Synopsis

 

An undercover FBI agent and an independent coffee shop owner must team up when a local barista is found dead and danger circles their coastal Texas town in this new romantic thriller from New York Times bestselling author Laura Griffin.

With two brothers on the police force, Leyla Breda is well aware of the rising crime in her small beach town, but she never expected it to show up on her doorstep. When Leyla finds one of her employees murdered in the alley behind her coffee shop, she’s deeply shaken, and as a new law enforcement officer in town begins to circle her place of business, her instincts only sharpen.

Sean Moran is on an undercover mission: The seaside community of Lost Beach may look like a picturesque postcard, but his team suspects it’s a point of intersection for several crime syndicates that the FBI has been investigating for years. Even so, when the brash and beautiful Leyla Breda starts bossing him around, he’s immediately intrigued. He knows her brothers want him to back off, but every time he sees her, he feels more of a spark.

Leyla’s connections in the local community and Sean’s skills allow them to go deeper into the case together than they would be able to go alone. But when a single crime spirals into something much darker, Sean’s carefully planned mission takes a deadly turn.

 

 

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Excerpt

 

Sean Moran slipped away from the party. The bride and groom had left under a shower of rice, but people were still milling around beneath swags of white lights, drinking the couple’s booze and enjoying the breeze off the water. Sean would have liked another drink, but he needed to get back to his condo. As he crossed the wooden bridge spanning the sand dunes, he spied a woman on the beach with a champagne flute in hand.

Leyla Breda.

Her formfitting dress looked silver in the moonlight, and it shimmered against her body as she strolled toward the surf. Nearing a piece of driftwood, she dropped her shoes to the sand and sat down. She nestled the flute at her feet, then lifted her arms and twisted her dark hair into a knot at the top of her head.

Sean stopped at the end of the bridge. He had about a hundred things left to do tonight, including contacting his boss.

Instead, he walked over to Leyla.

“How’s the champagne?”

She jumped and turned around. Recognition flickered across her face, and her shoulders relaxed.

“It’s good.” She held up her glass. “You didn’t have any?”

“Nope. Can I get you a refill?”

She smiled. “What, are you a waiter now, too?”

He stepped closer. “I’m Sean Moran, by the way.” He held out his hand. “We never actually met.”

“Leyla Breda.” Her handshake was brisk and businesslike, but the warm look in her eyes gave him hope.

“Joel’s little sister,” he said.

“That’s me.”

He turned toward the water so he wouldn’t be tempted to stare down the front of her dress.

“I didn’t get a chance to thank you earlier,” she said. “Things got really hectic.”

“Looked like you had your hands full.”

“So, are you here for Joel or Miranda?”

He looked at her. “Joel.”

She tipped her head to the side as she gazed up at him. “And you know him from . . . ?”

“Work.”

She frowned. “Here?”

“No. We go way back. We were in the same academy class in Houston, spent some time at HPD together.”

“Oh. That was a while ago.”

“Yeah.”

“So . . . the vice squad, then?”

“Yeah. Mind if I sit down?”

“Not at all.”

Sean lowered himself onto the other end of the sandy log. He didn’t like the direction the conversation had taken so he steered it back to her.

“So, how long have you been a caterer?” he asked.

“Hmm . . . let’s see. I guess it’s been about three weeks now.” She turned and smiled at him, and he felt a hot jolt of attraction. “Why? Can you tell?”

“Not at all.”

“Right.”

“Well, the timing seemed a little bumpy.”

“Just a little.” She rolled her eyes. “We had several staffers no-show. It happens a lot in this business. People are flaky. Despite all my planning, you could say we were a bit rushed.”

Rushed was right. No woman had ever clapped at him before. He’d discovered it was a turn-on.

 

Excerpted from Deep Tide by Laura Griffin Copyright © 2023 by Laura Griffin. Excerpted by permission of Berkley. All rights reserved.

 

 

About the Author

 

Laura Griffin is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over thirty books and novellas. Her books have been translated into fourteen languages. Laura is a two-time RITA® Award winner (for Scorched and Whisper of Warning) as well as the recipient of the Daphne du Maurier Award (for Untraceable). Her book Desperate Girls was named one of the Best Books of 2018 by Publishers Weekly. Laura lives in Austin, Texas, where she is working on her next novel.

 

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Synopsis

 

On the cusp of turning eighteen, it’s time for Drew Lovell to become a man.

But deep within, Drew has questions—ones he doesn’t know how to phrase—about what that means and how to go about it.

During three intense stretches between 1985 and 1993, taking him into his mid-twenties, Drew undergoes a series of profound experiences—often wild, sometimes painful, and always revealing—that force him to rethink his current assumptions. Only after nearly dying from trying to conform to conventional models of masculinity does he begin to become the man he wants to be and not the one he thought the world required him to be. Still, he’s unable to live with full integrity until interaction with a pair of awakened humans inspires new awareness that helps him at long last embrace the truth of who he is.

 

 

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Praise

 

“Kat’s Cradle is … an inquiry into the nature of consciousness, evolution, and perspective that makes Kat just one of a series of strong characters whose lives intersect in … its paradigm-changing inspection of humanity, spirituality, and forces beyond human ken.”- D. Donovan, Senior Reviewer, Midwest Book Review
​
“At once thriller and search for meaning, Karuna Das’s story of an extraordinary woman’s self-discovery imagines a world of conspiracy at the edge of science where the stakes couldn’t be higher. Kat’s Cradle probes the very nature of existence and digs for answers at the intersection of medicine and mystery.”- Tom Sweterlitsch, author of The Gone World

​”Kat’s Cradle is neuropunk at its mind-bending and truly optimistic finest.”- Heidi Ruby Miller, author of the Ambasadora series

“awe-inspiring science fiction. I look forward to the next installment.”-H. Miller, Amazon Review

“Great book, with really strong female characters. It’s scifi/ fantasy and an enjoyable read!”-AS, Amazon Review

 

 

Excerpt

 

“You’ve seen gay people before, right?” asked Tina. She’d noticed me staring at two handsome, muscular, shirtless men holding hands. One’s chest was hairy; the other’s was completely smooth. With their tanned skin, they looked like golden gods.

“Not ones I knew for sure were gay,” I replied. “Some kids at school, a few teachers. People call them fags behind their backs, and sometimes even to their faces. But nobody’s ever admitted it.” I could only imagine what people would’ve said—or done—to them if they had.

As we approached a glitzy tavern, I spotted a group of tall, big-haired individuals in feminine attire congregated outside the door. One bore a remarkable likeness to Cher.

The real-life star’s film Mask had come out that spring. But this was not drug-addict-biker-mom Cher. This was skimpy-sequin-dress Cher. I couldn’t take my eyes off … her?

“Whatchu lookin’ at, little fan-man?” Not-Cher called out, prompting me to avert my gaze. “You’re cute when you blush. Pussy—I mean cat—got your tongue? Wanna ditch the bitch and come get to know a real woman?” Not-Cher smiled at Tina. “No offense, darlin’.”

“None taken,” Tina replied through a laugh as we strolled by Not-Cher and friends.

I resisted the impulse to turn my head for another look once we passed. When Tina stopped to peer into the window of an art gallery down the block, I couldn’t help sneaking a glance back.

Not-Cher blew me a kiss.

“That’s a guy,” I said. I’d definitely never seen a real, live crossdresser before.

“Yep,” Tina replied. “You like that?”

“What?” I asked. I saw she was pointing at a watercolor on display in the window. “Oh.” The image depicted a beachscape. “Sure,” I said.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, taking my hand. “Come on.”

She led me across the street to a tiny doorway barely visible between two upscale shops. According to the hand-painted, weathered sign, we were venturing into the mystic realm of a fortune teller: Tarot cards, crystal balls, and palmistry were all on offer; for a mere five dollars per reading, our destinies would be revealed.

I passed on the cards and crystal ball, preferring to learn what the alleged seer could divine about me from my own body. Madame Cherie—who resembled the female impersonator from the nightclub across the street in more than name—insisted her readings were private affairs, to be witnessed only by the subject, and never to be shared. By disclosing her findings, I now risk incurring Madame Cherie’s everlasting curse. If you believe in that sort of thing.

“Your hands are soft for a man,” she said, holding mine lightly in her own. Before I could tell her I did construction work, she let go of one and scrutinized the other.

“I’m right-handed,” I told her.

“No matter,” she replied. “On all young men, we read the left, for it shows your potential. Come back when you’re older, and we’ll read the right to see how you’ve fulfilled that promise.” She felt the palm pad at the base of my pinkie. “A well-defined Mercury mount. You’re a good communicator, with keen insight into others.”

Favorable traits for a writer. Maybe there’s some truth to this stuff, I thought.

She pressed softly on the pads below each of the other fingers, then more firmly on the fleshy mound at the base of my thumb. “A somewhat elevated Venus mount. This predisposes you to promiscuity.”

Or maybe, I thought, it’s all a bunch of malarkey.

“Now we shall read the lines,” she said. “That is, I will read the lines, and you can read between them.” She squeezed my fingers together and bent them back, spreading my palm open. “Your heart line is deep and red. You are ruled by temperament.”

“Does it say anything else?”

“About your love life?” asked Madame Cherie with a smile. “The line is long with quite a few small breaks. The possibility exists for a satisfying and lasting romantic relationship. But it’s likely you will undergo a number of traumatic experiences along the way.”

Great, I thought. As I wondered where Tina fit into that scenario, Madame Cherie said something about cross marks on my head line and my facing a series of inner crises.

“Ah! See how your fate line forks?” she asked. She pointed to a comparatively faint crease beginning at the bottom middle of my palm and soon branching apart. “That means your life could go in either of two quite different directions.”

“Can I pick which one?”

“Your decisions in key moments most certainly will influence your destiny. But you won’t necessarily be able to predict where the choices will lead.”

So much for the big revelation, I thought.

“Your life line is deep,” she said. “But not particularly long. Rather short, in fact.”

“You mean I’m going to die young?”

“For your longevity we must look elsewhere.” She rocked my hand back and forth as she eyed the base of my wrist. “Good news! You have four rascette lines. And strong ones. These here, like bracelets. Three is far more common. You could live to be a hundred years old.”

That might be a bit much, I thought, albeit with some relief.

“Because it’s also deep, the shortness of your life line is more good news. You can overcome any physical problems you may develop.” She took another look. “Hmm.”

“What?” I asked.

“You have a second life line. This often reflects extra vitality. Initially I thought it was just that. It would go hand in hand—get it?—with your propensity for longevity and health.”

“But …”

“It’s perfectly parallel to the first.”

“And …”

“This might be interpreted as a sign you’ll lead a double life. Maybe you already are.”

 

Taken from the book’s First Movement, “Cock Tales,” and the chapter “Champagne Punch,” Copyright © 2023, Kyle Andrew Bostian

 

 

Guest Review by Nora

 

“Much contemporary philosophy considers the feeling of having an independent and unified self to be an illusion. It views humans as disjointed—and often conflicting– collections of beliefs and behaviors determined entirely by our cultural conditioning, by the dominant modes of thought in our social structures. In doing so, it takes away the possibility of free will or any real agency.”

There is nothing that unifies us as human beings so much as the search for who we really are. We’re born as one thing, grow into a sense of identity for a brief time, and then when we reach adolescence; we spend many years thereafter trying to figure out who, exactly, we are.

This is the situation that young Drew Lovell finds himself in when on the edge of teenager-hood he begins questioning his identity and sexuality. Being teased by his friends for not having yet had sex, Drew flippantly loses his virginity in a way that he finds unsatisfying. This first sexual experience does not dim his love for women, and he goes through his teenage years having as much sex as possible and also engaging in copious drug use.

Though he finds love as an adult, he also goes through heartbreak and the loss of several close friends. After having a seizure that nearly ends his life, Drew realizes that he must change something in his life and begins writing a memoir. The end of the book is very much about Drew’s final destination, despite him still being a very young man. But spiritual enlightenment can happen at any age, and it just so happens that Drew’s comes at an age when he still has most of his life ahead of him.

An authentic story that serves as both a fictionalized memoir and a coming-of-age novel, ‘Sex, Drugs, and Spiritual Enlightenment (but mostly the first two),’ is a rollicking read that you won’t soon forget! I know I definitely won’t!

 

 

About the Author

 

Karuna Das is the pen and spirit name of Kyle Bostian. Born in Wisconsin, he grew up in Massachusetts and now resides in Pennsylvania, but he lives wherever he happens to be at that moment and feels at home everywhere in the universe. He holds a BA in English and an MFA in Playwriting. In addition to his dramatic writing, he’s published the sci-fi novel Kat’s Cradle, as well as short fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. He and his life partner Ti share their house with five wonderfully wacky cats.

 

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Synopsis

 

Raised by two loving parents in New Delhi, India, Kanchan Bhaskar has always been taught that marriage means companionship, tenderness, and mutual respect—so when she enters into an arranged marriage, this is the kind of partnership she anticipates with her new, seemingly wonderful, husband. But after they marry, she quickly discovers that his warmth is deceptive—that the man beneath the bright, charming façade is actually a narcissistic, alcoholic, and violent man.

Trapped in a nightmare, Kanchan pleads with her husband to seek help for his issues, but he refuses. Meanwhile, Indian law is not on her side, and as the years pass, she finds herself with three children to protect—three children she fears she will lose custody of if she leaves. Almost overnight, she finds herself transformed into a tigress who will do whatever it takes to protect her cubs, and she becomes determined to free them from their toxic father. But it’s not until many years later, when the family of five moves from India to the United States, that Kanchan is presented with a real opportunity to leave him—and she takes it.

Chronicling Kanchan’s gradual climb out of the abyss, little by little, day by day, Leaving is the empowering story of how—buoyed by her deep faith in a higher power and single-minded in her determination to protect her children best—she fought relentlessly to build a ramp toward freedom from her abuser. In this memoir, Kanchan clearly lays out the tools and methods she utilized in her pursuit of liberation—and reveals how belief in self and belief in the Universe can not only be weapons of escape but also beautiful foundations for a triumphant, purpose-driven life.

 

 

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Excerpt

 

Preface

 

I grew up in New Delhi, India, and my dreams were built on the romance and jubilation in which I was brought up. I imagined my married life to be as blissful and tender as that of my parents, who truly cherished and treasured each other and nurtured their four offspring with love and warmth. They lived more as partners than as a traditional Indian husband and wife.
Having been raised in this progressive environment, I acquired a unique perception of life—a woman was an equal partner in a marriage, one to be honored and valued. Marriage meant love, companionship, and caring. I couldn’t fathom it being any other way. Violence of any kind in marriage was unthinkable. A woman was to be respected—period.

My future husband would not share these perceptions. I found myself in an arranged marriage to a bright and deceptively-charming man, who revealed his true nature only after our wedding. The first time he hit me, my world spun upside down. When it righted, I had gotten myself stuck in a tumultuous, abusive relationship with a narcissistic alcoholic, in whose captivity I was trapped for more than twenty years.

The desperate mother of three innocent children who were casualties of these circumstances, I had to get away, but my escape had to be carefully planned with no room for error. If I divorced, I’d lose one or all of my children to the man I needed to escape from, which was not an option.

There had to be a way out.

I searched until I found it.
This story narrates how I built a ramp to climb out of the abyss, little by little, using a myriad of tools to bring me closer to freedom. Although I was alone in my fight for survival, I had deep faith in the higher power which presented me with collaborators in the form of angels and mentors to light my way.

My work was slow but steady. The ramp collapsed a few times and had to be rebuilt stronger. I shaped myself into a resilient woman, a tigress who could fend for her cubs. It wasn’t easy, and each day was a struggle, yet I remained determined in my single mission to protect my children and provide them with the best, as I had been provided with. This focus gave me the courage and spirit to keep forging ahead relentlessly.

Belief in self and belief in the Universe became my weapons of ultimate escape, the foundation for my liberation and re-earned dignity.

The story doesn’t stop with gaining my freedom but describes my continuing journey on the path of spirituality. In this book, I share my dawning realizations and the period of self-resurgence, which resulted in a triumphant, purpose-driven life.

Belief in spirituality provided the foundation and a new beginning on the path toward the emancipation of mind and soul.

Today a free woman, I’m happily settled in Chicago, living life on my own terms. I walk with my head high and chin up. The first flowers of spring in their divine colors make me smile. I can laugh again at a joke, find stillness in trees, and plan without fear, making up for the lost time.
I’m reminded of my favorite lines, my motto, from Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”:

 

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

 

Reprinted from Leaving: How I Set Myself Free from an Abusive Marriage with the permission of She Writes Press. Copyright © 2023 by Kanchan Bhaskar

 

 

About the Author

 

Kanchan Bhaskar (Kan-chan Bhas-car), an Indian-American, is a first-time author. She holds a Master’s Degree in social work and a certificate in life coaching. She is also a certified Business Coach. Being a successful Human Resource professional, her expertise is in training and mentoring. She is a certified advocate, speaker, and coach for victims and survivors of domestic violence. Kanchan lives in Chicago.

 

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Synopsis

 

A man seeking closure after the death of his estranged brother. A woman grieving her sister and best friend. A connection they never saw coming. More than the temperature heats up in USA Today Bestselling Author Christy Hayes’ unforgettable page-turning romance about two tortured souls and their collision course with love.

Megan Holloway has learned a few hard truths in her twenty-eight-years. Life isn’t fair. People she loves always leave. And she’ll be stuck on Key West running her parents’ gift store and raising her twelve-year-old niece for the rest of her life.

Thirty-year-old Bryan Westfall has come to Key West to clean out his dead brother’s apartment and search for answers about the woman who died with his estranged older brother. Bryan didn’t know the woman had a daughter and he sure didn’t expect her sister to floor him with her beauty and biting brashness.

Bryan’s persistent need to help and Meg’s bumbling business skills create an unlikely union. The more time they spend together, the more their feelings become too powerful to deny. Meg knows Bryan is leaving at the end of the summer and Bryan knows Meg is holding back to spare herself needless heartache. When a hurricane forces them to evacuate, Meg mentally prepares to let Bryan go while Bryan wonders if home is where he came from or is with the woman who stole his heart.

 

 

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Excerpt

 

He inched the door open a crack and his heart jammed into his throat. Instead of a beefy henchman, a willowy redhead stood fuming on his doorstep. He swung the door open wide and gawked at Amanda Holloway’s sister, tapping her sandaled foot on the mat.

“Stay away from us.” Her velvet voice quivered with rage. “Do you understand me?”

“Uh …” Bryan couldn’t organize his thoughts into anything resembling words. Seeing her in the store had been like a punch to the gut. Standing inches away on his doorstep where he could count the freckles across her nose and smell the perfume on her skin left him senseless. The woman didn’t need a baseball bat. She wielded a punch with her presence.

“You’ve got nothing to say?”

He extended his hand. “I’m Bryan Westfall. It’s nice to officially meet you.”

“Nice?” She gave his hand a death stare and her tone pitched higher. “You think this is a social call?”

Bryan dropped his hand. “I don’t have a clue what this is.”

“This is a warning.” She aimed a finger in his face. “Do not come near me, my niece, or our store, ever again. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you’re not going to weasel your way into our lives like your brother did. He did enough damage, thank you very much.”

Whatever evidence Bryan had been searching for landed squarely at his feet with her threat. Corey’s presence in this woman’s life had changed it for the worse. “Listen …”

“Meg.”

“I’m sorry for your loss, Meg.”

His simple statement and quiet tone stopped her cold. She straightened her stance and folded her arms across her V-necked white t-shirt, an apostrophe forming between her brows. “What do you want from us? Why are you here?”

Bryan stepped back. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll explain.”

The crevice between her brows deepened and she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Of course she didn’t trust him. He was a stranger. His brother had slithered into her sister’s life and torn it to shreds. Meg was the living, breathing, reminder of what happened when people let Corey and his devil-may-care outlook into their orbit. “I’m cleaning out Corey’s apartment. Trying to piece together his last few months.”

“You’re his brother.” It wasn’t so much a statement as an accusation.

“You and your sister were close?”

The sadness in her eyes said as much as her choked agreement. Grief sat just below the surface. One tiny shift was all it took to uncover her pain. “Very close.”

“Corey and I …” How could he explain their complicated relationship? He couldn’t, not without a history lesson she didn’t care to hear. “We had a falling out.”

She snorted. “Of course you did.” She stared past him into the apartment filled with boxes labeled for charity. “That must make this pretty easy for you, huh? Boxing up his stuff, giving it away as if he never existed. You’re probably relieved he’s gone. No more fighting, no more messy feelings about your flesh and blood.”

Shame heated the skin of his neck, giving his voice a dangerous edge. “Nothing about this is easy.”

“My sister and I lived and worked together.” She raised her chin in the air, determined to drive her point home. “We raised her daughter together. Nothing about losing her was easy on any of us. I’m sorry for your loss, Bryan, but you can look for answers elsewhere. We’ve been through enough. The last thing we need is another slick-talking Westfall poking around where he doesn’t belong.”

Would she feel better or worse to know they shared the same impression of Corey? He decided not to find out. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to trouble you.”

“It’s too late for that. Just hear me loud and clear—leave us alone. Pack your stuff and go back where you came from. Whatever Corey was up to before he died doesn’t change the outcome. He’s dead and he dragged Amanda down with him. If you care at all about those of us left behind, you’ll go and never come back.”

She turned to leave, and a panicked surge of impatience had him stepping toward her, had him saying something he should have thought through. “I know you feel—”

She turned back so quickly her hair tangled in her teeth. She pulled the strands free and speared him with an angry scowl. “You don’t have a clue how I feel.”

He didn’t, not really, but neither did she. “I lost my brother, too.”

She closed her mouth and stared at him, the heat coloring her cheeks dimmed.

“Maybe we weren’t close. Maybe I couldn’t have changed the outcome, but you’re not the only one grieving. He may be the villain, but he was my brother. He was a man—a flawed man—with a family who cared. I’m not here to get you all worked up, but I need answers. My family needs answers.”

She watched him with wary, grass-green eyes. “Your answers don’t involve us.”

“Your sister knew him better than anyone.”

She shook her head and the red strands caught fire in the sunlight. “That’s not saying a lot.”

He had no other option but to beg. “Please, Meg. I don’t know where else to turn.”

She stared at him, grasping the strap of the leather bag slung over her shoulder in a chokehold. “Then I guess you’re out of luck.” She pivoted and strode away, eating up ground with her long, slender legs.

Bryan watched the sway of her miniskirt as she stormed off, then closed the door and turned to face Corey’s apartment. He rubbed the ache in his gut. He may have needed answers, but finding them just got a whole lot harder.

 

 

About the Author

 

Christy Hayes is a USA Today Bestselling author. She grew up along the eastern seaboard and received two degrees from the University of Georgia. An avid reader, she writes romance and women’s fiction. Christy and her husband have two grown children and live with a houseful of dogs in the foothills of north Georgia.

 

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WINNING MAURA’S HEART

 

The Hangman’s Daughters Series, Book # 1

 

by

 

Linda Broday

 

 

Western Romance / Clean & Wholesome / Historical Fiction

 

Publisher: Severn House

 

Date of Publication: March 7, 2023

 

Number of Pages: 256 pages

 

 

 

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Maura Taggart is an outcast, the daughter of a hangman and tainted by association – no reputable man wants her as his wife. And now she is homeless, along with her sister and the group of children in their care. Armed with pure grit, she finds a nearby mission where the nuns agree to take them in and set up an orphanage. But trouble is just around the corner . . .

The Calhoun brothers are identical twins but on opposite sides of the law. Cutter is a deputy Marshal, Jonas an outlaw. When Cutter attempts to break his brother out of a notorious gang, they are shot, and Maura finds one of them wounded, close to the mission – but which brother is it?

As the stranger regains his strength under Maura’s care an attraction between them grows, yet how far can she trust him? And why has he brought trouble to their door? With the orphanage under threat can Maura trust this handsome stranger both with their safety and with her heart?

 

 

 

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Excerpt from Winning Maura’s Heart

 

By Linda Broday

 

 

Calhoun met her blue gaze and came near to slicing his ear. He swallowed hard and shaved all that he could get to with one arm. Finally, he laid the razor in the water. “That’s it.”

“You did good, Calhoun.” Maura dried the straight razor and uncurled the strop.

He watched in fascination as she expertly sharpened the blade. “You’ve used one of those before.”

“I used to love doing this for my father on the rare occasions when he was home. And when he let me, which was in truth only a handful of times. But it made me feel that he cared for me. At least a little.”

“I take it your father was away a lot.”

“Yes, he has to travel where the jobs take him.”

“What kind of work does he do?”

Maura froze. After several moments, she spoke. “I’d rather not say if you don’t mind. His profession has made life—difficult—for Emma and me.”

What did he do? Curiosity had him biting his tongue to keep from asking. If he could bear waiting until tomorrow, he’d ask Max. But whatever it was had kept both girls from having a life.

Apparently, they’d been unwelcome in town so they brought the children out here. Now it made some sense why those folks had chopped off Emma’s hair.

The sisters were outcasts. For whatever reason, no one wanted their company.

His blood ran cold. There were only three professions that folks had difficulty with, and he didn’t like the thought of any of them. Grave digger, undertaker, and hangman. And the first two were far more acceptable than the third. Calhoun put the thought aside for now. Maura had gotten the blade at the sharpness she wanted it and stood ready.

“I’ve never done this part of shaving, but I’ll try not to cut you.”

“Thanks for that.” He was already sweating. First, at the thought of an untrained person holding such a sharp instrument. But worse than that…she stood so close and would have to lean in to get in the right positions. No barber he’d ever gone to had been encumbered with breasts and Maura’s were quite…well, let’s just say no one would ever mistake her for a man. Not at all. Even if they were blind as bats.

“Relax, Calhoun. You’re not scared, are you?”

“Quit teasing. Of course, I’m apprehensive.” He took a deep breath. “Proceed.”

“You act like you’re about to be drawn and quartered like they did in jolly old England.”

“I think they still might,” he muttered darkly.

Her sleeve brushed his cheek as she made the first stroke. She leaned to whisper. “You’re in good hands, Calhoun.”

A side glance found him staring down her dress at all that soft skin. He tried several times to speak before he managed to croak, “Yes, ma’am.”

She moved and the view disappeared. He could finally release the breath he’d been holding. Despite her inexperience, her strokes were slow and smooth with no hesitation or nicks.

But keeping her bosom away from his face was all but impossible. He closed his eyes but each time he opened them, there they were.

Normally, he wouldn’t complain but he was trying to be a gentleman as much as he was able. When his body reacted and he was about to embarrass himself, he pictured his last fishing trip and counted the fish on his stringer. When he ran out of fish, he counted the worms, then his bullets.

“Are you going to sleep, Calhoun?” she asked.

Good Lord, he was far from that! Every nerve ending was standing on end and saluting. He folded his hands over himself.

“No, ma’am. Just thinking about going fishing.”

“I see. Do you fish often?”

“Every chance I get, but it’s been a while since I last went.”

“Lean your head back and tighten the skin around your mouth and nose. A little more and we’ll be through.”

He did as she asked and found his head resting on those soft twin mounds. It was like floating on a cloud.

Stop it. Just stop it. He couldn’t let himself enjoy the sensation. It was wrong, wrong, wrong and he was about to lose control. And would if this went on for long. And then what?

“Quit squirming,” Maura scolded.

“I’m trying.” But all sorts of inappropriate images were running through his head.

The moments passed as she finished up then dropped the straight razor into the bowl of water and stepped back. “I’m done.”

Not a moment too soon. He struggled to his feet, wiping away the excess shaving soap with the towel. “Thank you. It feels good to rid myself of those bristles.”

“You’re welcome. You look…nice.”

He chuckled. “You mean human. I’m beginning to feel like it, thanks to you.”

Without looking at him, she opened the door to empty the bowl of water. “No offense, but I hope you can manage by yourself next time.”

Something had happened to her voice. It seemed a little strained. Had this affected her as it had him?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’m a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of western romance novels and short stories. Watching TV westerns during my youth fed my love of cowboys and the old West and they still do. On a still day, I can often hear the voices of American Indians, Comancheros, and early cowboys whispering in the breeze here on the high West Texas plains. We refer to this land as “cowboy” country and men here still ride the range just as cowboys of old. My stories focus on family life and almost all have children.

 

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THREE WINNERS:

 

GRAND PRIZE: tote including signed copy of Winning Maura’s Heart, strawberry & chocolate tea, Cowgirl hand lotion, bath bombs, personalized cup;

 

2nd Prize: eBook copy Winning Maura’s Heart;

 

3rd Prize: $15 Amazon gift card

 

(US only; ends midnight, CDT, 4/14/23)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Visit the Lone Star Literary Life Tour Page

 

For direct links to each post on this tour, updated daily,

 

or visit the blogs directly:

 

 

 

04/04/23	Hall Ways Blog	Guest Post
04/04/23	Writing and Music	BONUS Review
04/05/23	Forgotten Winds	Review
04/05/23	LSBBT Blog	BONUS Promo
04/06/23	StoreyBook Reviews	Excerpt
04/07/23	It’s Not All Gravy	Review
04/08/23	The Book’s Delight	Review
04/09/23	JennCaffeinated	Notable Quotables
04/10/23	The Plain-Spoken Pen	Review
04/11/23	The Page Unbound	Excerpt
04/12/23	Carpe Diem Chronicles	Review
04/13/23	Reading by Moonlight	Review

 

 

 

 

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Four Parties and a Funeral (A Catering Hall Mystery)
Cozy Mystery
4th in Series
Setting – New York
Kensington Cozies (March 28, 2023)
Mass Market Paperback ‏ : ‎ 304 pages

 

Synopsis

 

In this fresh and witty cozy mystery series set amid an extended Italian-American family in Astoria, Queens, catering hall owner and amateur sleuth Mia Carina must solve a murder on the set of a reality show.

The June events schedule at Belle View is busting out all over—proms, graduations, and of course, weddings. There are unexpected bookings too, including a casting call for the pilot of Dons of Ditmars Boulevard. But soon, Mia’s fears about the cheesy reality show are confirmed . . .

Belle View quickly becomes the site of a sea of wanna-be goombahs and phony girlfriends, and some of Mia’s friends insist on getting in on the action. The production company owner and his executive producer ex-wife—who’s also very minor British royalty—have assembled a motley crew that does as much infighting and backstabbing as the on-screen “talent.” Even so, it’s a shock when a dead body is found in the pool house of a local mansion rented by the show . . .

Murder might boost the ratings. But Mia intends to make sure the killer gets jail time, not airtime . . .

Italian recipes included!

 

 

 

Amazon – B&N – Kobo – IndieBound – Kensington

 

 

Excerpt

 

If anyone had told Mia Carina that one day she’d wake up in bed next to a former male model,

she would have spit whatever she was drinking out of her nose.

Yet here she was.

Mia enjoyed a languid stretch and was rewarded with an angry meow from Doorstop, the Abyssinian diva who commanded the foot of the bed and was not happy about being woken up by an accidental nudge from Mia’s foot. Mia sat up and reached over to pet the annoyed cat. “Sorry,

sweetie. I didn’t know you were there.”

Doorstop made a sound that in human would have translated to “Yeah, right” and repositioned himself.

The male model still asleep next to Mia muttered something unintelligible and then said quite clearly, “Bacon and grape jelly.” Mia giggled. Shane stirred and opened one eye. “What?”

“You were talking in your sleep about work again. It’s adorable.”

Shane yawned and sat up. “What did I say?”

“Bacon and grape jelly.”

“Right. For the Kiwanis Club breakfast in the morning.”

“Practically our only event this month that isn’t a prom, graduation party, or wedding.”

Shane and Mia were coworkers at Belle View Banquet Manor, the party facility turned over to her “recovering mobster” father, Ravello, as payment for a gambling debt. Mia breathed a sigh of relief when Ravello asked her to help him run Belle View as a legitimate, entirely legal enterprise for the Boldano Family. She’d breathed sighs laced with lust and desire when Shane signed on at Belle View as operations manager. By Christmas, she and Shane had succumbed to their mutual attraction, but feeling guilty about the impropriety of a boss-employee relationship, they’d kept their romance on the down low for months.

Shane laced his fingers together and placed his hands between his head and the pillow. “Speaking of weddings, we need to find out if it’s okay to give Jamie and Madison cash as a present. I don’t see a bride in Connecticut carrying a satin sack for checks.”

Mia chuckled at the reference to the most important accessory to a bride’s outfit at the many Italian weddings she’d grown up with—the money sack. “At least not Madison’s family. They’re a little upscale for the sack. Nonna said that, in her day, sacks didn’t even exist. People just stuffed the checks or cash down the bride’s cleavage and, when that filled up, in the groom’s pockets or pants.”

“And now sacks are old school. Did I tell you that for the Castro-Pradeep wedding, I have to print out business cards they can hand out to their guests with their Zelle, PayPal, and Venmo account

information?”

“Ha. That’s a wedding favor I didn’t see coming.”

Shane’s extremely handsome face creased in a frown. “I still haven’t figured out what to wear to the barbecue.” He and Mia, along with Ravello, the Boldanos, and a Queens/Long Island contingent would soon be trooping up to Worthington, Connecticut, for a party hosted by Madison’s parents in honor of the happy couple.

“Me neither,” Mia said. “This is, like, a whole new world. Jamie showed me pictures of the Wythes’ house, where they’re hosting the party. It’s old and white.”

“Like Madison’s relatives,” Shane said with a sly grin.

Mia chortled, then wagged a finger at Shane. “Don’t. Be nice, you. It’s not her fault her family goes back a million years. Jamie said the house is, like, almost as old as the country, and her parents are super nice. They don’t act entitled at all. But what to wear, what to wear. Hmmm . . .” As Mia pondered this, she tapped an index finger painted with sparkly gold nail polish against her lip. The

other four nails were painted a soft sea green.

“They sail a lot in Connecticut,” Shane offered.

“Maybe stuff with anchors?”

Mia brightened. “Great idea. I’ll see what I can find online.”

Shane yawned, then leaned over to Mia, gifting her with a kiss that knocked all images of anchors and America’s founding fathers from her thoughts.

“I gotta go home and shower before work. It’s gonna be a day.”

Mia sighed. “I know.” Big Donny Boldano, Jamie’s father and technically the boss of all bosses to the Belle View crew, had begged Mia to hire Jamie’s older brother, Little Donny Boldano, to do something—anything—at the banquet facility. At the ripe old age of thirty-four, Big Donny’s namesake was still trying to find himself. This was to be his first day on the job. Mia and Shane’s plan was to let Little Donny figure out which angle of the catering business interested him the most and then place him there.

 

 

About the Author

 

Maria DiRico is the pseudonym for Ellen Byron, author of the award-winning, USA Today bestselling Cajun Country Mysteries. Born in Queens, New York, she is a first-generation Italian-American on her mother’s side and the granddaughter of a low-level Jewish mobster on her father’s side. She grew up visiting the Astoria Manor and Grand Bay Marina catering halls, which were run by her Italian mother’s family in Queens, and have become the inspiration for her Catering Hall Mystery Series. DiRico has been a writer-producer for hit television series like Wings and Just Shoot Me, and her first play, Graceland, appears in the Best Short Plays collection. She’s a freelance journalist, with over 200 articles published in national magazines, and previously worked as a cater-waiter for Martha Stewart, a credit she never tires of sharing. A native New Yorker who attended Tulane University, Ellen lives in Los Angeles with her husband, daughter, and two rescue dogs.

 

 

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Giveaway

 

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Synopsis

 

Your next stay-up-all-night thriller, about identical triplets who have a nasty habit of killing their boyfriends, and what happens when the youngest commits their worst crime yet: falling in love with her mark.

Make him want you.
Make him love you.
Make him dead.

Sissy has an…interesting family. Always the careful one, always the cautious one, she has handled the cleanup while her serial killer sisters have carved a path of carnage across the U.S. Now, as they arrive in the Arizona heat, Sissy must step up and embrace the family pastime of making a man fall in love and then murdering him. Her first target? A young widower named Edison—and their mutual attraction is instant. While their relationship progresses, and most couples would be thinking about picking out china patterns and moving in together, Sissy’s family is reminding her to think about picking out burial sites and moving on.

But then something happens that Sissy never anticipated: She begins to feel protective of Edison, and then, before she can help it, she’s fallen in love. But the clock is ticking, and her sisters are growing restless. It becomes clear that the gravesite she chooses will hide a body no matter what happens; but if she betrays her family, will it be hers?

 

 

 

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Excerpt

 

If not for my sisters and the tragic circumstances of our upbringing, I would be living an empty life and bound for heartbreak.

It started when we were nineteen.

Iris called me, frantic, in the middle of the night. She had her own apartment above a laundromat in downtown Clovis. She was so proud of that place—all five hundred square feet of it. She kept it tidy and burned incense at all hours to hide the smell from the dumpster in the alley outside her bedroom window. At night, there was the persistent throb of the bar across the street, the music loud enough to rattle the porcelain angel figurines on the shelves. They’d come with the place, and Iris had decided they made her living room look homey—a word she’d never used before, because we’d never had a home.

“Just come,” she’d sobbed and then hung up. All of my calls went straight to voicemail. I sped the whole way over there, sure that someone had just climbed up the fire escape to murder her. But what I found was a different sort of violence.

Blood, deep and dark, pooled on her oriental rug, and splattered across the angel figurines.

She’d been sleeping with her old high school guidance counselor—a fifty-one-year-old married father of two. He strung her along for months, promising to leave his wife. He broke her heart a hundred times, and then Iris plunged a kebab skewer through his.

“You watch all of those crime shows,” Moody said, emerging from the kitchen with a bottle of bleach she’d found under the sink. “Help us make this go away.”

We moved with a practical calm, the three of us, and when it was through, Iris’s ill-fated lover was resting in six garbage bags, wound tightly with duct tape. If it were only one of us, or even two, I’m sure we would have been caught. We would have missed a detail. But we were a perfect team, the three of us.

After a lifetime of being torn apart, we were finally together, finally able to help one another in all the ways we never could when we were being jostled helplessly by the foster system. All those years of loneliness, of wanting, of being kept apart, had brought us to this desperate moment. Knee-deep in the water of the San Joaquin river in the velvet black night, we weighed the pieces of the man with rocks, and a promise started to form. In the coming days, it slowly became obvious what we needed to do.

We wouldn’t deprive ourselves of love, but our hearts would be weapons. We would love the men we found completely and without inhibition, put a lifetime into our brief time together. Live out every fantasy we desired. And then we would kill them.

There would never be another lover to break one of us. We would break all of them first.

 

“Excerpted from HOW I’LL KILL YOU by Ren DeStefano published by Berkley, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House, LLC. Copyright © 2023 by Ren DeStefano”

 

 

About the Author

 

Ren DeStefano lives in Connecticut, where she was born and raised. When she’s not writing thrillers, she’s listening to true crime podcasts and crocheting way too many blankets.

 

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A Flicker of a Doubt (A Fairy Garden Mystery)
Cozy Mystery
4^th in Series
Setting – California
Kensington Cozies (March 28, 2023)
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 320 pages

 

Synopsis

 

Fairies are trending hard, especially when it comes to fairy garden décor in Walmart and Target and on Amazon. The latest installment in the nationally bestselling Daryl Wood Gerber’s Fairy Garden mysteries is a perfect read for Laura Childs readers and all fans of whimsy and charm.

With a theater foundation tea and an art show planned at Violet Vickers’s estate, Courtney is hired to create charming fairy gardens for the event. It’s not so charming, however, when her best friend Meaghan’s ex-boyfriend turns out to be Violet’s latest artistic protégé. Even worse, not long after Meaghan locks horns with him, his body is found in her yard, bludgeoned with an objet d’murder.

There’s a gallery of suspects, from an unstable former flame to an arts and crafts teacher with a sketchy past. But when the cops focus on Meaghan’s business partner, who’s like a protective older brother to her, and discover he also has a secret financial motive, Courtney decides to draw her own conclusions. Fearing they’re missing the forest for the trees, and with some help from Fiona the sleuthing fairy, she hopes to make them see the light . . .

 

 

Amazon * B&N * Kobo * Bookshop

 

 

Guest Post

 

Over One Thousand Characters

 

Character names are important. Think about these: Indiana Jones . . . James Bond. . . Hercule Poirot.  They’re iconic, right? Names can distinguish the character.  John Smith would never have resonated as an adventurous archaeologist.  Jim Bond just wouldn’t be as dashing as James. And Hercule? Can you even imagine another name for him?

Over the course of the past twelve years and twenty-seven published books, I’ve created over a thousand characters, and I have given “nearly” all a different name. [I think I named a couple of women Martha. Oops!] When I’m fashioning a character, I start with the alphabet. I like my characters in any single book to have names that are different from the other characters’ names; that way readers won’t get confused. So let’s say my main cast consists of Courtney, Fiona, Meaghan, Wanda, and Kipling. Now I bring in some cursory characters who might appear in book one, five, and eight. They still need names, so I add them to my list, and I’ll try to use other letters like Z=Ziggy and Y=Yoly. Then I come up with the guest cast. Suspects, victims, the occasional witness. How do I keep them all straight? I make a list for each book and each series, and I consult them regularly. Except for poor old Martha. Ha!

As to the personality that goes with a name, let’s think about that. Is Tammi going to act the same as Tamara? Is Nicole going to behave like Nikki? Nikki, with the double-K, is a strong sounding name. In my mind, she’s feisty and on-the-ball.  Nicole, on the other hand, sounds gentler, more refined, possibly an artist.  Now, I’m not saying that Nikki couldn’t be an artist and Nicole couldn’t be feisty, but for me, this is who they become . . . as I write them.

Funny story, and the reason why I use the alphabet list. . .

Early in my writing, in one of my books, my publisher had given me a bible with the names Amy and Amelia Well, both started with Am, and I found myself consistently making mistakes—typing Amelia when I’d meant to type Amy and vice versa.

Side note:  Have you ever read a book where there’s, say, an Ann, Amy, Analise, and Annabelle in the cast, or a similar combination, and after a while, you’re wondering who’s walking onto the page? Kid you not! I read a book with five men whose names all started with a J. And they were all in the same scene. Boy, was I confused.

Anyway, when I changed Amelia, who was shy and tentative, to Rebecca, her character made a U-turn.  Rebecca became plucky, coltish, and curious. Don’t get me wrong.  I’m not saying all Amelia(s) are shy and tentative.  Look at Amelia Earhart.  Talk about personality.  But in my  creative mind at the time, Amelia didn’t have pluck.  Rebecca did!

Think about your friends.  Would you have named them differently?  How about your family?  Do any have nicknames that have stuck because that’s just who they are?  Peanut, Pooh, Rocko?

Names. I love coming up with them. I enjoy seeing how my characters take shape based on their names. I just hope I don’t run out of possibilities. There are only so many letters in the alphabet.

 

 

Excerpt

 

CHAPTER 1

 

Down by the spring one morning

Where the shadows still lay deep,

I found in the heart of a flower

A tiny fairy asleep.

~Laura Ingalls Wilder, “The Fairy Dew Drop”

 

Slam! Slam-slam-slam! Slam!

My insides did a jig. I dashed down the hall to the back of Open Your Imagination, dusting my hands off on my denim overalls while wondering what in the world was going on.

Fiona, the teensy righteous fairy that appeared to me the day I opened my fairy garden shop, fluttered to my shoulder. Her limbs and gossamer wings were trembling.

“What’s happening, Courtney?” she managed to squeak out. She hated loud noises. Hated surprises. I didn’t like them, either.

Pixie, my Ragdoll cat, trailed us. She mewed.

“Don’t worry, you two,” I said. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

I drew to a halt outside the storage room. The door opened and slammed.

When it opened again, I pressed a hand against it. “Hey! Stop! Meaghan, c’mon.”

The door opened wide, and Meaghan Brownie gawked at me. Her face was red, her eyes were ablaze with fury, and her curly hair was writhing like wild snakes.

“What the heck has you so angry?” I asked. I’d sent her to fetch a box of gemstones. I had plenty, so coming up empty wasn’t what was upsetting her.

“Nicolas!” She huffed. “He texted me. And . . . And . . .” She waggled her cell phone.

“Oo-oh!”

Nicolas was her ex-boyfriend, a temperamental artist. A few months back, she’d asked him to move out while her mother had needed comforting. He’d never returned.

“Oo-oh,” she repeated, before grabbing one of the Tupperware boxes filled with gemstones and skirting past me. She stalked toward the main showroom.

Pixie and I followed. Fiona flew above my pal, sprinkling her with a calming silver dust.

Fairies couldn’t change human behavior, but they could offer potions that might help the human solve problems. In this case, to find peace.

“He’s so . . . so . . . ”

Meaghan was not using her inside voice, but I wasn’t worried about her upsetting our customers. It was early. Nobody was in the shop yet. Not even Joss Timberlake, my right-hand helper. She’d asked for the morning off, so I’d invited Meaghan to help me prepare some items.

Why did I need help? Because yesterday Violet Vickers, a wealthy widow who donated to numerous worthy causes, had ordered an additional dozen fairy gardens to be used as centerpieces for the theater foundation tea she was serving on Mother’s Day. Why additional?

Because she’d already commissioned me to make a dozen very large, elaborate fairy gardens to be installed when Kelly Landscaping, my father’s company, completed the total redo of her backyard.

It was May first. I wasn’t hyperventilating. Yet. But I also wasn’t sleeping much.

“Let’s go to the patio,” I said. “I’ll bring some tea.”

“I don’t want tea,” Meaghan groused as she breezed out the French doors to the patio, the folds of her white lace skirt wafting behind her.

The shop’s telephone jangled. I decided not to answer. Whoever was calling would call back. Meaghan, my best friend who I’d met a little over ten years ago when we were sophomores in college, needed me more. I followed her, glancing at Fiona wondering why the calming potion wasn’t working. Fiona, intuiting my question, shook her head.

“Isn’t it a beautiful morning, Meaghan?” I took the box from her and set it on the workstation table in the learning-the-craft area at the far end of the patio. “Gorgeous, in fact.”

The fountain was burbling. Sunshine was streaming through the tempered-glass, pyramid-shaped roof. The leaves of the Ficus trees were clean and shiny. I’d already wiped down the wrought-iron tables and chairs and organized all the verdigris baker’s racks of fairy figurines.

Plus I’d removed dead leaves from the various decorative fairy gardens. Presentation mattered to me and to my customers.

Meaghan muttered, “Ugh.”

“Start at the beginning,” I said. “Nicolas texted you.”

“Yes.” She plopped onto a bench and rested her elbows on the table.

“What did he write?” I asked.

“He wants me back.”

I opened the box of colorful gemstones and ran my hands through them: hematite, labradorite, amethyst, obsidian, and more.

“But I don’t want him back,” Meaghan said.

Fiona landed on the rim of the box. Her eyes widened. “Are they for the fairy doors, Courtney?”

“Mm-hm.”

“They’re pretty.”

Not only was I making the gardens for Violet, but I had three upcoming fairy garden door classes scheduled. Fairy doors were miniature doors, usually set at the base of a tree, behind which might be a small space where people left notes or wishes for fairies. They could also be installed into a fairy garden pot.

“I mean, I used to,” Meaghan went on. “But I don’t anymore. We have nothing in common.” Idly, she drew circles on the tabletop with her fingertip. “I did the right thing, don’t you think? I did, didn’t I?”

Over the course of our friendship, I’d kept my mouth shut. Nicolas and Meaghan had never made sense. She was outgoing and personable; he was quiet, to the point of being morose.

Granted, he was a talented artist, and she, as a premier art gallery owner, appreciated his gift, but that was not enough to sustain a healthy relationship. Not in my book, anyway.

 

 

 

About the Author

 

Agatha Award-winning author Daryl Wood Gerber writes the nationally bestselling Cookbook Nook Mysteries, the Fairy Garden Mysteries, and the French Bistro Mysteries. As Avery Aames, she pens the popular Cheese Shop Mysteries. In addition, Daryl writes the Aspen Adams novels of suspense as well as stand-alone suspense. Daryl loves to cook, fairy garden, and read, and she has a frisky Goldendoodle who keeps her in line!

 

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Giveaway

 

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Synopsis

 

This memoir explores how Jeremy, a privately educated schoolboy, comes to reject his comfortable rural Surrey background to end up in the squats, drugs and hippy scene of 1970s Hornsey Rise.

The central theme of the book is Jeremy’s need to escape from the intense relationship with his alcoholic, charismatic and mentally unstable mother, her lovers, his ageing, ailing father, and about his romantic relationships.

Of particular interest is the way this memoir explores how a 1968-style vision of the world collapsed in the 1970s, and its implications for Jeremy and many of his generation. Their visionary countercultural world is not going to happen.

A journey about discovering what really matters in life. The Way to Hornsey Rise is a moving and very personal story, laced with intriguing observations about society, which all adds to its universal appeal.

 

 

Holland Park Press (UK) * Bookshop * Amazon

 

 

Praise

 

‘Jeremy Worman’s memoir is a compulsive read. The memoir really grips you from the start with Worman’s description of his horrifying relationship with his abusive alcoholic mother. The memoir rips away the veneer of the British upper-middle classes, showing them to be venal, despairing, corrupt.’ – Francis Gilbert

‘Surprising, even shocking, above all beautifully written. Do read it. You won’t be disappointed.’ – Christopher Sinclair-Stevenson

‘The Way to Hornsey Rise slips down like a glass of real lemonade on a hot afternoon, its sweet and bitter notes beautifully balanced. A sentimental education without illusions.’ – Ferdinand Mount

‘Taking us from the class-bound stockbroker belt suburbs of Surrey in the 1960s, all minor public schools and gin sozzled adultery, to the squats of North London in the 1970s, reeking of dope and the aroma of slowly decaying hippy idealism, this is a book rich in period detail and atmosphere, and its account of a young man’s painful progress from innocence to experience as compellingly universal as it is highly specific of a time and place.’ – Travis Elborough

 

 

Excerpt

 

The leaves were turning soft yellow.  I had arranged to meet Ma outside the Turkish cafe on Beaumont Road, assuming she made it.  She had told me last week: ‘I’m determined to find my way on public transport; I’d be embarrassed to ask a taxi to take me to that part of town.’  But unlike, say, the floor directions of expensive department stores, tube maps and bus timetables were not her natural territory.  There were few people around and certainly not Ma.  I crossed the road.

‘Darling, it’s me.’  An emerald-ringed finger pointed from the opened window of a black cab.

The taxi stopped.

‘I thought this would be the safest way,’ she said.

‘Quite right.  You can’t walk for twenty paces around here without being mugged.’

‘That’s what I feared.’

‘It was a joke, Ma.’

The cabby jumped out and opened the door for her.  An emblem of Home-Counties style stepped into one of the poorer boroughs of London: well-cut black slacks, dark-green silk blouse, short beige jacket and tartan beret.  Red toenails glowed in brown leather sandals.

‘Such an interesting drive, John.’  She gave him a five-pound note.

He touched his dark crew-cut hair, which contrasted with his ocean-blue polo shirt, and shook Ma’s hand.  ‘Enjoy your adventure, Madam.’

A Spurs pendant swayed on the dashboard as he drove off.  Ma and I looked at each other.

‘Well, what do you wear when you’re visiting your son in a down-at-heel area?’

‘You look perfect.’

‘You haven’t kissed me yet.’

I did.

‘Fresh coffee back at the flat, and I’ve planned lunch.’

‘Perhaps you could get together a team to tidy the place?’ she said when we reached the entrance gates to Welby House.

I marshalled her quickly across the yard without bumping into anyone I knew.  Fortunately the stairs had been recently washed with disinfectant and she followed me but said nothing.  She went into the living room and sat on the blue armchair.  ‘Very airy space.  Will you get a few friends to live with you?’

‘I’ve tried.  Welby House seems to frighten them off.  Traitors!’

‘You’ll find someone; I’m sure you will.’

‘I’ll go and make the coffee.’

She got up and looked out of the window.  A few minutes later I carried in the old pewter tray from Egham, and two matching cups and saucers, Staffordshire bone china, unchipped, which I had bought last week from the PDSAs second-hand shop in Islington.  I poured from the cafetiere.

‘Help yourself to the baklavas,’ I said.

She nibbled one.  ‘Lovely.  I’m pleased you haven’t given up all the pleasures of the good life.’

‘Why would I?’

‘I thought you squatter types rejected everything.’

‘Turkish cakes are allowed.’

She put down her plate.  ‘I was thinking of travelling again, Jeremy; I might stay with people I haven’t seen for years.’  She stood in the middle of the room.  ‘I don’t know how you ended up here.’

‘I didn’t want to live a Surrey sort of life any more.’

Her gaze peeled off my squatting dreams and exposed my fears.  How could I have any vision of my own if she did not approve it?  Was my real terror not that I had rejected her but that she had rejected me?  I saw this place through her eyes: the torn section of flock wallpaper around the chipped door; the semi repainted living room, in a special-offer Dulux Sage Green, from the hardware shop on Holloway Road; the loose floorboards; the stained carpet.

Where’s the bathroom, darling?’

‘Up the stairs; first door on the right.’

What could I trust if she was not in my life?

Ma came back from the bathroom. ‘I forgot to give you the champagne; let’s have it now; it’s still quite chilled.’  She took it out of her Liberty-print bag.

I got two glasses from the kitchen, rubbed them with the drying-up towel, and rushed back.  She pushed out the cork, which bounced off the ceiling, and filled our glasses.

‘To your new life,’ she said.

‘Smoked salmon and scrambled eggs for lunch.’

The stale smell of the flat followed me to the kitchen.  How had I landed up here?  Why did I want Ma to see this place?  Was I trying to shock her?  Was I saying, ‘Just look how much I have rejected your fucking pretentious Surrey world?’  Five minutes later I carried in two plates.

‘Voila.’

We sat at the table and talked about family things, which seemed to come from a distant world.  The champagne intensified my sense of disjuncture.

‘We’re going to grow organic vegetables and sell them,’ I said.

‘Here?’

‘Yes.’

‘How sweet.’

‘It’s not “sweet”; it’s changing the way we think about the city.  Do you want to see the allotment?’

‘I know what vegetable patches look like, darling.’

After lunch we looked out at the square.

‘Come home for a few months if you want.’

‘I like it here.’

‘Do you mind if I pop off?  I’ll get a cab to Simpson’s; I need a new outfit for the autumn.’

‘If we walk to Archway Road, you’ll find one more easily.’

‘No.  I feel quite safe.  It’s not as rough as I expected; if I need help I’m sure the natives will be charming.’  She picked up her bag.  ‘Thanks for showing me your experiment in living.  Come and see me soon.’

‘I will.’

We kissed and she left.  As the door shut, I felt terribly alone and wanted to hear her voice again.  I recalled that day years’ ago at Miss Fish’s when she was late collecting me.  I had been looking out for her at the small landing window and pictured her face but could no longer hear her voice.  The silence made a void in which I was nothing.  Then I saw her face again, and heard different voices speak from her mouth, but none of them was hers.  It was as if she no longer existed.  Perhaps she had found another voice with which to speak to a boy just like me.

 

Excerpt from The Way to Hornsey Rise © Jeremy Worman 2023

 

 

About the Author

 

Jeremy Worman is a writer and critic who taught English Literature to American BA students for twenty-five years at Birkbeck, University of London, Cambridge University and Hackney Adult Education Institute.

He was awarded a First in English from Birkbeck, and has an MA (Distinction) in Creative and Life Writing from Goldsmiths, University of London, an M. Litt from Cambridge University and a PhD in Creative Writing from Goldsmiths (2021) where Blake Morrison was the supervisor for this memoir; the examiners were Francis Spufford and Sir Jonathan Bate.

Jeremy’s short-story collections, Fragmented (2011) and Swimming with Diana Dors and Other Stories (2014), were published by Cinnamon Press. His short stories and poems have been published widely in, amongst other places, The London Magazine, Ambit, The Frogmore Papers, the Cork Literary Review.

He has reviewed for The Observer, the Times Literary Supplement, the New Statesman and many other publications.

 

Website

 

 

Synopsis

 

Set among the rolling green Irish hills, Kelkerry Castle is something out of a dreamy fairy tale. For hotelier Bridget Marshall, however, it’s a dream come true…once she’s sorted out the mold, lead paint, and ancient plumbing. And she’ll prove to everyone in the nearby village of Shansally (pop. 119) that she’s not just another silly, dreamy-eyed American—including her curt (if utterly gorgeous) new neighbor, Liam O’Flannagain.

Only, this breathtaking castle has far more secrets than expensive repairs. While someone—or something—here desperately wants Bridget to give up and walk away, there’s another force tugging Bridget to stay. Because whenever she’s with Liam, the ancient past seems to come to life again, sweeping them along in a story they’re apparently destined to relive.

Now, Liam and Bridget are caught up in a long-ago tale filled with love, danger, and betrayal. The past seems to be working its magic on both of them, pulling them into a love story they’re helpless to resist. And they’ll have to uncover the truth of what happened all those centuries ago before history—and tragedy—repeats itself.

 

 

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Excerpt

 

The light swung skyward for a moment. “We’d best hurry and do whatever we’re going to if you don’t want to get soaked through.”

“We’re waiting on you, then. We agreed I wasn’t going to touch anything.” I returned to studying the triple spirals. The pattern was mesmerizing. I wrapped my arms around me to try to fight the pinprick sensation. It only made things worse. Like my hands were moving in the wrong direction. I could already smell a hint of ion in the air, mixing in with the grassy damp. There was something to see here. And it either very much wanted, or very much didn’t want us to see it. I could only hope it was the former.

Liam remained as still as one of the stones for a long beat before he moved to the one closest to him.

I waited, but nothing happened. “Did you touch it?”

“I told you it doesn’t always happen.”

You can’t seriously think it won’t happen. I couldn’t possibly be the only one feeling the energy in the air. “Try another one.”

The light in his hand bobbed as he moved down the line, stopping in front of one stone then the next.

“How long do you want me to do this?” he called as he started to round the mound, his light just visible around the curve from where I stood.

“How many stones are there?” I returned. I could almost feel his grumbling in the distance, but he continued making his way around.

His light blinked out of view. And I was seemingly alone in the darkness. My heartbeat rose to my throat, every nerve in my body alert. The trees continued to rustle in the distance. The sound somehow amplified in the stillness between the stones. To my over-charged mind, it sounded like laughter.

Christ… I blew out a calming breath and threw my arms down to my sides. I flexed my fingers to try to dispel some of the energy. Even if it was just a trick of the wind and the shape of the dip, I could see why generations would believe there was something mystical living in that mound. And if there were fairies, well, I supposed I just had to hope they weren’t pissed off by us dropping by tonight.

Last thing you want is an angry fairy, I remembered Liam’s words the first time we had talked about the visions. Now, I sort of wished I’d asked him “why?”

If anything, the buzz in my hands only got worse. I’d be throwing off lightning bolts from my fingers soon if this kept up.

And those damn spirals wouldn’t let me go.

I certainly had no desire to relive the last jump I’d had in the stables. Intuition bordering on compulsion continued to urge me forward. I glanced at the mound again. Still no sign of Liam’s flashlight. Taking a final deep breath, I reached out and touched the center of the three largest spirals.

The familiar dizziness hit, the electricity rolling over my body. The world spun, but it took form again. This time without pain. Not even the near migraine I’d felt every other time.

Progress?

I glanced around the darkness. The already consuming night felt all the more daunting, and I realized my flashlight had gone. Other than that, and the weight of Ellyn’s longer hair and odd-fitting clothes, though, everything still looked the same.

They were already ancient by Ellyn’s time, the thought registered. The mound and stones had been there millennia by the time Ellyn would have seen them. The corners of the stones softened by the elements and mossy with age. They were mystical old ruins, made by a mysterious long-gone people, the same to her as me.

 

 

About the Author

 

Jessica Dall is the author of such novels as Forever Bound, A Dangerous Beauty, and The Stars of Heaven. She has written across an array of genres, though her love of history and romance always seems to find a way into her work. Born and raised in southern California, she now resides in Maryland with her husband and daughter. When not living vicariously through her characters, she enjoys travel, crafting, and helping others with their own writing journeys.

 

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