Release party excerpt & giveaway: WE INTERRUPT THIS DATE by L.C. Evans
Since her divorce a year ago, Susan Caraway has gone through the motions of life. Now she is finally coming out of her shell. Just when she decides on a makeover and a new career, her family members decide she's crisis central. First there's her sister DeLorean who has come back from California with a baby, a designer dog, and no prospects for child support or a job. As soon as DeLorean settles in at Susan's home, Susan's son Christian returns from college trailing what Susan's mama refers to as "an androgynous little tart." Then there's Mama herself, a southern lady who wrote the book on bossy. A secret from Mama's past threatens to unravel her own peace. But not before Mama hurts her ankle and has to move into Susan's home with her babies—two Chihuahuas with attitude. Susan would like to start her new job as a ghost tour operator. She would like to renew her relationship with Jack Maxwell, a man from her past. But Jack isn't going to stand in line behind her needy family.
Chapter One
If I'd had the sense to say no to Mama, I'd be safely at work right now contemplating the passage of time on the clock over my desk. I'd be planning a quiet celebration of the one-year anniversary of my divorce from T. Chandler Caraway, cheater and emotional abuse expert. Instead I was clomping along the sidewalk of a busy Charleston street wishing there were such a thing as parental divorce.
"Walk more slowly, Susan. I do not have long legs like yours to take such giant steps. And please brighten up your expression. Do you know that if you smile when you walk it will automatically improve your mood?"
"Yes, Mama. I believe you've mentioned that before."
A few thousand times. I wondered if fake smiles counted. Going by my current mood, I doubted it.
My mother hadn't stopped talking about my shortcomings and my need to plunge back into the dating world since the moment we'd stepped out the door of her condo. And now we were on our way back to my car after a morning spent in her doctor's office. I sidestepped a herd of tourists and pasted on my blandest isn't-it-a-beautiful-day smile.
Mama leaned closer and traced one finger down my forearm, lighting up a thousand nerves. I jumped as if she'd poked me with a cattle prod.
"You're already forty and not getting a moment younger. Shall I tell Stanley you're interested?" She wore one of those mood-lifting smiles she was always recommending for me.
Resisting a childish urge to throw a fit, I increased my pace, nearly mowing down a touristy-looking couple trying to access the door to a trendy King Street restaurant.
"I declare, you are nothing but rude." Mama lunged, caught the back of my blouse in her fist, and hauled me to a stop.
I yanked my blouse out of her grasp and ground my teeth so hard it felt like I was about to snap off one of my best molars. "Mama, I love you, but the answer is no. I do not need to energize my social life by going out with guys you dredge up for me. By the way, men named Stanley do not make good dates."
"Stanley is a wonderful man. I met him at Sunday School." Since her retirement a few months ago, Sunday School was my mother's main social outlet. She'd already introduced me to two of her fellow Bible Studiers—a widower closer to her age than mine and Clive, a short, intense fellow who'd asked me if I thought pythons should be allowed as pets in apartment buildings.
"And Stanley is so kind, so devoted to his mama."
"I'll bet. Does he wear a polka dot bow tie and part his hair in the middle?"
"You are unfair and biased and plain silly. Let's have lunch and we'll talk about it."
"Of course I am. Unfair, I mean. As well as biased against all men you find for me. And you, Mama, are taking your sweet time as if we have all day to spend discussing this person you found at church when you know I have to get back to work."
I tried to nudge Mama forward. She displayed all the mobility of a two-ton rock, no doubt still caught up in her fantasy of me strolling hand in hand along the harbor with Stanley-of-the-church.
"I've so looked forward to a nice chat over lunch. Why do you think I insisted we park near East Bay, even though it's so far out of our way?"
"I don't know, Mama. To annoy me?"
"Don't be hateful. You know Magnolias does those fabulous crab cake sandwiches and, I declare, their tomato bisque is exquisite." Her eyes darkened from sky blue to twilight in the shade cast by the brim of the sun hat perched on top of her over-sprayed, apricot-colored hair. "My treat?"
"I've already made a lunch date with Veronica." As it happened, my friend Veronica and I were meeting at SNOB, also on East Bay.
I'd no sooner gotten the words out, then Mama put a pincer grip on my arm. Her "my daughter is up to something" radar had a hair trigger.
"Veronica Howell? You haven't seen her in months. What's going on?"
"Nothing." I pulled my arm out of her clutches and rubbed the circulation back. "So I haven't seen her for two months. That's not exactly dropping the friendship. Besides, we phone each other every couple of weeks. Don't you like Veronica?"
Her liking or disliking Veronica was not the point. I was simply redirecting her thoughts so she wouldn't keep trying to talk me into meeting this unsuitable person—Stanley–or, even worse, inviting herself to lunch with me and my best friend. Veronica had told me she had great news. Having news meant just the two of us, heads together sharing secrets and friendship. Definitely not the two of us plus my mother, the gossip queen of the Low Country.
"I do like Veronica, and God knows you need more friends. But it's been a whole year–time for you to forget about T. Chandler and his flagrant immorality with that creature he dumped you for." Mama shuddered like a lady who'd just spotted a bug in her soup.
"Yes, Mama, I'm a real slacker about diving back into the dating pool. I can't imagine what's wrong with me." Biting my lip, I stared down at my feet. Wasn't my marital split hard enough without my mother reminding me I was the dumpee instead of the dumper?
They said divorce meant freedom. They promised that from the moment my ex pulled out of the driveway for the last time, I was free to heave my cleaning supplies into the nearest trash can, toss my wedding ring out the window, and lounge around the house in pajamas stuffing myself with chocolates. The "they" who imparted these words of wisdom were my sister, my friends, and a divorce support group I attended for two weeks.
But certainly not Mama. Mama has made it her life's work to keep me from getting too comfortable with myself.
As I recall, her words to me the day I announced my impending divorce were, "Why, Susan Caraway, I am shocked." She'd swayed on her feet and then plumped down in the nearest armchair to lean back with a handkerchief plastered over her face like a mini shroud. "You are going to regret this hasty decision," she'd added, her breath puffing up the handkerchief, so I'd broken into uncontrollable nervous laughter, which she had immediately let me know she did not appreciate.
But despite Mama's take on things, there was nothing hasty about my decision. T. Chandler Caraway and I had never been meant for each other. We'd stuck things out for too many years before he decided he was moving on with someone else. I was only sorry I'd hung around so long he'd ended up being the one to make the decision, leaving me feeling rejected, unwanted, and just plain low.
No, freedom was not the issue. The way I saw it, if life were about nothing but freedom, there'd be no reason to get married to begin with. For me divorce meant just one thing—failure. And it was my own fault. No one had forced me to marry T. Chandler Caraway. Or bribed me. Or threatened to throw me off a bridge if I didn't don a white dress and look starry-eyed while I chirped, "I do." So who could blame me for deciding I'd take my time choosing someone else to share my life—or never choosing, for that matter. I was managing fine on my own for the first time in my life, if only Mama would stop trying to shove me back into couplehood.
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