just stand here and write. I wouldn’t want to disturb you while you lick your butt."
When I reached down to tickle his ears before I continued writing, a thought occurred to me and I paused. Maybe the reason I didn’t have a life, other than my books, was because the only conversations I'd had in months were with my cats and brothers. Not that you could qualify grunting and chewing as conversation per se (my brothers, not my cats).
I’d been so tied up writing, plotting stories, going to book signings, and researching Scottish history, that I couldn’t remember the last time I went out with my friends or on a date.
“How did this happen?” I asked in amazement. “I’ve turned into a spinster cat lady with no friends. Haven’t I, Simi?”
“Meow,” Simi agreed from her spot on my windowsill.
“Yeesh, you didn’t have to agree so quickly,” I argued on a sigh. “That’s it. After I finish this book, I’m taking some time off to have a life. I’m gonna get drunk, let my hair down, maybe even get laid by an honest to goodness man. That’s if I can find one that—”
“Bo!” Finn shouted from behind me, interrupting my private talk with Simi and Snape, “Nicola’s talking to her cats again.”
“What’s she saying this time?” Bo hollered back.
“Apparently, she thinks she’s gonna get drunk and then get laid.”
“Excellent, I could use a good workout. I haven’t beaten the shit out of a guy in years,” he answered.
“Would you guys grow up already? I’m not sixteen anymore,” I explained, exasperated as I pushed past Finn.
Finn followed on my heels, laughing, as I went into the kitchen in search of my phone to call Kasey.
“Sixteen or sixty, Nic, it’s our job to scare the shit out of your dates.”
“Considering every man I’ve met is as ridiculous as you and Bo, I don’t think you need to clean your brass knuckles just yet.”
“We polish them nightly, Nicola. As Dad always says, it’s better to be prepared than caught off guard.”
“Boys in men’s clothing, that’s what the two of you are,” I laughed as I picked up my cell phone and looked up Kasey’s number. “I have a book to finish today, so you two children have to leave. I can’t concentrate while you’re here.”
Once I’d found Kasey’s number, I hit call and put the phone to my ear as Finn roughed up the top of my head. Shoving his hand away, I grinned, and then turned my back on him while I listened to the call connect.
“Hello?”
“Kasey?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“You know damn well who this is. My number's programmed under the name Amelia Earhart.”
“And just like you, she has gone missing.”
“Well, that’s about to change, starting today. I realized just now that I talk to my cats more than I talk to humans. As of today, after typing the words “The End” on “Highlander’s Pride,” I’m taking six months off to do nothing but reconnect with my family and friends.”
"Well, I’ll notify People Magazine that the hermit Grace Martin is coming out of hiding,” she chuckled.
“Fuck you,” I laughed.
“Fuck you, too,” Kasey giggled. “If you’re serious about taking a break, meet me for coffee at Gypsy’s, Tuesday at five thirty. Be there or be square.”
“Coffee it is. I’ll call the rest of the girls.”
“No need, we have a standing date for coffee every Tuesday and Thursday. We do Yoga on Thursdays at Om-klahoma before coffee, if you want to come.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been MIA, Kasey. It seems I got lost in fiction. But I’m turning over a new leaf as of today. From now on, I’m going to experience life as much as I write about it.”
“Baby steps, Nicola. You’ve been living in a cave for a while, you might need to adjust to the light first,” she laughed. “Just show on Tuesday and all will be forgotten.”
“I’ll be there, you can count on it. Why, a rugged Highlander couldn’t keep me from coming,” I vowed.
“Right, we both know that’s a lie,” she laughed.
Ha, she knew me too well.
“Ok, short of a kilt-wearing Highlander came forward in time to throw me over his shoulder, I’ll be there.
***“Vaughn! Get your ass in here.”
Detective Dallas Vaughn looked up from his desk and smirked at his partner, Bill Reed.
“Guess he heard,” Reed chuckled.
“Guess so,” Vaughn answered.
Vaughn rose from his chair, grabbed his gun, and shoved it into his holster as he made his way towards his lieutenant’s office. The lieutenant’s door was closed, further indicating how pissed off he was, seeing as they had been able to hear him bellowing from behind closed doors. Vaughn knocked and then entered before Lt. Dan Cross had a chance to answer.
“You wanted to see me?”
Lt. Cross was a huge black man with a bald head that sat on top of a squatty neck. A former linebacker for the University of Tulsa, he kept his bulk while moving up the ranks. He had a degree in criminology and a sharp mind, but he also had a temper.
“Didn’t I tell you to keep your fuckin’ distance from Hernandez?”
Vaughn leaned against the door frame and crossed his arms over his wide chest. At six foot three, Vaughn wasn’t a small man, but he was leaner than Cross. Lean, like the former wide receiver he had been for the University of Oklahoma. Vaughn also had a degree in criminology. However, unlike his boss, he had no desire to work his way up the ranks. He preferred hunting down the bad guys to administrative duties.
“It was just a coincidence that I happened to be invited to a party at his next-door neighbor’s house.”
“You don’t have any friends, Vaughn. How in the hell did you get invited to the Assistant District Attorney’s house?”
“Tickets to next year’s Oklahoma—Texas game.”
Cross narrowed his eyes at Vaughn, and just when Dallas thought his boss would blow his top, a slow grin pulled across his mouth.
“Are you telling me you bribed the ADA so you could sit in his backyard and watch his scumbag, wife-murdering neighbor?”
Vaughn’s lips twitched, but he held his smile. “No, I offered to give him my Oklahoma—Texas tickets because I heard he was serving hamburgers. As for Hernandez,” he growled the name, “he’s an innocent until proven guilty scumbag, wife-murdering neighbor.”
Hernandez, the owner of Hernandez Plastics, was under indictment for the murder of his wife. According to Hernandez, she slipped while holding a knife and it somehow managed to bury itself into her heart. Originally, from Honduras, he was a flight risk and they all knew it. Vaughn had been keeping closer tabs on Hernandez than the law allowed, according to the restraining order Hernandez had filed against Vaughn.
Technically, he stayed far enough away from the man. However, when Hernandez willingly came into Vaughn’s space in the ADA’s front yard, the restraining order was null and void. That’s how Hernandez ended up with a black eye and a busted lip. Vaughn was just defending himself, per the witness statements.
“Were the hamburgers good?” Cross asked.
“Rare, just like I like them,” Vaughn replied.
Both men grinned at each other for a moment, but Cross lost his jovial attitude quickly.
“All right, enough about that scumbag. Get your ass out of my office and go find me that goddamned Shallow Grave sonofabitch.”
Vaughn’s eyes went blank at the mention of the killer. Dallas had had to notify the family of Stacy Lynn White-Cline when the dental records came back as a match this afternoon. He was itching to find that bastard. Dallas could still hear her mother’s wailing in his head.
“I’ll find him,” Dallas vowed, “then I’ll send him straight to hell.”
“You’ll find him and hand him over to the DA, that’s what you’ll do,” Cross bit out, leaning across his desk.
Dallas’ jaw tightened, and he nodded once. Turning on his heels, he gritted his teeth, trying not to think about the single mother and the way they’d found her two nights earlier. He knew from experience, after six years in homicide, if you didn’t leave that shit at the office you’d burn out quickly. Unfortunately for him, he never listened and burned a candle at both ends.
Vaughn was a bit of a maverick and did what he had to do to solve a case. If it meant long hours, so be it. All he'd ever wanted to be was a cop. To catch the bad guys and make it safe for law-abiding citizens, no matter the means. He was thirty-four and had a failed marriage under his belt because of his dedication to the job, that, and because Brynne couldn’t keep her legs closed to other men. Most days he was tired, frustrated, and needed a vacation. However, he had no reason to go home and the world was getting sicker by the day, so he kept working.
With another body in the morgue, and the only evidence they had being the fact that the first two women frequented dating sites, according to their families, and traces of crude oil were found on their bodies, the trail was stone cold on the Shallow Grave Killer.
Making his way back to his desk, he searched for Sian Davies, a rookie detective, Dallas’ mood was as gray as the walls in their office. Every officer in his division was in a bad mood with the discovery of a third victim and wanted in on the case so they could nail that sonofabitch to the wall. Dallas and his partner, Bill Reed, were lead investigators on the case, but half his division were out running down all possible leads.
Catching Sian at the coffee pot, Dallas called out to her. “Sian, I need you to call over to Missing Persons and ask them for a list of women between the ages of twenty and forty. I don’t trust this new computer software, since it has more bugs in it than the Kremlin. Ask them for a hard copy and make several copies when you get it.”
Nodding her reply, he watched as she moved to her desk and pick up the phone before he sat down in his chair.
“Let me in on what you’re thinking?’’ Reed asked Vaughn as he sat down.
“All three victims were blonde. Two could be a coincidence, but three feels like an MO. I want to compare any missing women that match the descriptions of our three victims and see if they were visiting online dating sites.”
Nodding in agreement, Bill Reed, a twenty-year veteran of the Tulsa Police Department and father of four, powered up his computer and stood with his coffee cup.
“Better refuel. Sounds like it’s gonna be a long night,” Reed mumbled, motioning to Dallas’ empty cup.
“I’m not drinking that shit and you know it. You pull up the files on the Shallow Grave Killer and I’ll run over to Gypsy’s.”
Reed turned back to Vaughn with a smile on his face. He knew that if he mentioned coffee his partner would cringe at the crap they served at the station.
“I want extra cream in my coffee, none of that skimmed crap either. June’s got me on a low-fat diet and I’m wasting away as it is.”
Dallas’ brows shot up at the wasting away comment. Reed was six-foot-one and pushing two hundred and seventy-five pounds. There wasn’t anything “wasting away” about the man.
“You’ll get your cream, big guy, but if you tell June it’s your head, partner. Your wife scares the hell out of me,” Dallas chuckled.
“June scares the living shit out of me too, Dallas. She makes the Shallow Grave Killer look like a kitten.”
That she did, Dallas thought as he headed for the door. He’d be tempted to put her in a room with the bastard as part of his punishment if he didn’t love the woman so much. Then again . . . she might enjoy it.
February 14, 2015
Bonus Content for A Reason To Breathe
Bonus Scene
Motherhood the second time around was far from easy. You’d think, since I’d been through it once already, that it would be a piece of cake. Maybe if they weren’t from Jack’s loins that would be true, but Keller and Kaiden were their father’s sons. Meaning they ignored me, did what they wanted, ordered me around, and shook their heads when I tried to argue with them.Having two little Jacks in the house along with dealing with the big bad original, you’d think I would run screaming for the hills. However, just as it was with their father, I was helpless at first sight to do anything but fall in love with them. And just like their father they were possessive of my time and brooded when I left them alone for too long. Just like they were doing now after returning from a long weekend in Alaska for Jack’s cousin Max’s wedding.Jack and I had taken the trip without the boys, leaving them here with their big sister. They, of course, were making me pay for abandoning them for a few short days. Keller and Kaiden were now three, and they weren't precocious little boys who drew on walls and gave me sloppy kisses, but future lawmen in the making. They scowled at me when we arrived home as if I had been a bad mother. Then they proceeded to let me have it just like their father did when he thought I’d gone too far with a story. I had no doubt that if they could have put me into timeout they would have done it; such was the heinousness of my crime by leaving them behind. What made it worse was they didn't even blink an eye at their father for leaving. Instead, they’d run to him while glaring at me all while verbally abusing me with, "We told you not to leave," at the top of their little boy lungs. I gawked at them while Jack picked them up, chuckling at their reception. He mumbled, “You’ll get used to her not following instructions." This was because when we tried to leave three days earlier they had, in fact, shouted, “You aren’t leaving, Mommy!"Honestly, when he'd left the room with the boys if they'd looked back and given me two fingers to the eyes as if saying, “I’m watching you,” I wouldn’t have been surprised.Now I was at home with them, and Jack was at the office. They were giving me a good taste of their cold shoulder. Currently sitting at the table eating their lunch, they would talk and yell at each other, but they would barely look at me. Done with being ignored I sat down with my own sandwich and decided it was time to reason with the two. I’ll remind you that they are their father’s sons so reasoning isn’t exactly the word I’d use, more like creative manipulation in order to bring them around to my way of thinking. Not that it’s ever worked with Jack . . . but they're three, and there’s a first time for everything.“If you two will stop being mad at me for going on a very short trip, Mommy will first take you to the park and then let you visit Daddy at work.”The boys turned and looked at me, then looked back at each other, and I watched their beautiful blue eyes sparkle with excitement as something unspoken passed between them.“Ok, Mommy,” they both replied smiling. Huh, that was easier than I thought. “Then finish your lunch and we’ll head into town when you’re done,” I told them, smiling now that my little men were happy with me again.An hour later we were in the park, and I sat on the park bench where Jack and I had spoken four years earlier when I’d first moved to town. I kept an eye on the boys as I worked on an article for the paper about the new principal, who had been hired to replace the retiring Principal of Gunnison High School. The new guy, one Sam Steele, was forty-five, divorced and quite a handsome man with broad shoulders, a head of thick light brown hair, and stunning green eyes. I’d met him once to interview him for the article, and I’d also soon heard that all the single women between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five were chomping at the bit for an introduction.As I watched the boys swing, a shadow blocked the light of the sun, and I looked up to find Sam Steele standing there smiling down on me.“Hello, Mr. Steele,”“Sam,” he answered.“All right,” I replied. “How are you settling in over at the high school?”“Your former principal ran a tight ship. My transition with the staff in preparation for the new school year has been easy,” he responded taking a seat next to me.“How do you like our fair city?”“Can’t complain. The welcoming committee has been more than...welcoming,” he smiled.“I’ve heard. You’re a shiny new toy,” I explained, then laughed because I knew how he felt. Small towns don’t get many newcomers, so when they do, and especially if they are single, they get a lot of attention.Sam chuckled in response as I looked back at the boys to make sure they were still behaving themselves. They’d stopped swinging and were now running towards me.“Are those your boys?” Sam asked as he watched them approach.“Yeah,” I smiled, but then frowned when I saw the look on the boys’ faces. They were scowling at me again. Clearly they were going to hold on to this grudge longer than I thought.When they made it to the bench, they immediately grabbed my hand, saying, “We want to go see Daddy.”“Oh, ok, well, it was nice to see you again, Sam. Let me know if I can assist the school in any way. Maybe if I lend a hand now, you’ll overlook the two hooligans when they grace your halls,” I laughed.I’d barely gotten that out before the boys were pulling me down the sidewalk towards Jack’s office, so I waved at Sam as he smiled.When we entered the reception area, the boys took off down the hall as I greeted Dorothy, the receptionist. I took off after the boys, expecting them to head towards Jack’s office, but I found them begging Barry to show them one of the isolation cells instead. He shook his head no, but then they leaned up and whispered into his ear. He laughed at the boys while I stood there wondering what in the heck they were about.“Come on boys, let's go find your father,” I told them, but Barry shook his head and buzzed the boys through, so I followed them.We walked the long hallway down to a single cell that they only used for dangerous criminals so they wouldn’t be around the general population. I had seen this cell up close and personal when Jack and I had first started dating, and the boys had heard the story about how their father had locked me up.“Is this the cell that Daddy put you?” Kaiden asked.“The same one,” I informed him.They walked into the cell, so I followed them in and just as I cleared the door, they darted behind me and grabbed the cell door and closed it.“Boys, what are you doing?” I cried out as I moved to the door and tried to open it. They smiled their impish little smiles, then turned around and took off running down the hall.“Keller, Kaiden?” I shouted at their retreating backsides and watched as they were buzzed back through the door.“Barry,” I shouted at the camera in the ceiling, hoping he was watching from his position in the control room. Nothing.Not about to panic that I’d been locked in the cell yet again, I walked to the cot and sat down until help arrived. I knew the boys would run straight to their father, so it was just a matter of time before Jack came and let me out.Five minutes later I heard the door buzz open, and in walked Jack holding both boys hands.“It’s about time,” I hollered.When they reached the cell, I expected Jack to laugh and open the door, but all three of my men stopped and crossed their arms, staring at me.“Open the cell, Jack,” I demanded.“Did you sit on our bench and laugh and smile at another man?”“What? Where did you—““Yes or no, Jenn?”“You set me up,” I gasped at the boys.Everyone who knew Jack knew he was possessive and easily jealous where I was concerned. He kept it in check enough that it didn’t annoy me, but I had no idea the boys had figured that out.“Baby, answer the question,” Jack grumbled, but there was a bit of a twinkle in his eye.“I can’t believe you boys set me up,” I repeated.Keller and Kaiden’s little faces pulled into grins that matched their father’s, and I knew then they were getting back at me for leaving. So I crossed my arms and glared at them both just as I would Jack, letting them know, in no uncertain terms, that they could not order me around.“Boys, it looks like your mother needs time to think about her answer. Who wants ice cream?”“You wouldn’t!” I shouted.“Babe, I would.”“I’ll never speak to you again.”“Sweetness, that’s not much of a bargaining chip.” Then he looked down at the boys, put his hands out in high five, and, after celebratory slaps, all three of them turned on their heels and headed for the door.“Boys, I’m... I'm so sorry I left you behind. I promise, OK? I’ll never leave you again," I whimpered, hoping my sad voice would appeal to their love for me. Jack stopped when they reached the door and looked back at me, smiling, and then he called out, “Baby, this hurts them more than it hurts you, promise.”
And then they were gone.
Motherhood the second time around was far from easy. You’d think, since I’d been through it once already, that it would be a piece of cake. Maybe if they weren’t from Jack’s loins that would be true, but Keller and Kaiden were their father’s sons. Meaning they ignored me, did what they wanted, ordered me around, and shook their heads when I tried to argue with them.Having two little Jacks in the house along with dealing with the big bad original, you’d think I would run screaming for the hills. However, just as it was with their father, I was helpless at first sight to do anything but fall in love with them. And just like their father they were possessive of my time and brooded when I left them alone for too long. Just like they were doing now after returning from a long weekend in Alaska for Jack’s cousin Max’s wedding.Jack and I had taken the trip without the boys, leaving them here with their big sister. They, of course, were making me pay for abandoning them for a few short days. Keller and Kaiden were now three, and they weren't precocious little boys who drew on walls and gave me sloppy kisses, but future lawmen in the making. They scowled at me when we arrived home as if I had been a bad mother. Then they proceeded to let me have it just like their father did when he thought I’d gone too far with a story. I had no doubt that if they could have put me into timeout they would have done it; such was the heinousness of my crime by leaving them behind. What made it worse was they didn't even blink an eye at their father for leaving. Instead, they’d run to him while glaring at me all while verbally abusing me with, "We told you not to leave," at the top of their little boy lungs. I gawked at them while Jack picked them up, chuckling at their reception. He mumbled, “You’ll get used to her not following instructions." This was because when we tried to leave three days earlier they had, in fact, shouted, “You aren’t leaving, Mommy!"Honestly, when he'd left the room with the boys if they'd looked back and given me two fingers to the eyes as if saying, “I’m watching you,” I wouldn’t have been surprised.Now I was at home with them, and Jack was at the office. They were giving me a good taste of their cold shoulder. Currently sitting at the table eating their lunch, they would talk and yell at each other, but they would barely look at me. Done with being ignored I sat down with my own sandwich and decided it was time to reason with the two. I’ll remind you that they are their father’s sons so reasoning isn’t exactly the word I’d use, more like creative manipulation in order to bring them around to my way of thinking. Not that it’s ever worked with Jack . . . but they're three, and there’s a first time for everything.“If you two will stop being mad at me for going on a very short trip, Mommy will first take you to the park and then let you visit Daddy at work.”The boys turned and looked at me, then looked back at each other, and I watched their beautiful blue eyes sparkle with excitement as something unspoken passed between them.“Ok, Mommy,” they both replied smiling. Huh, that was easier than I thought. “Then finish your lunch and we’ll head into town when you’re done,” I told them, smiling now that my little men were happy with me again.An hour later we were in the park, and I sat on the park bench where Jack and I had spoken four years earlier when I’d first moved to town. I kept an eye on the boys as I worked on an article for the paper about the new principal, who had been hired to replace the retiring Principal of Gunnison High School. The new guy, one Sam Steele, was forty-five, divorced and quite a handsome man with broad shoulders, a head of thick light brown hair, and stunning green eyes. I’d met him once to interview him for the article, and I’d also soon heard that all the single women between the ages of thirty-five and forty-five were chomping at the bit for an introduction.As I watched the boys swing, a shadow blocked the light of the sun, and I looked up to find Sam Steele standing there smiling down on me.“Hello, Mr. Steele,”“Sam,” he answered.“All right,” I replied. “How are you settling in over at the high school?”“Your former principal ran a tight ship. My transition with the staff in preparation for the new school year has been easy,” he responded taking a seat next to me.“How do you like our fair city?”“Can’t complain. The welcoming committee has been more than...welcoming,” he smiled.“I’ve heard. You’re a shiny new toy,” I explained, then laughed because I knew how he felt. Small towns don’t get many newcomers, so when they do, and especially if they are single, they get a lot of attention.Sam chuckled in response as I looked back at the boys to make sure they were still behaving themselves. They’d stopped swinging and were now running towards me.“Are those your boys?” Sam asked as he watched them approach.“Yeah,” I smiled, but then frowned when I saw the look on the boys’ faces. They were scowling at me again. Clearly they were going to hold on to this grudge longer than I thought.When they made it to the bench, they immediately grabbed my hand, saying, “We want to go see Daddy.”“Oh, ok, well, it was nice to see you again, Sam. Let me know if I can assist the school in any way. Maybe if I lend a hand now, you’ll overlook the two hooligans when they grace your halls,” I laughed.I’d barely gotten that out before the boys were pulling me down the sidewalk towards Jack’s office, so I waved at Sam as he smiled.When we entered the reception area, the boys took off down the hall as I greeted Dorothy, the receptionist. I took off after the boys, expecting them to head towards Jack’s office, but I found them begging Barry to show them one of the isolation cells instead. He shook his head no, but then they leaned up and whispered into his ear. He laughed at the boys while I stood there wondering what in the heck they were about.“Come on boys, let's go find your father,” I told them, but Barry shook his head and buzzed the boys through, so I followed them.We walked the long hallway down to a single cell that they only used for dangerous criminals so they wouldn’t be around the general population. I had seen this cell up close and personal when Jack and I had first started dating, and the boys had heard the story about how their father had locked me up.“Is this the cell that Daddy put you?” Kaiden asked.“The same one,” I informed him.They walked into the cell, so I followed them in and just as I cleared the door, they darted behind me and grabbed the cell door and closed it.“Boys, what are you doing?” I cried out as I moved to the door and tried to open it. They smiled their impish little smiles, then turned around and took off running down the hall.“Keller, Kaiden?” I shouted at their retreating backsides and watched as they were buzzed back through the door.“Barry,” I shouted at the camera in the ceiling, hoping he was watching from his position in the control room. Nothing.Not about to panic that I’d been locked in the cell yet again, I walked to the cot and sat down until help arrived. I knew the boys would run straight to their father, so it was just a matter of time before Jack came and let me out.Five minutes later I heard the door buzz open, and in walked Jack holding both boys hands.“It’s about time,” I hollered.When they reached the cell, I expected Jack to laugh and open the door, but all three of my men stopped and crossed their arms, staring at me.“Open the cell, Jack,” I demanded.“Did you sit on our bench and laugh and smile at another man?”“What? Where did you—““Yes or no, Jenn?”“You set me up,” I gasped at the boys.Everyone who knew Jack knew he was possessive and easily jealous where I was concerned. He kept it in check enough that it didn’t annoy me, but I had no idea the boys had figured that out.“Baby, answer the question,” Jack grumbled, but there was a bit of a twinkle in his eye.“I can’t believe you boys set me up,” I repeated.Keller and Kaiden’s little faces pulled into grins that matched their father’s, and I knew then they were getting back at me for leaving. So I crossed my arms and glared at them both just as I would Jack, letting them know, in no uncertain terms, that they could not order me around.“Boys, it looks like your mother needs time to think about her answer. Who wants ice cream?”“You wouldn’t!” I shouted.“Babe, I would.”“I’ll never speak to you again.”“Sweetness, that’s not much of a bargaining chip.” Then he looked down at the boys, put his hands out in high five, and, after celebratory slaps, all three of them turned on their heels and headed for the door.“Boys, I’m... I'm so sorry I left you behind. I promise, OK? I’ll never leave you again," I whimpered, hoping my sad voice would appeal to their love for me. Jack stopped when they reached the door and looked back at me, smiling, and then he called out, “Baby, this hurts them more than it hurts you, promise.”
And then they were gone.
November 21, 2014
World, Meet MAX
World, Meet Max....
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00OX7FXDU
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00OX7FXDU?%2AVersion%2A=1&%2Aentries%2A=0
http://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/B00OX7FXDU?%2AVersion%2A=1&%2Aentries%2A=0
http://www.amazon.com.au/gp/product/B00OX7FXDU?%2AVersion%2A=1&%2Aentries%2A=0
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/a-reason-to-kill-cp-smith/1120803352?ean=2940150533455&itm=1&usri=2940150533455
http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/a-reason-to-kill-4
https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/id94...
November 16, 2014
A Reason to Breathe is on Sale this week for .99 till 11/21/14
(¯`'·.¸()¸.·'´¯) LIMITED TIME SALE (¯`'·.¸()¸.·'´¯)
A Reason to Breath, book 1 of the Reason Series, is on sale this week for .99 to celebrate the release of A Reason To Kill, Max and Mia's story.
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00HYOTZD8
October 26, 2014
A Reason to Kill is Done!!!
Max and Mia's story is complete. Bloggers who are interested in an ARC for review please contact me at cpsmith74135@gmail.com or on facebook private message at https://www.facebook.com/cpsmith74135
July 22, 2014
Restoring Hope is live!!
Restoring Hope is live!!
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00LZFHL7Y Amazon US
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00LZFHL7Y?*Version*=1&*entries*=0 Amazon UK
http://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/B00LZFHL7Y?*Version*=1&*entries*=0 Amazon Canada
https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B00LZFHL7Y Amazon Australia
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1119979010?ean=2940149798957 Barnes and Noble
http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00LZFHL7Y Amazon US
http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/B00LZFHL7Y?*Version*=1&*entries*=0 Amazon UK
http://www.amazon.ca/gp/product/B00LZFHL7Y?*Version*=1&*entries*=0 Amazon Canada
https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B00LZFHL7Y Amazon Australia
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/books/1119979010?ean=2940149798957 Barnes and Noble
July 18, 2014
Chapter One Restoring Hope
Chapter One
Rain pelted the cobblestone streets of the French Quarter, forming pools of water, like little ponds, as rainbows of oil danced across their surface. The day’s heat, trapped in those stones, rose like a steam bath as the rain cooled the hot streets, making an already humid night, more so. There was a feeling to the night, thick and hungry, like an unseen power wielded its influence over the city. But, it was of no concern to Nic Beuve as he lit another cigarette, the last one barely extinguished. He welcomed the night—day only brought pain. Raising a glass of whisky to his mouth, he listened to the sounds of cars as they drove past, splashing water on those still out walking. The French Quarter never slept. Like a miniature New York, businesses opened early and bars stayed open late. Laissez le bon temps rouler—“Let the good times roll” was the Crescent Cities motto.Throwing back the rest of his drink, Nic scanned the back of the bar looking for Henri, the bartender. The night was still young, and he was still sober. The Bayou, a neighborhood bar, owned and operated by the same Cajun family for three generations, was Nic’s home away from home. Maman Rose, the current proprietor, took care of her customers and didn’t water down the drinks. Dark wood paneling hosted black and white photos of the swamps around Louisiana. Pictures of moss covered trees, a Heron standing in the shallows of a slow moving Acadian river, and Cypress trees, standing tall, surrounded by the black water like sentries of a forgotten time. The musty smell of the river, drifted in through the door, when another local walked in and sat down at the bar. When Henri came from the back, Nic raised his empty glass indicating he needed another round. Henri, a local Cajun, with black hair and a devilish smile the ladies fought over, nodded once showing he’d seen the request. Just another night of solitude and whiskey, to take away the bitter taste of loss, Nic thought. He couldn’t seem to shake this feeling and if he weren't careful, he’d spend the rest of his miserable life drinking away his pain. But, at that moment, he didn’t seem to care. ***Hope Delaney entered through the backdoor of The Bayou, her first day on the job as a cook. She’d looked for a position that kept her out of the public eye, somewhere to hide while earning a meager living. She’d come to New Orleans hoping to blend in, or preferably, vanish. Eyes down, as she entered the back, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone, just do the work she was hired to do, and then go back to the one room hole she called home. Maman Rose had hired her the day before, and she could have kissed the woman. She’d had some money when she’d slipped into the night, enough to keep her safe for a while, but now that money was gone. Desperate, out of money, and afraid she wouldn’t secure a job before her new landlord wanted another week's rent, she’d walked into The Bayou with the paper folded to the help-wanted section on a wing and a prayer. Unfortunately, she needed to be paid under the table, she couldn’t risk using her name or social security number, and that was always the hitch with an employer. Maman Rose, a big, boisterous Cajun woman, with coffee colored skin and a rich Cajun accent had seen through her immediately, knew she was on the run and took Hope under her wing. “Pauve ti bete,I don’t know what’s chasing you Cher, but Maman Rose will keep you safe,” Rose had replied while looking her up and down. Hope hadn’t answered the woman’s questioning eyes. Keep your head down, don’t look people in the eyes and they won’t remember you. Don’t stay long in one place, don’t make any friends, andbe ready to run at a moment’s notice. That had been Hope’s motto for the past three months. The air was thick with scents from the kitchen as she entered the back of the bar. Cajun spices wafted through the air like honeysuckle on a warm day back home. Each new town she’d lived in came with new and different smells. New Orleans came with the smells of magnolia flowers and spices so abundant that if you had an ounce of Cajun blood in you, you’d feel at home. Hope didn’t have a clue how to make Gumbo, Crawfish Étouffée or Shrimp Creole, but that didn’t stop Rose from hiring her. Tucking her hair into a hairnet, and throwing on a blue jacket Rose had given her to cook in; she entered the kitchen, and headed to the man Rose had introduced her to as Big Daddy. He stood well over six feet, and if she had to guess close to three hundred pounds. Somewhere in his fifties, from the looks of him, his caramel colored skin beaded in sweat from the heat of the kitchen, and his bald head was covered with a matching blue cap to keep the sweat from running down his face.“There she at,” Big Daddy smiled as Hope waited for instructions. He looked her up and down shaking his head. “Cheryou notin’ but skin and bones you. When it slows down, Big Daddy gonna feed you yes he is.”“Big Daddy that’s kind of you, but I can eat when I get home.”“Bebe, don’t tell me lies. You gonna eat while I stand over you, can’t have my kitchen staff fallin’ over from hunger. What dat’ say bout’ Big Daddy, pauve ti bete?” Hope nodded, knowing when she’d lose a fight, and since her last meal was stale bread that morning, she had to admit having a full stomach sounded like heaven. Big Daddy watched as Hope acquiesced and shook his head. Bon Dieu, Rose was right, he thought. She looked like she hadn’t eaten well in weeks, and the haunted look in her eyes told him they needed to keep an eye on this ‘tit ange. Maman Rose knew a lost soul when she saw one, and though this woman was in her late thirties, she was clearly lost. Moving to the vegetable station, Big Daddy dumped a basket of colorful vegetables into the sink for Hope to wash and then cut. Yellow corn, plump and juicy, red peppers, big and firm, and crisp green cucumbers all would be used in the meals that night. The corn would go in the crawfish boil, a favorite at The Bayou. Local Cajuns set traps and brought them fresh crawfish daily. His regulars could go through hundreds of pounds of them in one night.“Cher, I want you to start slow now. I know you don’t have experience wit’ Cajun cookin, so Big Daddy ain’t gonna rush you.”“Okay, Big Daddy, and thank you,” Hope answered, as a small smile crossed her lips.“Arrete sa petite fleur, we take care of our own, bebe.” Nodding again, Hope moved to the sink and started washing the vegetables, while worrying at her lip. How long would she be able to stay this time? A week? A month? He’d find her if she stayed too long, she knew that, he’d found her once already. Luckily, for Hope, she’d seen his man first and escaped. John was ruthless, always got what he wanted and he wanted Hope dead, and wouldn’t stop until she was. Ten years she’d endured abuse, scared if she left her husband he would kill her, scared if she didn’t leave he would. And she was right, he had tried to kill her, but now he couldn’t and she was determined to stay that way, or die trying.Standing at her workstation, listening to the rhythmic slice then pound of the knife hitting the cutting board, her mind drifted to an evening not long ago, when she’d been cutting vegetables for her own dinner. She’d never eaten that meal; it ended up on the floor of her kitchen, another victim of a violent temper. The loud crash of a pot landing on the floor, broke Hope from her chilling thoughts of abuse, and focused her thoughts back on her job. She had to concentrate; she couldn’t afford to lose a finger daydreaming, or in this case, a waking nightmare.Maman Rose watched Hope from behind the bar, the kitchen pass-thru giving her a view of the entire kitchen. She knew when she’d laid eyes on the woman she was running from something, or someone. Her own Chantelle had that same look when she’d come home to her Maman. A woman only looks like that when she flees for her life, and the way Hope had kept her eyes lowered, not making eye contact with anyone, not getting close, only answering with yes or no, Rose knew it had to be a man. Probably some no account fool, who thinks beating a woman until her soul is broken, and can’t remember what it’s like to breathe deep and feel safe, had no doubt taken a hand to her. It takes a soulless man to raise a fist to someone smaller, to control them with strength and temper, Rose thought.“Dieu, just look at her. Too thin, and jumps at da’ slightest noise she do.” If her eyes were better, Rose was sure she could see the poor woman tremble like a dog who’d been kicked. “Da’ man who’d raise his hand to dat’ ‘tit ange should have bad gris-griscast on his ‘tit boule,” Maman Rose mumbled to herself and slightly smiled at the thought of this unknown man’s balls shriveling to the size of a pea.“Bon Dieu, remind me not to piss you off,” Henri chuckled, watching the new woman with interest.“Mebbe’ you shouldn’t hound around so much if you don’t want your balls cursed,” Maman Rose laughed as she turned towards the bar, her eyes moving over her regulars. Frank, the auto repairman, who couldn’t keep a wife due to the fact he couldn’t stay away from bars, was seated in his regular spot enjoying a plate of Big Daddy’s crawfish. As the headlights of a car passed by the window, it illuminated the end of the bar, and her eyes caught on the sight of Nic Beuve. Talk about another lost soul. His pain came from another place entirely, a place that only God and time could heal. No man should bury a child before him, but Nic had buried his only daughter a little over a year ago, and as time passed, he seemed no closer to forgiving himself for not being able to save her. No, no man or woman should bury a child; it’s not the natural order of things. It breaks a person, traps them in a state of loss so deep they sometimes can’t break free.Watching Nic, as he took another drink of whatever poison he needed to sleep at night, Maman Rose’s lips began to curl into a smile, that any wise man could see, she was up to something. Fortunately, for Nic, when he raised his eyes and found her smiling, he wasn’t in the mood to decipher the inner workings of a conniving old woman. If he had, he would have downed his drink, left the bar, and never come back.“I know that look,” Henri announced as he watched his boss grin the grin of a woman who had a plan. Henri looked behind him at what he figured was her latest victim, and saw Nic Beuve looking puzzled as they stared at each other.“What you got running through that evil mind of yours?”“Maman gonna kill two birds she is.”“Mebbe’ you should leave well enough alone,” Henri advised.“And mebbe’ you should get back to work and leave da’ fixin’ to me.”“You da’ boss.”“Till da’ day I die, and don’t you forget,” Maman Rose laughed and then slapped Henri on the back.Moving down the bar, feeling pretty darn good about her plan, Rose tossed a menu in front of Nic. His eyes dropped to the menu, and then looked back at the old woman. He didn’t want to eat; it would kill a perfectly good buzz. “Not hungry.”“Cher, you need to eat.”“Rosie, I need to drink.”Rose’s eyes softened as she leaned into the bar, her big bosom’s lying across the glossy wood. “What you need to do is forgive you,” she replied in her Cajun accent, rich with French flair, yet Americanized over time. Lifting the glass to his lips, and swallowing more of the smoky whisky that burned his throat, but took the edge of his anger and guilt, he placed the glass down as he rose from the stool.“C’est pas de ton affaire,” Nic replied.“Mon ami, you been comin’ here for years, and mebbe’ it’s not my b’nez how you deal wit’ your pain, but as your friend, no, I won’t sit by and watch you drink till you die.”“I’m not gonna drink until I die, I’ve got Nicky to think about, now let it go.”“No, Cher, I won’t. You did what you had to do, and it was right what you did for Chelsea. Forgive you and move past dis’ guilt.”“I’m not gonna talk about this again, Rosie. I’ll see you Thursday for crawfish,” Nic sighed as he threw bills on the bar and turned for the door.Picking up the menu she’d thrown on the bar and grabbing the empty glass that Nic had left, her eyes followed him as he shoved through the door. “We shall see, mon ami,” Maman Rose whispered as she watched Nic pass the window, “We shall see.” ***A man has a lot of time to think when he doesn’t sleep, but sleep would be a relief from the constant thoughts that plagued Nic’s mind. The overwhelming guilt he felt for his only daughter’s death meant he didn’t deserve those few hours of peace. No, he didn’t deserve peace with his baby gone from this world; he deserved far worse.A parent is supposed to protect their children, keep them safe, battle their demons real or imagined, until they spread their wings and fly. But, Chelsea had tried to fly too soon, and nothing he did stopped her from using drugs. Nic lay there thinking as he did every night, wondering where he went wrong. He thought how at fifteen, she became despondent, pulled away from him, fought with her mother and snuck out at night to meet friends. By sixteen, it was obvious she had problems that were far from normal teenage angst—then he’d found her stash of drugs and knew.Nic stared at the ceiling, the shadows from the fan blades spinning like a carousel as he lay there thinking. They gave him something to look at while he tried for the millionth time to figure out what had gone wrong. What had he missed? Why couldn’t he save his little girl?The only person who had those answers, he’d buried over a year ago, along with a piece of his heart. Blonde hair, big blue eyes and a smile that would melt your heart, Chelsea was daddy’s little girl—his heart and soul. Rolling to his side, her picture on his bedside table, Nic reached out and touched the frame.“Ma petite fille est gone,” Nic whispered to his daughter’s picture. Chelsea stared back at him with smiling eyes as she laughed at the camera. He’d taken that picture on her fourteenth birthday, and by her fifteenth, she was moody and had no need for what was left of their family. He and his wife had divorced two years prior, and Chelsea and his son Nicholas spent their time between two homes. In his heart, he knew the divorce had been the catalyst for her behavior. And if he could do it all again, he would have suffered through his wife’s midlife crisis, and the men she brought into their bed, if it would bring his daughter back. He’d worked long hours to provide for his wife, to keep her happy, but in the end, Kat had sought attention elsewhere. No house big enough, no wardrobe large enough had kept her faithful, and he’d walked away.“Mon Dieu.” Nic bit out, “Look what my pride has caused.”Closing his eyes, he thought back to the last time he’d seen his daughter alive. Thin, broken, angry that he’d put her into a rehab clinic for a month—she’d spat at him for leaving her there. He’d had no idea how bad her addiction was until he found her passed out in her room; a needle stuck in her arm. She’d spent three days in the hospital from that almost overdose, and then he packed her off to rehab, kicking and screaming the whole way. The last words out of her mouth had been “I hate you, Papa.” He knew she didn’t mean it they’d always been close, but at that moment, he figured she did. He’d given her that and told her “I know you do ‘tit ange, but Papa loves you even if you do.” Then he’d kissed her forehead and tried not to look back at her anguished face, but he had, and it killed him to see her that way.“It was for the best,” the doctors had said. “Private facility, one of the best in the country,” they’d told him, but his angel was smart, so smart. She’d found a way out, called a friend who had drugs and then she’d taken too much. After one week at the clinic, they’d called to say she’d escaped. Six hours of searching had ended with a knock at his door from the parish police, confirming his worst fears. His baby was gone. Breathing hard from the memories, his baby’s ashen face, relaxed in death, was forever etched in his mind. It drove pain, like a hot, sharp knife, into his chest with the faintest memory. He could see her lying on that cold metal table, and he’d wanted to fold her into a blanket, and wrap her in his arms like he did when she was a baby. Nic brought his fists to his eyes and tried to rub the vision away. “Jesus, how did this happen? How the fuck did I let this happen?” he asked the room. But, just like every night he laid in the dark, since his daughter’s death, the only answer he ever had was the same. He’d been working when he should have been watching.
Rain pelted the cobblestone streets of the French Quarter, forming pools of water, like little ponds, as rainbows of oil danced across their surface. The day’s heat, trapped in those stones, rose like a steam bath as the rain cooled the hot streets, making an already humid night, more so. There was a feeling to the night, thick and hungry, like an unseen power wielded its influence over the city. But, it was of no concern to Nic Beuve as he lit another cigarette, the last one barely extinguished. He welcomed the night—day only brought pain. Raising a glass of whisky to his mouth, he listened to the sounds of cars as they drove past, splashing water on those still out walking. The French Quarter never slept. Like a miniature New York, businesses opened early and bars stayed open late. Laissez le bon temps rouler—“Let the good times roll” was the Crescent Cities motto.Throwing back the rest of his drink, Nic scanned the back of the bar looking for Henri, the bartender. The night was still young, and he was still sober. The Bayou, a neighborhood bar, owned and operated by the same Cajun family for three generations, was Nic’s home away from home. Maman Rose, the current proprietor, took care of her customers and didn’t water down the drinks. Dark wood paneling hosted black and white photos of the swamps around Louisiana. Pictures of moss covered trees, a Heron standing in the shallows of a slow moving Acadian river, and Cypress trees, standing tall, surrounded by the black water like sentries of a forgotten time. The musty smell of the river, drifted in through the door, when another local walked in and sat down at the bar. When Henri came from the back, Nic raised his empty glass indicating he needed another round. Henri, a local Cajun, with black hair and a devilish smile the ladies fought over, nodded once showing he’d seen the request. Just another night of solitude and whiskey, to take away the bitter taste of loss, Nic thought. He couldn’t seem to shake this feeling and if he weren't careful, he’d spend the rest of his miserable life drinking away his pain. But, at that moment, he didn’t seem to care. ***Hope Delaney entered through the backdoor of The Bayou, her first day on the job as a cook. She’d looked for a position that kept her out of the public eye, somewhere to hide while earning a meager living. She’d come to New Orleans hoping to blend in, or preferably, vanish. Eyes down, as she entered the back, not wanting to make eye contact with anyone, just do the work she was hired to do, and then go back to the one room hole she called home. Maman Rose had hired her the day before, and she could have kissed the woman. She’d had some money when she’d slipped into the night, enough to keep her safe for a while, but now that money was gone. Desperate, out of money, and afraid she wouldn’t secure a job before her new landlord wanted another week's rent, she’d walked into The Bayou with the paper folded to the help-wanted section on a wing and a prayer. Unfortunately, she needed to be paid under the table, she couldn’t risk using her name or social security number, and that was always the hitch with an employer. Maman Rose, a big, boisterous Cajun woman, with coffee colored skin and a rich Cajun accent had seen through her immediately, knew she was on the run and took Hope under her wing. “Pauve ti bete,I don’t know what’s chasing you Cher, but Maman Rose will keep you safe,” Rose had replied while looking her up and down. Hope hadn’t answered the woman’s questioning eyes. Keep your head down, don’t look people in the eyes and they won’t remember you. Don’t stay long in one place, don’t make any friends, andbe ready to run at a moment’s notice. That had been Hope’s motto for the past three months. The air was thick with scents from the kitchen as she entered the back of the bar. Cajun spices wafted through the air like honeysuckle on a warm day back home. Each new town she’d lived in came with new and different smells. New Orleans came with the smells of magnolia flowers and spices so abundant that if you had an ounce of Cajun blood in you, you’d feel at home. Hope didn’t have a clue how to make Gumbo, Crawfish Étouffée or Shrimp Creole, but that didn’t stop Rose from hiring her. Tucking her hair into a hairnet, and throwing on a blue jacket Rose had given her to cook in; she entered the kitchen, and headed to the man Rose had introduced her to as Big Daddy. He stood well over six feet, and if she had to guess close to three hundred pounds. Somewhere in his fifties, from the looks of him, his caramel colored skin beaded in sweat from the heat of the kitchen, and his bald head was covered with a matching blue cap to keep the sweat from running down his face.“There she at,” Big Daddy smiled as Hope waited for instructions. He looked her up and down shaking his head. “Cheryou notin’ but skin and bones you. When it slows down, Big Daddy gonna feed you yes he is.”“Big Daddy that’s kind of you, but I can eat when I get home.”“Bebe, don’t tell me lies. You gonna eat while I stand over you, can’t have my kitchen staff fallin’ over from hunger. What dat’ say bout’ Big Daddy, pauve ti bete?” Hope nodded, knowing when she’d lose a fight, and since her last meal was stale bread that morning, she had to admit having a full stomach sounded like heaven. Big Daddy watched as Hope acquiesced and shook his head. Bon Dieu, Rose was right, he thought. She looked like she hadn’t eaten well in weeks, and the haunted look in her eyes told him they needed to keep an eye on this ‘tit ange. Maman Rose knew a lost soul when she saw one, and though this woman was in her late thirties, she was clearly lost. Moving to the vegetable station, Big Daddy dumped a basket of colorful vegetables into the sink for Hope to wash and then cut. Yellow corn, plump and juicy, red peppers, big and firm, and crisp green cucumbers all would be used in the meals that night. The corn would go in the crawfish boil, a favorite at The Bayou. Local Cajuns set traps and brought them fresh crawfish daily. His regulars could go through hundreds of pounds of them in one night.“Cher, I want you to start slow now. I know you don’t have experience wit’ Cajun cookin, so Big Daddy ain’t gonna rush you.”“Okay, Big Daddy, and thank you,” Hope answered, as a small smile crossed her lips.“Arrete sa petite fleur, we take care of our own, bebe.” Nodding again, Hope moved to the sink and started washing the vegetables, while worrying at her lip. How long would she be able to stay this time? A week? A month? He’d find her if she stayed too long, she knew that, he’d found her once already. Luckily, for Hope, she’d seen his man first and escaped. John was ruthless, always got what he wanted and he wanted Hope dead, and wouldn’t stop until she was. Ten years she’d endured abuse, scared if she left her husband he would kill her, scared if she didn’t leave he would. And she was right, he had tried to kill her, but now he couldn’t and she was determined to stay that way, or die trying.Standing at her workstation, listening to the rhythmic slice then pound of the knife hitting the cutting board, her mind drifted to an evening not long ago, when she’d been cutting vegetables for her own dinner. She’d never eaten that meal; it ended up on the floor of her kitchen, another victim of a violent temper. The loud crash of a pot landing on the floor, broke Hope from her chilling thoughts of abuse, and focused her thoughts back on her job. She had to concentrate; she couldn’t afford to lose a finger daydreaming, or in this case, a waking nightmare.Maman Rose watched Hope from behind the bar, the kitchen pass-thru giving her a view of the entire kitchen. She knew when she’d laid eyes on the woman she was running from something, or someone. Her own Chantelle had that same look when she’d come home to her Maman. A woman only looks like that when she flees for her life, and the way Hope had kept her eyes lowered, not making eye contact with anyone, not getting close, only answering with yes or no, Rose knew it had to be a man. Probably some no account fool, who thinks beating a woman until her soul is broken, and can’t remember what it’s like to breathe deep and feel safe, had no doubt taken a hand to her. It takes a soulless man to raise a fist to someone smaller, to control them with strength and temper, Rose thought.“Dieu, just look at her. Too thin, and jumps at da’ slightest noise she do.” If her eyes were better, Rose was sure she could see the poor woman tremble like a dog who’d been kicked. “Da’ man who’d raise his hand to dat’ ‘tit ange should have bad gris-griscast on his ‘tit boule,” Maman Rose mumbled to herself and slightly smiled at the thought of this unknown man’s balls shriveling to the size of a pea.“Bon Dieu, remind me not to piss you off,” Henri chuckled, watching the new woman with interest.“Mebbe’ you shouldn’t hound around so much if you don’t want your balls cursed,” Maman Rose laughed as she turned towards the bar, her eyes moving over her regulars. Frank, the auto repairman, who couldn’t keep a wife due to the fact he couldn’t stay away from bars, was seated in his regular spot enjoying a plate of Big Daddy’s crawfish. As the headlights of a car passed by the window, it illuminated the end of the bar, and her eyes caught on the sight of Nic Beuve. Talk about another lost soul. His pain came from another place entirely, a place that only God and time could heal. No man should bury a child before him, but Nic had buried his only daughter a little over a year ago, and as time passed, he seemed no closer to forgiving himself for not being able to save her. No, no man or woman should bury a child; it’s not the natural order of things. It breaks a person, traps them in a state of loss so deep they sometimes can’t break free.Watching Nic, as he took another drink of whatever poison he needed to sleep at night, Maman Rose’s lips began to curl into a smile, that any wise man could see, she was up to something. Fortunately, for Nic, when he raised his eyes and found her smiling, he wasn’t in the mood to decipher the inner workings of a conniving old woman. If he had, he would have downed his drink, left the bar, and never come back.“I know that look,” Henri announced as he watched his boss grin the grin of a woman who had a plan. Henri looked behind him at what he figured was her latest victim, and saw Nic Beuve looking puzzled as they stared at each other.“What you got running through that evil mind of yours?”“Maman gonna kill two birds she is.”“Mebbe’ you should leave well enough alone,” Henri advised.“And mebbe’ you should get back to work and leave da’ fixin’ to me.”“You da’ boss.”“Till da’ day I die, and don’t you forget,” Maman Rose laughed and then slapped Henri on the back.Moving down the bar, feeling pretty darn good about her plan, Rose tossed a menu in front of Nic. His eyes dropped to the menu, and then looked back at the old woman. He didn’t want to eat; it would kill a perfectly good buzz. “Not hungry.”“Cher, you need to eat.”“Rosie, I need to drink.”Rose’s eyes softened as she leaned into the bar, her big bosom’s lying across the glossy wood. “What you need to do is forgive you,” she replied in her Cajun accent, rich with French flair, yet Americanized over time. Lifting the glass to his lips, and swallowing more of the smoky whisky that burned his throat, but took the edge of his anger and guilt, he placed the glass down as he rose from the stool.“C’est pas de ton affaire,” Nic replied.“Mon ami, you been comin’ here for years, and mebbe’ it’s not my b’nez how you deal wit’ your pain, but as your friend, no, I won’t sit by and watch you drink till you die.”“I’m not gonna drink until I die, I’ve got Nicky to think about, now let it go.”“No, Cher, I won’t. You did what you had to do, and it was right what you did for Chelsea. Forgive you and move past dis’ guilt.”“I’m not gonna talk about this again, Rosie. I’ll see you Thursday for crawfish,” Nic sighed as he threw bills on the bar and turned for the door.Picking up the menu she’d thrown on the bar and grabbing the empty glass that Nic had left, her eyes followed him as he shoved through the door. “We shall see, mon ami,” Maman Rose whispered as she watched Nic pass the window, “We shall see.” ***A man has a lot of time to think when he doesn’t sleep, but sleep would be a relief from the constant thoughts that plagued Nic’s mind. The overwhelming guilt he felt for his only daughter’s death meant he didn’t deserve those few hours of peace. No, he didn’t deserve peace with his baby gone from this world; he deserved far worse.A parent is supposed to protect their children, keep them safe, battle their demons real or imagined, until they spread their wings and fly. But, Chelsea had tried to fly too soon, and nothing he did stopped her from using drugs. Nic lay there thinking as he did every night, wondering where he went wrong. He thought how at fifteen, she became despondent, pulled away from him, fought with her mother and snuck out at night to meet friends. By sixteen, it was obvious she had problems that were far from normal teenage angst—then he’d found her stash of drugs and knew.Nic stared at the ceiling, the shadows from the fan blades spinning like a carousel as he lay there thinking. They gave him something to look at while he tried for the millionth time to figure out what had gone wrong. What had he missed? Why couldn’t he save his little girl?The only person who had those answers, he’d buried over a year ago, along with a piece of his heart. Blonde hair, big blue eyes and a smile that would melt your heart, Chelsea was daddy’s little girl—his heart and soul. Rolling to his side, her picture on his bedside table, Nic reached out and touched the frame.“Ma petite fille est gone,” Nic whispered to his daughter’s picture. Chelsea stared back at him with smiling eyes as she laughed at the camera. He’d taken that picture on her fourteenth birthday, and by her fifteenth, she was moody and had no need for what was left of their family. He and his wife had divorced two years prior, and Chelsea and his son Nicholas spent their time between two homes. In his heart, he knew the divorce had been the catalyst for her behavior. And if he could do it all again, he would have suffered through his wife’s midlife crisis, and the men she brought into their bed, if it would bring his daughter back. He’d worked long hours to provide for his wife, to keep her happy, but in the end, Kat had sought attention elsewhere. No house big enough, no wardrobe large enough had kept her faithful, and he’d walked away.“Mon Dieu.” Nic bit out, “Look what my pride has caused.”Closing his eyes, he thought back to the last time he’d seen his daughter alive. Thin, broken, angry that he’d put her into a rehab clinic for a month—she’d spat at him for leaving her there. He’d had no idea how bad her addiction was until he found her passed out in her room; a needle stuck in her arm. She’d spent three days in the hospital from that almost overdose, and then he packed her off to rehab, kicking and screaming the whole way. The last words out of her mouth had been “I hate you, Papa.” He knew she didn’t mean it they’d always been close, but at that moment, he figured she did. He’d given her that and told her “I know you do ‘tit ange, but Papa loves you even if you do.” Then he’d kissed her forehead and tried not to look back at her anguished face, but he had, and it killed him to see her that way.“It was for the best,” the doctors had said. “Private facility, one of the best in the country,” they’d told him, but his angel was smart, so smart. She’d found a way out, called a friend who had drugs and then she’d taken too much. After one week at the clinic, they’d called to say she’d escaped. Six hours of searching had ended with a knock at his door from the parish police, confirming his worst fears. His baby was gone. Breathing hard from the memories, his baby’s ashen face, relaxed in death, was forever etched in his mind. It drove pain, like a hot, sharp knife, into his chest with the faintest memory. He could see her lying on that cold metal table, and he’d wanted to fold her into a blanket, and wrap her in his arms like he did when she was a baby. Nic brought his fists to his eyes and tried to rub the vision away. “Jesus, how did this happen? How the fuck did I let this happen?” he asked the room. But, just like every night he laid in the dark, since his daughter’s death, the only answer he ever had was the same. He’d been working when he should have been watching.
June 20, 2014
First review 5 Stars!!!
I got my first review back today. It hasn't posted yet on their blog, so I can't link you to it for a couple of weeks, but I was thrilled. What I'm most proud of isn't the 5 stars Restoring Hope earned, but that the reviewer thought the story line and characters were exceptional...I worked very hard on this book to give you lots of layers and depth. From the description of the streets, to the green moss of the Bayou, as well as characters that made you think and a story line that will hit home for many. As a writer, I want to keep pushing myself to create books that are well rounded and entertaining, but also, in some ways, give inspiration or advice. Restoring Hope is about redemption, about the power of love, but most importantly for me, it's about not quitting. People will try and hold you down or tear you apart, but they have no power over you unless you allow it. I found that out the hard way, and when I picked myself up off the floor, I began writing. For Nic and Hope, they discovered that life might beat you down with heartache, but with love, patience and good people around you, you can overcome or learn to deal with anything.
June 17, 2014
Meet Maman Rose. Nosy Cajun and beloved boss of Hope Delaney
Meet Maman Rose. Nosy Cajun and beloved boss of Hope Delaney
