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!

 

 

 

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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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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 . . .

 

 

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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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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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Synopsis

 

In the twilight of his NFL career as a middle linebacker for the Chicago Storm, Mike “the Steelman” Stalowski masks his physical pain and mental anguish with alcohol and painkillers. The fan favorite has a rebel image and a notorious reputation, and he plays a violent gridiron game fueled by inner rage.

While estranged from his wife and living in the fishbowl environment of professional sports, he unexpectedly meets the fresh-out-of-college Kim Richardson. She sees through Mike’s star persona to who he really is—a kind guy from the Southeast Side of Chicago who has never forgotten his humble blue-collar roots. The lives of the star-crossed, seemingly mismatched couple collide during a whirlwind romance that culminates in a tragic series of events.

The Walk-On is a timeless tale of love and loss that explores the consequences of personal decisions and the rewards of faith, redemption, and hope.

 

 

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Excerpt

 

He fumbled for his radio. “Squad…645. Confirmed vehicular rollover at Belmont Avenue exit, Lake Shore Drive. Send CFD stat, copy…stat.”

“645, copy. CFD enroute.”

He ran toward the vehicle, an older coupe with big tires and mag wheels. A wet blanket appeared to be wrapped around the base of a nearby tree trunk.

Pointing his LED flashlight in that direction, George discovered a young woman with a gaping laceration above her left eye. Her head and neck were snapped back like a broken Pez candy dispenser. Glass shards were sprinkled over her bloody face. Her eyes were fixed and vacant. A shredded sweater exposed her torso and a wingless angel tattoo above her left hip. Gibson checked for a pulse — her slender wrist was limp and lifeless.

Gibson noted the STORM 52 vanity plate, assuming it was a football fan’s show of affection. The driver, a tall stocky white male wearing sweats and a hoodie, was alive. His forehead oozed blood. The front seat passenger, a smaller black male, also had a bad head wound. Both were unconscious. Neither wore a seatbelt.

Their legs appeared to be trapped under the twisted remains of the mangled dashboard. The car’s front end had collapsed into the engine compartment. Probably lost control and rolled it.

Gibson took another look inside the wreck, stunned by his sudden recognition of the driver’s long, blue-streaked blond hair, wet and matted with blood. He quickly called for license plate verification. After what seemed an eternity, his radio crackled.

“Unit 645, Illinois plate STORM 5-2 comes back on a passenger car. A 1970 Chevrolet coupe registered to Steel Trap, Inc., 2020 North Lincoln Park West, Chicago.” The dispatcher hesitated. “Registered owner is Michael J. Stalowski.” An eerie pause. “Copy?” Gibson shivered and recalled two vehicles blow past him minutes before he was dispatched to the scene.

It wasn’t long before the fire department rolled in with a show of force, working quickly and methodically with the Jaws of Life to peel back the classic Chevy’s roof like a tuna can lid. Both male victims’ legs were trapped. Every precious second mattered in the race to extricate them. Within minutes, their stretchers were loaded into waiting ambulances.

The paramedics’ preliminary assessment of Mike Stalowski’s injuries indicated a broken right tibia and severely lacerated right wrist and forearm, gouged by flying glass. The passenger’s right foot was almost severed at the ankle by shards of jagged steel. The paramedics, fearful the skin and muscle connecting his shattered ankle bones were in danger of tearing off, hoped they could get him in the hands of surgeons before he bled out.

The lifeless female was carefully loaded onto a backboard. A neck collar was secured and an oxygen unit began to pump into her lungs. Paramedics worked feverishly to establish vital signs. Defibrillator paddles failed to jolt her heart. Despite the monitor’s stubborn flat line, they continued their valiant efforts all the way to the Northeast Metro ER. The wails of the three sirens overlapped in the stillness of the early morning hour.

By the time the ambulance trio arrived at Northeast Metro, a Channel 5 news mini-cam van was already positioned at the ER ramp, after picking up emergency responder radio transmissions about a vehicle crash possibly involving two Storm players. Gibson and three CPD escort squads set up a security perimeter to keep the ambulance entrance ramp free and clear. Quickly challenged by the arrival of additional media jockeying for position and curious early-rising pedestrians, the perimeter was expanded, sending the cameras and reporters down the block.

Despite their efforts, by dawn the hospital was swarming with local and national media. Head Coach Don Castro and Mike Stalowski’s agent, Shel Harris, rushed to the hospital. No one could fathom the catastrophic tragedy unfolding on the heels of last night’s devastating loss.

Reporters and camera crews engulfed Shel Harris as he approached the emergency entrance. Local Channel 7 sports reporter Ryan Donegan stuck his microphone in Shel’s face. “Mr. Harris, what can you tell us about the accident that put the Steelman and Christian Blackwell in the hospital?”

 

 

About the Author

 

Richard Podkowski, a native of Chicago’s South Side, began writing fiction while studying criminal justice at Loyola University Chicago.

As a United States Secret Service special agent, Richard protected U.S. presidents and foreign dignitaries and investigated major domestic and international financial crimes until he retired in 2003.

Richard’s projects include a Christmas romantic comedy screenplay and a crime story, both currently in the works. In his free time, Richard enjoys riding his road bike, working out, and making Christmas ornaments. He currently resides with his wife in Los Angeles.

 

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Synopsis

 

Twenty-nine-year-old Nina Abrahams is not in a good place. She’s been fired from her restaurant manager job after she stands up to her bully of a boss, her motivational speaker mother is helping other people get their lives on track and ignoring the derailing of her daughter’s, and her best friend, Lucas Wilson, the guy she’s loved since she was eighteen, can’t seem to look beyond the girl in braces to the woman she is now.

When a new opportunity comes up, Nina decides it’s the perfect time to start over. The restaurant needs a reinvention and so does she. Unfortunately for Nina, the restaurant comes with hostile servers, a belligerent chef, and an owner averse to change.

But if Nina’s brave enough to take on the restaurant and tackle the people out to sabotage her, perhaps she can find the courage to tell Lucas how she really feels, even if it means risking the most important relationship in her life.

 

 

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Universal Book Link: Books2Read

 

 

Excerpt

 

Chapter One

 

If Nina Abrahams hadn’t been fired this morning, she never would have said yes. At least, that’s what she told herself. Her face flushed with the humiliating memory: standing alone in front of Pablo’s massive I’m-obviously-compensating-for-something desk and realizing no one had backed her, Pablo’s smug face as he uttered the words his Napoleonic ego had been squirming to say for weeks, the sympathetic stares of her staff as she packed up her stuff, and the guilty absence of those who’d sworn to stand by her, but who’d evidently caved somewhere between vigorous nods in her attorney-general moment—Pablo is stealing money from you, he’s exploiting you, enough’s enough, we shouldn’t let him get away with it—and the sobering reality of monthly bills that needed to be paid.

As if Mondays weren’t bad enough.

As the credits for another Grey’s Anatomy episode rolled onto the screen, Nina blew her nose, dug out the remote from under a throw pillow, and hit the Mute button. She checked the time: 5:00 p.m. After being thrown out of the restaurant, she’d spent the day stretched out on her couch, working her way through copious amounts of Coke and corn chips while she watched impossibly attractive doctors tear into each other and their patients.

Her phone rang, and she glanced at the screen: Lucas. Not Pablo, the Uruguayan chef turned restaurateur, admitting to a colossal mistake in firing her, begging her forgiveness and offering her and the rest of the staff at Mateo’s Grill a threefold pay increase. That was Fantasy Number Two. Lucas had taken the number one spot years ago, and it had never changed.

Sitting upright, Nina cleared her throat of the residues of a crying jag. “Lucas,” she answered lightly.

“So there’s a charity fundraiser this Saturday,” he said by way of greeting.

“No, no, and no,” Nina said. And then, as though Lucas was hard of hearing, which she knew he was not, just hard on resolve, she said again, “Definitely, no.”

“It’s for charity.”

“Still no.”

“The tickets cost me five hundred dollars. Each.”

She rolled her eyes, which only magnified her headache. That was a bodyguard for you. Trained to think of all the angles. “You can afford seven hundred.”

“Think of the kids in Zambia,” Lucas said. “They walk two hours every day to get fresh water. This will give them a tap right in their village.”

She frowned at her phone. And at the man who called himself her friend on the other end of the line. “Low blow, Lucas.”

“Did it work?” he asked hopefully. “Can you get someone to cover for you Saturday night?”

She’d been fired, so that wasn’t an issue, but she wasn’t ready to tell him. Not yet. She couldn’t cope with the resulting lecture—and there most certainly would be a lecture filled with uninteresting words like “prudence” and “responsibility” and “discretion.” Unlike the satisfying words she’d tossed at her ex-boss this morning: cretin, thief, bully.

“Saturday night?” she asked, considering. “You must be desperate.”

“Desperate enough to continue begging, if that would help.”

She laughed. And that was when she found herself saying yes.

Lucas gave a satisfied whoop. “Thank you. I owe you one.”

Add it to the tally, she thought, suppressing a sigh.

Wedging the phone between her shoulder and ear, Nina stood and stretched out too many hours of lying curled around comfort food. Finding a Doritos snagged on her pajama top, she absently pulled it free and bit into it.

There was a charged silence. “What was that noise?” Lucas asked suspiciously.

She swallowed. Quickly. “Noise? What noise?”

“Are you eating chips?”

“What?”

“You are,” Lucas accused. “You’re eating chips! Doritos, I bet.” She heard him give a loud sniff. “I can smell them.”

“As if,” Nina scoffed, and then groaned as she realized how neatly she’d fallen into his trap.

“What happened?” Lucas demanded.

“What makes you think something happened?”

“The last time you binged on junk food, that lowlife of the unmentionable name had just dumped you and you single-handedly upped Doritos’s profit margin.”

A half chuckle, half sob escaped her. “Objection to the word dumped,” she said, and burst into tears.

“Nina Sarah Abrahams,” Lucas said, drawing out her name in warning. “You better not be watching something sad and romantic.”

She hiccupped out a “Talking to you…so not watching…at this very moment.”

“Why do you do it?” he asked in exasperation. “Why do you torture yourself like this?”

“Meredith and Derek are never going to get it right!” she wailed.

“Grey’s Anatomy? Seriously?” Lucas’s sigh was heavy. “I’m coming over. You better not drink all the Coke.”

 

 

About the Author

 

Lara Martin writes books about imperfect people living messy lives, falling in love and getting their perfect happily-ever-after. She’s lived in South Africa and Australia and now calls a cozy village in England her home. She’s tried a variety of amazing and awful jobs: video game reviewer, graphic designer, insurance claims agent (she has no idea how she landed this one), proof reader, feature writer, and magazine editor. She lives with her husband (always the first reader of her novels), two slightly terrifying teenagers, and the requisite psychotic cat. When she’s not writing, she can be found haunting local coffee shops.

 

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Synopsis

 

After setbacks one after the other at a young age, Dhaval Sonsoil accidentally stumbles upon a glimpse of enlightenment. In his childhood dreams, he sees visions of what he calls the void, the place of nothingness but, conversely, all-knowing. Challenged by a domineering father and pulled by emotions for a young peasant girl he is forbidden to see, Dhaval quickly learns that, enlightened or not, we can’t always get what we want. Ever persevering, Dhaval embarks on a quest for illumination in the modern world. But in doing so, he embarks on something much more profound: a search for paradise on Earth with coming-of-age philosophy to celebrate life in every moment for everyone in this majestic world.

 

 

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Excerpt

 

I always thought enlightenment was no more than a fairy tale. I assumed that to achieve it, one had to grow old in a mountain cave, meditate under a Bodhi tree, or be delirious enough to hear the sound of one hand clapping. Now I have come to realize that it’s something much simpler. Enlightenment is just another word for love, true and selfless love that enables people to experience joy in all situations in every moment of their life.

And yet, love has become a dirty word. Many will tell you it’s complicated and messy, that it gets sticky, that it distracts you from purity, that it can be done right, and it can be done wrong. Others will tell you that love is a chemical process in the brain and nothing more. And if you search for it any more profound than that, you’ll be waiting for a long like a person waiting to hear the sound of a tree falling in a forest that makes no sound.

And, yet, if you ask any two random lovers—I’m talking about the true lovers, not the Hollywood or Bollywood version, but two lovers that eat at each other’s snot and scent each other’s breath, who want to be in each other’s skin, not just be with each other—about enlightenment. They’ll tell you they don’t care. As far as they’re concerned, they’ve already found the answer, and it’s this: all you need is true and selfless love. That kind of love makes lovers feel content to stay with each other in every moment of their life, run through deserts and sail oceans, and climb mountains, because what else is there worth finding? They’ve experienced what they’ve been looking for, the joy of living, experiencing the depth of love, the catalyst, the glue that binds all creation from time immemorial, now and forever.

If I sound like a guru, I’m not. I was confused not just by love, but by life itself for most of my life. Sure, I read about enlightenment in books and saw it mentioned in films. Sometimes it was called moksha, illumination, and other times an ecstasy pill. Some others called it living joyfully every day without any worries for tomorrow! But either way, it was always something cryptic, an abstract idea people threw about at meditation retreats, seminars, and in ‘spirituality’ or ‘austerity’ or ‘postmodern art’ workshops, but inevitably made at least one person feel uneasy because big words meant significant opinions.

Would enlightenment mean having an encyclopedia inside your head? Or was it more a case of being able to project the past and the future like a film reel of dinosaurs and nebulas upon the back of one’s mind? Or, then again, was it more an aesthetic thing? A glowing halo and a white tunic? Was that all it was? Just an image? A pretense? Or knowing and understanding how to live a joyful life at all times in all circumstances? Is it an idea of something that didn’t exist but people clung on to because of sheer fear, fear of being a conscious presence in a universe that is nothing more than a black vacuum of black holes and giant spinning orbs, one of which we found ourselves stuck to, thanks to that miraculous and very convenient force we call gravity?

But I was never interested in what others wanted to tell me about enlightenment. I wanted to see it for myself. You know, I’ve always only ever wanted the truth. Absolute, not relative truth. Black coffee, no sugar truth, truth beyond illusion. Release from insanity. Release from chaos. Freedom from daily pain, struggles, and disappointments of life—release from greed for power and wealth. Escape from intolerance, violence, and desires of the world.

Did I find it? I’ll let you be the judge. Because who am I to tell you what you should think anyway? Who am I to tell you what the meaning and purpose of your life are? Too many people in this world are convinced they have theanswers. The world has become too loud, too distorted to hear gentle and absolute truths. I don’t think you’ll believe what I have to say even if I do tell you. You have to see it for yourself. You have to experience it for yourself! And isn’t that the whole idea of the one hand clapping and the tree falling in the forest, making no sound?

The answer is simple. As soon as you try to explain enlightenment or the joyful living in every situation in every moment of life, you have lost it, just like you try to clap with one hand, but you will not make a sound.

All I can tell you is my story.

 

 

 

 

Synopsis

 

Sylvia Wilson, a bar owner in St. Louis, Missouri, arrives at work to discover the body of an ex-police officer in her locked bar. The police focus on her as their primary suspect, so she decides to launch her own investigation into the dead man and his accomplices. But when the killer sends her clear messages that she and her loved ones are on his radar, she knows it’s just a matter of time before someone ends up dead.

 

 

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Excerpt

 

I moved to the front again, checking shadows before dodging into them. Reaching the door, I leaned into it, listening. Silent as a ball of cotton. The key slid smoothly into the lock and turned. I eased open the door. Watched and listened for any movement or noise. Nothing. I slipped my arm in and turned on my lights. The alarm was already off.

Mayhem erupted from my backyard as my dogs snarled and threw themselves at the sliding glass door with angsted fervor. I hadn’t let them out there. Maybe Aaron had stopped by. But the dogs were clearly upset, and they wouldn’t be if it had been my brother who’d visited.

Even if there was a noise, I wouldn’t hear it over the violent ruckus. I sidled into the room. Nothing but my blue furniture and beige carpet. Through the glass door, I saw Ruffles was foaming and standing stock still. When he moved, it was with the stiff-legged, high-toed, movements of a mechanical being. His upper lip was curled completely over his nose and the resulting sound came through the glass like an outboard motor. I’d never seen him so livid, and I honestly wondered how he could breathe like that.

Satan was throwing herself at the door again and again, as if she were a small missile that would weaken and eventually punch through the glass. I could picture the trauma her body experienced every time she made contact. If I didn’t do something fast, she would be covered in bruises, maybe even broken bones.

Something had upset them so much that even my presence didn’t calm them. Moving quickly through my home, I cleared all the rooms; no one was hidden anywhere. Then, I put the safety back on the gun, set it down, and went to focus on my poor dogs. I pulled out the rod I kept in the track. That’s when I noticed the dark brown handprint on the sliding door.

Unless I missed my guess, that was dried blood.

I pulled my cellphone and dialed Eccheli. It took him a long time to answer, and he didn’t sound too happy, but his sleep-cracked voice got animated the moment I explained what had happened.

He said, “Don’t touch anything. We’ll be right there.”

“My dogs might be injured. I need to go out there and check them.” Satan had calmed a little, but she still paced the window in agitation. Ruffles was standing stock still, growling.

He hesitated. “Do you have kitchen gloves?”

“I have painter’s gloves.” Actually, I didn’t. But I did have some of the gloves the police left behind at the bar. Close enough.

“Perfect. Go out to them, don’t let them in. We’ll get there right away.” He disconnected.

I probably was working my way back up Johnson’s ‘person of interest’ list with this middle of the night phone call. Nothing to be done about it.

When he’d said they’d get there right away, he wasn’t kidding. I’d managed to find my gloves, put them on, and had only been outside a few minutes. I was sitting in the soaked grass, trying to calm a frantic Satan so I could inspect her for injuries when my cellphone vibrated against my thigh.

Eccheli asked, “We good to come in?”

“Yeah, we’re out back.”

The minute the front door opened, Satan became all claws and teeth and twisted out of my arms. She threw herself at the glass door, ballistic missile at work again. As for Ruffles, I was used to his snarls, but the intensity of the one he gave at that moment scared me.

I watched Eccheli and Johnson as they entered my house. Saw how he noticed my Colt Python on the counter, pointed it out to Johnson, and how she nodded and pocketed it. I certainly hoped she was going to give that back; it had cost me a pretty penny.

As the two detectives cleared the house, again, flashing lights of an arriving squad car ricocheted off the back fence of the yard. I would probably be as popular in my neighborhood as a scorpion. At least there was no siren.

Mr. and Mrs. Detective returned to the front room. Eccheli leaned close to the glass, studying the handprint. Johnson stared out the glass at me and pointed at the door handle. When I shook my head, she pulled out her phone and called me. “How are the dogs?”

I shouted over the violence of growls and barks. “Ruffles has no injuries, but I can’t get Satan to hold still to check her!”

“Want me to call animal control to tranq her?”

I hesitated. I didn’t want to do that to my dogs, but I didn’t foresee Satan letting me check her any time soon and that bloody handprint scared me. I nodded to the woman staring out at me, feeling somehow like a traitor.

 

 

About the Author

 

Wendy Koenig is a published author living in New Brunswick, Canada. Her first piece to be printed was a short children’s fiction, Jet’s Stormy Adventure, serialized in The Illinois Horse Network. She attended University of Iowa, honing her craft in their famed summer workshops and writing programs. Since that time, she has published and co-authored numerous books and has won several international awards.

 

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