Emilie Richards's Blog, page 100

Fiction Friday: Sign On to Sign Off

Welcome to Fiction Friday, my opportunity each week to post an excerpt from one of my own books or those of my friends and colleagues.

Today’s excerpt is from my good friend and former neighbor, Patricia McLinn, who convinced me some years ago that her neighborhood in Arlington, VA was a wonderful place to live.  She was right.  Now both of us have moved away, but luckily we see each other at conferences and have email to keep us connected.

When Patricia told me she was writing a mystery series, I waited excitedly for a peek at the first book.  I knew I would love it, and I did.  So today we’ll share Sign Off with you. The second book, Left Hanging, came out in June, and it’s on my wish list to perk up my post-holiday slump.  Once again, can’t wait.

Here’s what Patricia has to say about herself:

USA Today bestselling author Patricia McLinn’s 30-plus novels are cited by reviewers for warmth, wit, and vivid characterization. In addition to her romance and women’s fiction books, Patricia is the author of the “Caught Dead in Wyoming” mystery series, which adds touches of humor and romance to figuring out whodunit. 

Her journalism career included being a sports writer, assistant sports editor, and — for 20-plus years — an editor at the Washington Post. She is now living in Northern Kentucky, and writing full-time. Patricia loves to hear from readers through her website, Facebook and Twitter.

 And here’s a bit about Sign Off to get you started:

Elizabeth “E.M.” Danniher’s career as a top TV news reporter has crash-landed — courtesy of her vindictive ex — at tiny KWMT-TV in Sherman, Wyoming. So what next? Try to return to the life she’d known?  Give up news while cashing in on her name? Or something entirely different? And what of her personal life? … Wait, what personal life?

As she wrestles with these issues, a little girl named Tamantha Burrell approaches her and proclaims that Elizabeth will help her. Her problem? Her daddy’s being tried in the court of public opinion after the disappearance of Cottonwood County sheriff’s deputy Foster Redus.

Abetted by colleague Mike Paycik, Elizabeth delves into the case, bringing her to the point where she … well, let Elizabeth tell you:

Driving into the hinterlands of Wyoming to interview an alleged murderer alone, in a car that came no closer to four-wheel drive than having four tires, wouldn’t qualify as one of the smarter things I’ve done. Unfortunately, it doesn’t qualify as the stupidest either.

Got your attention now?  I’m delighted.  Here’s the excerpt.  Enjoy.

******

“Mr. Burrell? I’d like to speak to you.”

“I’m busy.”

Against the crisp smell of vegetation fed by the creek, the pungent scent of cut logs pricked my nostrils. The chainsaw he’d apparently used to section the trunk to fireplace-sized lengths was off to a side with safety glasses beside it. Sawdust covered the ground and stirred with each motion. Even a spider’s web laced between two saplings at the edge of the creek held grains of it like a doily dotted with tarnished glitter. Around the stump he used as a splitting platform, chips littered the ground. On the other side grew a stack of fresh-split logs with not a stick out of place.

A man who didn’t mind making a mess if the result was orderly.

He cleaved a quarter-round of log into a pair of perfect wedges, laid both on the pile, snagged his shirt and started toward me.

I sure wished he’d left the ax behind.

I swallowed as he neared. If Tamantha was wrong about her father, it was going to be very sad for her, but it could be damned tragic for me.

Those kinds of thoughts can slow your mind. So it had almost happened before I realized he intended to walk right past me and into the house. Rushing to stop him, I used what had been my best weapon for most of my life–words. “I’m E.M. Danniher, Mr. Burrell, with–”

“I know who you are.” He stopped just beyond me, turning his head.

“Oh. Well, you might not know that Tamantha–”

“You stay away from my daughter.”

I would if I could. I was tempted to say it, but the straight, narrow line of his mouth didn’t encourage that bit of honesty. “Tamantha came to me and–”

“I don’t care. Stay away from her.”

He turned, rested the ax against the railing and went up the two steps to the deck. Just as I was sure he was about to slam the door on me, he turned back.

“And quit nosing into my life. Quit asking questions about me.”

Of all the unfair accusations–

“I haven’t asked questions about you. I’ve asked about Foster Redus, but I can’t shut people up about you.” I moved to the bottom of the steps, looking up at him. “For some reason they seem to connect you and Redus.”

That one hit. I was glad, until I saw that it made him all the more dangerous. “So, you came to see the scene of the crime?”

“No.”

“Wanted to see a murderer for yourself, then?”

I was fed up. “No, I came to see the person Tamantha believes in. But all I see is someone who doesn’t care what this might be doing to his daughter.”

Silence. The sort of silence where your own words echo at you like a taunt. He narrowed his eyes. “That little speech supposed to make me break down and say I’ll tell you anything you want to know for my daughter’s sake?”

I stared right back at him. Me and Admiral Farragut damning those torpedoes and steaming full-speed ahead.

“Of course it was supposed to do that. Would anybody say something that sappy if it wasn’t supposed to break you down?”

 *******

Sign off is available at your favorite local bookstore as well as Amazon, B&N, Belle Bridge Books and BAM.  

Wave Hello As I Drive By

Today I’m traveling home from a family Thanksgiving celebration in Virginia, but Southern Exposure will be back next Tuesday.

Meantime, I want to congratulate the winners of my 5 in 2013 giveaway.

Sharon, Chelsea and Lynn all won and received autographed copies of my five books that came out in paperback this year, Wedding Ring, Endless Chain, and Lover’s Knot, all reissues of my Shenandoah Album series. Also first editions of Somewhere Between Luck and Trust, the second of my Goddesses Anonymous series, and The Christmas Wedding Quilt, with co-authors Janice Kay Johnson and Sarah Mayberry.

Don’t forget that everyone who takes the time to give their opinion about my website (details here) will be entered in a new drawing for one copy of The Christmas Wedding Quilt. More than a dozen of you have already been remarkably generous with your time and insights, and I’ll let random.org choose a winner at week’s end.

Thanks to all.

Sunday Inspiration: “Unplug the Christmas Machine”

The Christmas Machine has this power over us because it knows how to woo us; it speaks to the deepest, profoundest, and most sacred desires of the human heart. If it appeared as a monster, we would rise up and stop it.

But the commercial messages of Christmas appear as promises that bring tears to our eyes. Look at the bounty we are promised by the December magazines and the glowing Christmas commercials:

Our families will be together and be happy.

Our children will be well-behaved and grateful.

Our wives will be beautiful and nurturing.

Our husbands will be kind, generous, and appreciative.

We will have enough money.

We will have enough time.

We will have fun.

We will be warm.

We will be safe.

We will be truly loved.

No wonder we stop, we listen, and we want to believe. The problem comes when we buy into the notion that what we long for can be procured by the buying and selling of goods.

- from “Unplug the Christmas Machine” by Jo Robinson and Jean Coppock Staeheli

Advent is the religious beginning of the Christmas season, though commercially the holiday season begins earlier and earlier every year — can you believe so many stores are now open on Thanksgiving day? 

Advent is a time to prepare ourselves spiritually for the joy and hope of Christmas, and one way to do that is to adjust our expectations.

How can we let go of our perfectionism and get in touch with the true spirit of the holidays, the love that brings us together to work for a better world?

How can you unplug the Christmas Machine this season?

Fiction Friday: An Old-Fashioned Thanksgiving by Louisa May Alcott

Welcome to Fiction Friday, my opportunity each week to post an excerpt from one of my own books or those of my friends and colleagues.

Today we have a special treat, an excerpt from a short story written in 1882 by Louisa May Alcott (beloved author of Little Women) and republished by Berkley in 1995.  A Hallmark movie “based on the story” aired in 2010, but “based on the story” is used in its widest sense.

Would I leave you with only the introduction to this Thanksgiving tale?  Absolutely not.  If this snippet captures your interest, then you can finish the story here.  It’s short and easy to read online.  Share with your kids and grandkids.  Maybe they would like to take turns reading it out loud with you.

So take it away, Louisa May, and happy day-after-our-U.S.-Thanksgiving to everyone near and far.

*********

November, 1881 

SIXTY YEARS AGO, up among the New Hampshire hills, lived Farmer Bassett, with a houseful of sturdy sons and daughters growing up about him. They were poor in money, but rich in land and love, for the wide acres of wood, corn, and pasture land fed, warmed, and clothed the flock, while mutual patience, affection, and courage made the old farmhouse a very happy home. 

November had come; the crops were in, and barn, buttery, and bin were overflowing with the harvest that rewarded the summer’s hard work. The big kitchen was a jolly place just now, for in the great fireplace roared a cheerful fire; on the walls hung garlands of dried apples, onions, and corn; up aloft from the beams shone crook-necked squashes, juicy hams, and dried venison–for in those days deer still haunted the deep forests, and hunters flourished. Savory smells were in the air; on the crane hung steaming kettles, and down among the red embers copper saucepans simmered, all suggestive of some approaching feast. 

A white-headed baby lay in the old blue cradle that had rocked six other babies, now and then lifting his head to look out, like a round, full moon, then subsided to kick and crow contentedly, and suck the rosy apple he had no teeth to bite. Two small boys sat on the wooden settle shelling corn for popping, and picking out the biggest nuts from the goodly store their own hands had gathered in October. Four young girls stood at the long dresser, busily chopping meat, pounding spice, and slicing apples; and the tongues of Tilly, Prue, Roxy, and Rhody went as fast as their hands. Farmer Bassett, and Eph, the oldest boy, were “chorin’ ’round” outside, for Thanksgiving was at hand, and all must be in order for that time-honored day. 

To and fro, from table to hearth, bustled buxom Mrs. Bassett, flushed and floury, but busy and blithe as the queen bee of this busy little hive should be. 

“I do like to begin seasonable and have things to my mind. Thanksgivin’ dinners can’t be drove, and it does take a sight of victuals to fill all these hungry stomicks,” said the good woman, as she gave a vigorous stir to the great kettle of cider applesauce, and cast a glance of housewifely pride at the fine array of pies set forth on the buttery shelves. 

“Only one more day and then it will be the time to eat. I didn’t take but one bowl of hasty pudding this morning, so I shall have plenty of room when the nice things come,” confided Seth to Sol, as he cracked a large hazelnut as easily as a squirrel. 

“No need of my starvin’ beforehand. I always have room enough, and I’d like to have Thanksgiving every day,” answered Solomon, gloating like a young ogre over the little pig that lay near by, ready for roasting. 

“Sakes alive, I don’t, boys! It’s a marcy it don’t come but once a year. I should be worn to a thread paper with all this extra work atop of my winter weavin’ and spinnin’,” laughed their mother, as she plunged her plump arms into the long bread trough and began to knead the dough as if a famine were at hand. 

Tilly, the oldest girl, a red-cheeked, black-eyed lass of fourteen, was grinding briskly at the mortar, for spices were costly, and not a grain must be wasted. Prue kept time with the chopper, and the twins sliced away at the apples till their little brown arms ached, for all knew how to work, and did so now with a will. 

“I think it’s real fun to have Thanksgiving at home. I’m sorry Gran’ma is sick, so we can’t go there as usual, but I like to mess ’round here, don’t you, girls?” asked Tilly, pausing to take a sniff at the spicy pestle. 

“It will be kind of lonesome with only our own folks.” “I like to see all the cousins and aunts, and have games, and sing,” cried the twins, who were regular little romps, and could run, swim, coast, and shout as well as their brothers.

Enjoy the remainder of the story here.  

Have a Happy and Memorable Thanksgiving

As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them. – John Fitzgerald Kennedy

If the only prayer you said in your whole life was, “thank you,” that would suffice. – Meister Eckhart

On Thanksgiving Day we acknowledge our dependence. – William Jennings Bryan

***

This holiday I give thanks for all of you who take the time to read my blog and books.  Thanks, too, for your kind emails and comments all through the year.  May your Thanksgiving holiday be filled with joy, laughter and the love of family.  If you’re far from home or the season is a difficult one for you, I hope you find comfort and love with new friends and acquaintances and with memories of good times past.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Sunday Inspiration: “Let us give thanks for a bounty of people…”

Prayer “Let Us Give Thanks” by Max Coots

Let us give thanks for a bounty of people:

For children who are our second planting, and, though they grow like weeds and the wind too soon blows them away, may they forgive us our cultivation and fondly remember where their roots are.

Let us give thanks:

For generous friends … with hearts … and smiles as bright as their blossoms;

For feisty friends as tart as apples;

For continuous friends, who, like scallions and cucumbers, keep reminding us that we’ve had them;

For crotchety friends, as sour as rhubarb and as indestructible;

For handsome friends, who are as gorgeous as eggplants and as elegant as a row of corn, and the others, as plain as potatoes and as good for you;

For funny friends, who are as silly as Brussels sprouts and as amusing as Jerusalem artichokes, and serious friends, as complex as cauliflowers and as intricate as onions;

For friends as unpretentious as cabbages, as subtle as summer squash, as persistent as parsley, as delightful as dill, as endless as zucchini, and who, like parsnips, can be counted on to see you throughout the winter;

For old friends, nodding like sunflowers in the evening-time, and young friends coming on as fast as radishes;

For loving friends, who wind around us like tendrils and hold us, despite our blights, wilts, and witherings;

And, finally, for those friends now gone, like gardens past that have been harvested, and who fed us in their times that we might have life thereafter;

For all these we give thanks. Amen.

*****

Rev. Max Coots, a Unitarian Universalist minister who served the Canton, NY, church for 34 years before his death, wrote this delightful prayer that so well captures the spirit of Thanksgiving.

Which fruit or vegetable do your friends resemble?

Who are you thankful for this holiday?

Who has given you life and love and laughter and a shoulder to lean on?

Don’t forget to tell those people how thankful you are for their friendship — you might even want to send them this poem.

Happy Thanksgiving friends!

Fiction Friday: The April Tree

Welcome to Fiction Friday, my opportunity each week to post an excerpt from one of my own books or those of my friends and colleagues.

Today’s novel is from a long-time friend, Judith Arnold. Judith and I have been in the book biz together for a long time, and I’ve always especially enjoyed her wit and wisdom, along with her writing. The April Tree, today’s excerpt, is Judith’s book of the heart, and quite honestly, its publication slipped right by me. So no more. Because today I get to feature it here. Read along with me, but first, Judith’s own words about her very special novel.

********

When Judith Arnold was twelve, her best friend died suddenly and unexpectedly. For years afterward, she wrestled not just with the grief of losing someone she loved but also with questions about why bad things happen, how–or if–we can make sense of events that truly make no sense, and how we can overcome our sorrows to find meaning and joy in life. THE APRIL TREE grew out of that painful experience. In it, a senseless accident causes the death of April Walden and plunges her three best friends and a young man into a search for comfort, purpose, and inspiration. Becky wraps herself in a protective cloak of obsessions, performing anxious rituals at the base of the red maple tree under which April died. Elyse dives into a high-risk life, trying to honor April by doing everything April died too young to experience. Florie turns to fundamentalist Christianity as a wall that might shield her from reality. Mark spirals downward into substance abuse and self-loathing, until April’s three friends find new meaning for their lives by trying to save him. A USA Today bestselling, award winning author, Judith Arnold considers THE APRIL TREE the book of her heart–and of her soul.

********

She rested her head against the tree’s textured bark and closed her eyes. “April died in May,” she whispered, smiling at the pun. “April, April, died in May. She was here, and then she went away. Here last week but gone today.”

She wondered how the rhyme would sound translated into Hebrew. Or Latin. The only foreign language she knew was Spanish, and she was not pleased when she laboriously translated the poem in her mind: Abril, murio en mayo. Ella estaba aqui, ye luega ella se fue. Aqui la semana pasada, pero hoy ha ido. No rhyme, no rhythm. Maybe she should have signed up for French instead of Spanish.

She knew intuitively that French wouldn’t work, either. She needed to invent a new language. Something that could translate the illogical into the logical, the way math translated a numerical formula into a curve on a graph. She needed a formula to translate April’s death into a shape she could recognize and understand.

A breeze rippled the air. Above her the leaves shifted, causing the sunlight to dance in dots of white where it reached the ground.

A ritual. A language and a ritual, and this day, this week, this unfathomable loss would all make sense.

April, April died in May, she mouthed. Her throat was dry and the midday heat felt like starched cloth on her skin, arid and abrasive. She should walk home and get something to drink.

But she couldn’t leave the tree until she figured something out.

Ritual and language. That was what people went to church for, wasn’t it? Becky needed her own rituals, her own language. April’s death demanded it.

She traced the rise of the tree’s root, like a thick varicose vein bulging against the earth’s skin. Where it rose high enough to break through the dirt, she poked with her finger until she’d dug a small hollow under the root.

“Here I bury the sacred butts,” she murmured, pulling the discarded cigarette butts from her pocket and stuffing them into the hole. They were symbols of death, signifiers that fate could discard a real, live, wonderful girl as easily as assholes discarded their cigarette stubs. Once Becky had buried them, they would exist forever in this tiny hole beneath the tree’s root.

Unless they biodegraded, in which case they’d rejoin the earth like April’s ashes.

One way or another, they were here. A part of this—this thing Becky was doing.

April, April died in May.

She murmured the words as she patted dirt around the cigarette butts, covering the hole.

April, April died in May.

The words struck Becky as more meaningful than any of the inanities the minister had uttered at First Parish, all that crap about love, love, love. The congregation might as well have started singing Beatles songs. Say love enough times and it loses its meaning. Say it enough times and the word itself starts sounding strange and curt and silly.

April, April died in May. Becky’s own prayer. Blunt. Factual. Honest. Leaving no escape, no comfort. Becky would choose truth over comfort, any day.

********

 The April Tree is available at your favorite local bookstore as well as Amazon, B&N, BAM online and Belle Bridge Books.

Website Dos and Don’ts. I Really Want to Know

Today I’m asking for your feedback and help. After promising I would soon update my website, I’m finally getting around to the nuts and bolts. The decisions are going to make me “nuts” and while I’m not going to “bolt.” I might consider it a time or two in the months to come.

My website is now almost ten years old, as is the photo on the homepage. Everything in my life is different, and technology has come such a long way it’s past time to revamp. Actually my webmaster, a great guy named Steve, has been remarkably patient but firm. Time to move on, Steve says, and Steve is right.

Do you have time to check my current website? It won’t be hard. Scroll up to the top of this blog and click on “Home” to the left of my photo with Nemo. You’ll go right to my website, where you can play to your heart’s content. Or you can click right here to get there, too.

When you visit, I have a few questions for you to consider. And if you would take the time to comment here and answer, I would be most appreciative. In fact as a thank-you, one lucky commenter will receive a copy of The Christmas Wedding Quilt. It could be you. Random.org will choose a winner after the U.S. Thanksgiving holidays.

Any feedback you would like to give me will be gratefully accepted, but here are a few questions to consider as you look. Take a minute, take an hour. Whatever you have to say will be helpful.

How easy is the site to figure out? Do you know from looking at the homepage where information can be found?
Are you confused by the drop down menus at the top? (Books, News etc.) Do you understand how to use them? 
What pages interest you most?
What pages interest you least?
If you click on any book cover, you receive lots of information: Overview, Inspiration, Recipes, Praise, Reader’s Guide, Excerpt. Are you surprised to learn all that information is available?
I’m considering a new category called Extras. Among other things “Extras” will have contest/giveaway information, and the recipes that are now on each book page to make them easier to find. Can you think of anything else “extra” you might like to see?
Would you like to see a Goddesses Anonymous category with links to articles about people who make a difference, inspirational quotes, perhaps some pages about characters with photos? Would you be likely to visit those pages?

Well, that was more than a few questions. Please answer any or all, it’s up to you. But if you notice something else you like or don’t with my present site, please comment on that, too, or instead.

Many thanks for taking time to visit the site and make suggestions. And don’t forget one commenter will receive The Christmas Wedding Quilt.

Sunday Inspiration: “We must find time…”

This week is the 50th anniversary of John F. Kennedy’s assassination.

All of us who are old enough probably remember where we were and what we were doing when we heard the terrible news of his death.

And we probably remember what a painful time it was for our country.

Here are some of his own words as a tribute, words that reveal his positive outlook on life in spite of all his personal difficulties and the challenges that faced him as president.

I am grateful for his leadership and for all those who continue to make a difference in our lives.

Fiction Friday: You Cannoli Be Glad You Read This Author

Welcome to Fiction Friday, my opportunity each week to post an excerpt from one of my own books or those of my friends and colleagues.

Today’s excerpt comes from Shelley Costa, another of my brainstorming partners.  Shelley was a friend of Casey’s and she’s one of those people you like immediately.  I’m so glad to know her now and to enjoy  her wit and wisdom.

I’ll let Shelley introduce herself and the first mystery in her new series, You Cannoli Die Once.

******

A 2004 Edgar nominee for Best Short Story, Shelley Costa is the author of You Cannoli Die Once (Simon and Schuster 2013). The second in the series, Basil Instinct, comes out in June 2014. Her mystery stories have appeared in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Blood on Their Hands,The World’s Finest Mystery and Crime Stories, and Crimewave (UK). Shelley teaches creative writing at the Cleveland Institute of Art. Find her at www.shelleycosta.com.

You know you’re in good hands here, right?  Here’s what Shelley says about the novel and the series it lauches.

At Miracolo Northern Italian restaurant, one can savor brilliantly seasoned veal saltimbocca, or luscious risotto alla milanese, young head chef Eve Angelotta routinely butts heads with Maria Pia, her grandmother who owns the Philadelphia-area eatery that’s been in their family for four generations.  Fortunately, Eve knows how to handle what her nonna dishes out.  And her cooking cousins do pretty well, too.  But it’s one thing to argue over whether they can put the Sicilian treat cannoli on the specials board (Maria Pia absolutely forbids it), and quite another thing altogether when murder turns up on the menu.  There’s nothing quite like a sudden and unexpected corpse in your upscale Italian restaurant to bring families together.  And along with  a sexy neighborhood attorney, the wait staff, and other neighboring shopkeepers, the entire Miracolo family tries every trick in the cookbook to unravel a tangle of lies and expose a killer.

I’m hooked, how about you?  Let’s read the excerpt, to reel it in.  In this early scene, Eve’s the first to arrive at Miracolo Restaurant one morning, soon to be followed by her beloved cousin and sous chef, Landon.  She stumbles upon a body. . .

Enjoy!

******

The guy’s lifeless face had a kind of hard, rubbery look, like one of those medicine balls at the gym, a place that hadn’t seen my sweat pants in almost a year.  His eyes were glazed, like he was trying to look out from behind frosted glass.  And his mouth was frozen in a look that seemed to say, Well, now, I’m not sure this is quite what I had in mind for today, May 27th.

One thing for sure: I didn’t know him.

Had never seen him.

This was, needless to say, an immense relief.

So why were my hands still shaking?

“‘Someone’s in the kitchen with E-e-eve,’” sang out Landon.  “‘– someone’s in the kitchen, I know-oh-oh-oh,’” and then he flipped on all the overhead lights.  Bright lights didn’t make Mr. Medicine Ball look any better.  Maybe Landon would get so busy checking out his moussed brown hair in the mirror that he’d fail to notice our guest.

He shrieked.

Apparently, the mousse was insufficiently interesting.

Landon’s shriek filled the space, which is really saying something considering even our Nonna’s opera CDs, cranked up to the max, can’t.

“Landon, Landon, calm down.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down.”  His eyes looked wild.

“Stop shrieking,” I said, grabbing his arms.

Landon was wearing a turquoise unitard under the regulation black pants that’s part of the Miracolo “look.”  He’s got a Tuesday morning theater dance class in Philly, where he signs in as Landon Michaels, his hopeful stage name.  But at this particular moment he looked like he couldn’t remember any of his names.

I pointed to the only one of the three of us who resembled furniture.  “Can we focus, please?”

He ventured a few steps toward me.  “Who’s the poor unfortunate?”

“I don’t have any idea.  He was here when I arrived.”

He sucked in about a quart of air and then jiggled his fingers, mutely.

“What?” I whirled.

“There’s the – the – weapon.”

“Where?”

And then I saw it.  About a foot away from the body was the black marble mortar I use for grinding spices.  I heroically thrust out an arm to hold Landon back, as if the mortar was capable of independent movement.

“Well,” I said sagely, “that changes things.  It means, Landon,” I intoned, “he wasn’t dumped here.”

“He wasn’t?”

“No.  He was killed here,”  I announced, violating my own rule about not speaking with authority about anything I’m clueless about, which pretty much sets me apart from the rest of the family.

I sent Landon out front to call 9-1-1 and to leave informing our grandmother, Maria Pia, to me.  If I delegated that to him, Landon and the Nonna we had in common could together give hysteria a bad name.

I stepped away from what Landon had called the poor unfortunate, wondering how he – and his killer – had gotten into our fine Italian restaurant.  Northern Italian, as my Nonna  would say in that superior way even old age can’t dampen.  Although – here I stroked my chin reflectively – I was tempted to let her come sashaying into the kitchen the way she did every day to enjoy our habitual argument over the specials.

One glance at the poster boy for What Not To Do With a Mortar and Pestle might be all it would take to get Maria Pia out of my hair once and for all. . .

***

Look for You Cannoli Die Once at your favorite local bookstore or online at Amazon, B&N, or BAM.