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1652 products
Bloody Ties
Bloody Ties, the newest installment of Serenity's Plain Secrets, is a thrilling and unpredictable adventure of corruption, organized crime, and murder that will keep you on the edge of your seat until the very last page.
When dead mobsters start turning up in Blood Rock, Sheriff Serenity Adams joins forces with a new recruit, a US marshal, and her ex-partner to solve the cases, but can she trust any of them? Her old partner, Ryan Donavan, is not acting like himself, and Serenity fears he's keeping secrets. For all of his politeness, there's something about Officer Jerome Wilson that doesn't ring true, and Marshall Bryant always has his own agenda. Throw in the Moretti mafia family, a Mexican drug cartel, and a hillbilly moonshine making clan, and Serenity has her hands full. But just as answers come into view, the investigations expand into the Amish community. The sudden return of an ex-Amish man marks more trouble for the sheriff, and local teenagers are once again facing bad luck.
As Serenity grasps at a little normalcy in her personal life, sinister forces descend on her town—and in a race against time, she must unravel the truth before she loses everyone she holds dear.
Author Bio:
Karen Ann Hopkins writes Amish fiction, mysteries, YA literature, paranormal, dystopian and romance for readers of all ages. She resides in northern Kentucky with her family on a farm that boasts a menagerie of horses, goats, sheep, peacocks, chickens, ducks, rabbits, pigs, dogs, and cats. Karen rescues and fosters a variety of pets and farm animals, but she also finds time to give riding lessons, coach a youth equestrian drill team, and of course, write. She was inspired to create her first book, Temptation, by the Amish community she lives in. The experiential knowledge she gained through her interactions with her neighbors drove her to create the story of the star-crossed lovers, Rose and Noah.
Blowback
Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans
About the Author
Joanne DeMaio is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary fiction. She lives with her family in Connecticut. To learn more about the author and her books, visit Joannedemaio.com.
Blue Lake
When greed, the law, and secrets collide someone is going to get hurt.
Two lonely people meet in the workplace and become close. Jason Erickson is a state judge hearing environmental cases who's getting unwelcome political pressure. Tara Highsmith is an environmental journalist covering some of Jason's cases, though she's soon to be exiled to the Science and Health beat. As their relationship develops, Jason and Tara discover shared passions for the Wisconsin wilderness, their book club, and each other. But Tara is married.
Meanwhile, Jason grows increasingly concerned about a strange conversation with an attorney. Was it an attempt at a bribe? Jason finds himself embroiled in several high-stakes ethical dilemmas involving powerful political figures, groundwater polluters, a corrupt developer, and his feelings for Tara. As he fights to stay true to his personal and professional principles, the list of Jason's enemies swells. Before long, shots are fired.
Full of intrigue, passion, and suspense, Blue Lake sets the stage for a thrilling mystery set against the rich beauty of black spruces, white pines, and austere Upper Midwest lakes. This is a compelling and richly layered story about nature and our place within it that lands with rare emotional depth.
Blue Mercy
A literary family drama, with a murder at its heart, full of emotional twists and surprises.
Will you side with mother or daughter?
When Mercy Mulcahy was 40 years old, she was accused of killing her elderly and tyrannical father. Now, at the end of her life, she has written a book about what really happened on that fateful night of Christmas Eve, 1989.
The tragic and beautiful Mercy has devoted her life to protecting Star, especially from the father whose behavior so blighted her own life. Yet Star vehemently resists reading her manuscript.
Why? What is Mercy hiding? Was her father's death, as many believe, an assisted suicide?
Or something even more sinister?
In this book, nothing is what it seems on the surface and everywhere there are emotional twists and surprises. ("Breathtaking, and I mean literally -- actual gasps will happen" said one reader review).
Set in Ireland and California, Blue Mercy is a compelling novel that combines lyrical description with a page-turning style to create an enthralling tale of love, loss and the ever-present possibility of redemption.
Praise for Orna Ross and Blue Mercy
"A lyrical, gripping and heartbreakingly beautiful tale of love, loss and the ever-present possibility of redemption." - WE Magazine for Women
"Epic sweep...ambitious scope... an intelligent book". - Sunday Tribune
"A riveting story...vividly brought to life." - Emigrant Online
About the Author
ORNA ROSS has worked in every branch of books publishing: as author, editor, teacher, mentor, novelist, poet and even as an (accidental) literary agent. Since 2012, she has been successfully self-publishing her own books and she is founder and director of The Alliance of Independent Authors. Get an email when Orna launches a new book: http: //www.ornaross.com/connect/new-book-out/ ORNA SAYS: "My NOVELS usually take the form of family-based dramas. Often they are historical fiction and usually there's a murder mystery or other buried secret from the past causing chaos in the present. I enjoy writing emotional twists and surprises around big themes -- identity, family loyalty, the struggle between freedom and belonging. My POEMS are simple and accessible and tend towards the inspirational. My NONFICTION is about applying the creative process to everything in life. We've all been educated to neglect our creative capacities -- a big mistake, as the Creative Age overtakes the Information Age. Thankfully, as with strength in any other muscle, we stop losing it by using it. The 'Go Creative!' books show how to become more creative in every aspect of life. INSPIRATIONS: #1: HISTORY: I agree with Mr Hartley that the past is, indeed, another country and it's my favourite place to travel -- reading and writing historical fiction is my favourite thing to do. I'm especially drawn to bohemian times and places where shackles are thrown off and creativity flourishes -- fin de siecle Paris (1890s); literary revival and revolutionary Ireland (1910/20s); hippy (1960s) and gay lib (1980s) San Francisco... #2: GENDER: I write the kind of women's fiction that explores what it is to be a woman, in various times and places. But I think both men and women have feminine and masculine dimensions. We are all seeded by man and born of woman and we all carry 'male' and 'female' characteristics. How these play out, in an individual life and in different societies, is endlessly fascinating to me. #3: IRELAND: I don't only write about Ireland but it is a strong influence. Because so many millions have emigrated from there, its stories reach beyond its own shores. There is always a particular flavour to Irish writing and readers tell me they experience in my books too. #4: THE SEA: Everything I really needed to know, I could have learned by watching the waves. #5: THE SPACE BETWEEN THE WORDS. About which the less said, the better.
Blue Twilight
Death came between them in high school. Will solving a painful cold case bring them together at last?
Carlie Webster remains haunted by the past. After a messy failed marriage sends her packing for her small hometown, she relives the memories of her sister’s thirty-year-old unsolved murder. But when rekindled sparks fly with the suspected killer’s brother, Carlie must clear his sibling’s name if she wants a shot at second-chance love.
Cole Paisley has never shaken his family’s dark reputation. Finally returning after merciless rumors forced them out three decades ago, the recent divorcé is stunned to discover the girl who stole his heart is also back home and available. And when she finds a secret diary in the walls of her childhood house, he’s determined to help her catch the killer and prove his brother’s innocence.
Desperate for closure in her sister’s tragic story, the amateur sleuth feels growing comfort in the man she always believed was her destiny. And when the journal reveals a shocking detail, Cole and Carlie must uncover the town’s shameful secret to finally understand what really happened.
Will Carlie and Cole finally get to the truth and find the happiness they deserve?
Blue Twilight is the fifth book in the page-turning Blue Mountain: Logan Bend contemporary romance series. If you like relatable characters, small-town drama, and a juicy mystery, then you’ll adore Tess Thompson’s exciting tale.
Author Bio:
Tess Thompson is the USA Today Bestselling and award-winning author of contemporary and historical Romantic Women’s Fiction with nearly forty published titles. When asked to describe her books, she could never figure out what to say that would perfectly sum them up until she landed on Hometowns and Heartstrings.
Bobbit Rock: A Psychological Horror Novel
"A Southern Gothic for the video-game age, mixing scares and shootouts, relationships and reprisals in one big, brash package." -Leslie Mizell, Editor and Writer
Still reeling from the death of his beloved wife and unborn child, homicide detective Isaac Murphy must investigate a growing string of unsolved murders in the shadowy city of Callahan, South Carolina. When mass hysteria plagues the populace, Isaac begins to lose his sanity and questions whether the killer is a man or a monster. But a terrible secret plagues Isaac's heart--when he was a child, he climbed the forbidden Bobbit Rock and unknowingly unleashed a curse. Now, he hears the deaths are his fault.
Has Isaac doomed everything to the wrath of the WRETCHED MAN?
About the Author
Landing, Jr. Joseph: - Joseph Landing, Jr. is a three-time author who lives in Charleston, SC. He started writing novels at the age of thirteen and had published two of them before graduating high school. He studied file and media at the University of Miami and spent time developing his craft in New York and Los Angeles. He produced an award-winning short film titled, "Project Godhand," during his studies. After graduating from college, he felt an interest in writing psychological horror. Within a year, he had written Bobbit Rock.
Bodyguard of Deception
BODYGUARD OF DECEPTION: A NOVEL OF SUSPENSE
VOLUME ONE OF THE WORLD WAR TWO TRILOGY
By Samuel Marquis
#1 Denver Post Bestselling, Award-Winning Author
Praise for Bodyguard of Deception
"Bodyguard of Deception grabbed my attention right from the beginning and never let go. The character development is excellent. Samuel Marquis has a knack for using historic details and events to create captivating and fun to read tales."--Roy R. Romer, 39th Governor of Colorado
"Readers looking for an unapologetic historical action book should tear through this volume." -- Kirkus Reviews
"Old-time spy buffs will appreciate the tradecraft and attention to detail, while adventure enthusiasts will enjoy the unique perspective and setting for a WWII story. As Marquis throws in everything but the kitchen sink, he turns this well-told, if byzantine adventure novel into a combination of The Great Escape, Public Enemies, a genuine old-time Western, and a John Le Carr novel."--Blueink Review
"The world hangs in a delicate balance in the heart-pounding World War Two Trilogy opener, Bodyguard of Deception by Samuel Marquis. Put together with an intricate plot to follow and a commitment to realistic detail, there's a lot going for the read...a wonderfully nail-biting experience with good characters and solid intrigue."
--SP Review - Four-Star Review
"As usual, Marquis's descriptions are vivid, believable, and true to the time period...Bodyguard of Deception is an intriguing launch to his new trilogy."--Dr. Wesley Britton, Bookpleasures.com (Crime & Mystery)
"Bodyguard of Deception is a unique and ambitious spy thriller complete with historical figures, exciting action, and a dastardly villain. Fans of prisonbreak plots will enjoy this story of a loyal German struggling to save his homeland."--Foreword Reviews
"A fast-paced, riveting WWII espionage thriller. Bodyguard of Deception is as good as the best of Daniel Silva, Ken Follett, Alan Furst, and David Baldacci and brings back fond memories of the classic movie The Great Escape and Silva's finest novel, The Unlikely Spy."--Fred Taylor, President/Co-Founder Northstar Investment Advisors and Espionage Novel Aficionado
Can the American and British Allies stop a vaunted German spymaster and his U-boat-commander brother from warning Hitler's High Command about the Allies' greatest military secret? It is a secret that could win the war for Germany--or, at the very least, delay the outcome for years with an inestimable cost in bloodshed, physical destruction, and suffering. And it is a secret that the two contentious brothers must grapple with within their own Wehrmacht ranks, as they bring U.S. and British intelligence to their knees on America's doorstep with the clock to D-Day ticking down. From a U-boat on the frigid North Sea to a brutal British interrogation center in heart of London to a remote German-POW camp and the world-famous Broadmoor Hotel overlooking the high plains and snow-dusted mountain peaks of Colorado, Bodyguard of Deception will keep you guessing until the final chapter. The first book of #1 Denver Post Bestselling, Award-Winning Suspense Author Samuel Marquis's World War II Trilogy.
Bones of Echo Lake
The discovery of human bones on the idyllic shores of Echo Lake forces Detective Jake Cashen to expose long buried truths.
Worthington County's coldest case heats up when ground-breaking on a new luxury subdivision comes with a grisly surprise. In full view of the media and half the town, a local politician uncovers the remains of a young girl, gone missing for decades.
The victim's bones speak from the grave, telling a horrifying tale of her last moments on earth. Her death was no accident. She did not die peacefully. And she had a secret not even those closest to her knew. But was it worth killing for?
Jake zones in on a prime suspect with ties to a woman he cares about. Revealing the truth will destroy her. The case becomes personal and those in power think Jake should step aside. Are they right? Or is a conspiracy brewing that could allow a murderer to go free?
Bones of Echo Lake is the electrifying third book in the Detective Jake Cashen thriller series. A former police detective, author Declan James brings you authentic crime fiction that will keep you on the edge of your seat with twists you'll never see coming. Perfect for fans of Connelly, Box, Dugoni and Baldacci.
Bound: The House of Crimson & Clover Volume IV
The House of Crimson & Clover continues in the fourth volume, Bound. Fate demands a sacrifice. Finn lost everything when Ana left. He's not oblivious to the whispers, the pity from others who believe he should move on. But he can't move on. Because he's missing part of himself. The part that makes him whole. Ana no longer knows who she is. Or what. She longs equally for what she has and what she left behind, torn between two opposing worlds. As Aidrik watches Ana's life force drain away, now beyond the help of his magic, he realizes fate demands a sacrifice. One that goes against everything he has come to believe over thousands of years. But it is the only thing that will save Ana now. The House of Crimson and Clover Series
This is the recommended reading order for the series.
Volume I: The Storm and the Darkness
Volume II: Shattered
Volume III: The Illusions of Eventide
Volume IV: Bound
Volume V: Midnight Dynasty
Volume VI: Asunder
Volume VII: Empire of Shadows
Volume VIII: Myths of Midwinter
Volume IX: The Hinterland Veil
Volume X: The Secrets Amongst the Cypress
Volume XI: Within the Garden of Twilight
Volume XII: House of Dusk, House of Dawn The Saga of Crimson & Clover
A sprawling dynasty. An ancient bloodline. A world of magic and mayhem. Welcome to the Saga of Crimson & Clover, where all series within are linked but can be equally enjoyed on their own. For content warnings, please visit sarahmcradit.com.
About the Author
Sarah is the USA Today Bestselling Author of the Paranormal Southern Gothic series, The House of Crimson & Clover, born of her combined passion for New Orleans, and the mysterious complexity of human nature. Her work has been described as rich, emotive, and highly dimensional. An unabashed geek, Sarah enjoys studying obscure subjects like the Plantagenet and Ptolemaic dynasties, and settling debates on provocative Tolkien topics such as why the Great Eagles are not Gandalf's personal taxi service. Passionate about travel, Sarah has visited over twenty countries collecting sparks of inspiration (though New Orleans is where her heart rests). She's a self-professed expert at crafting original songs to sing to her very patient pets, and a seasoned professional at finding ways to humiliate herself (bonus points if it happens in public). When at home in Oregon, her husband and best friend, James, is very kind about indulging her love of fast German cars and expensive lattes. Connect with Sarah: Official Website: http: //www.sarahmcradit.com Facebook: http: //www.facebook.com/houseofcrimsonandclover Google +: google.com/+SarahMCradit Twitter: @thewritersarah
Bounty Flight
Whiskey Flight, Volume 1
Bounty Flight, Volume 2 Cedar Creek Mysteries:
The Ghost in the Curve, Volume 1
The Glow in the Woods, Volume 2
The Phantom in the Footlights, Volume 3 Cedar Creek Families:
Building Fences, Volume 1
Crossing Paths, Volume 2
Breakfast at the Beach House Hotel
When Ann Rutherford's husband dumps her for the bimbo in his office, unfairly leaving her without a home or a job, she reluctantly joins forces with Rhonda DelMonte to convert Rhonda's Florida seaside estate into the small upscale hotel it once was. Ann, quiet and reserved, is no match for brash, bossy Rhonda, who left the family's New Jersey butcher business after she won the lottery. Amid their struggles to succeed, The Sins of the Children, a soap opera, films a number of episodes at the hotel and things get complicated in unexpected ways when Ann falls for Vaughn Sanders, the star of the show.
Breakthrough
ONE OF THE GREATEST BREAKTHROUGHS IN HUMAN HISTORY.
A SECRET THAT WAS NEVER SUPPOSED TO BE FOUND.
AND A CRISIS THAT CANNOT BE STOPPED.
Deep in the Caribbean Sea, a nuclear submarine is forced to suddenly abort its mission under mysterious circumstances. Strange facts begin to emerge that lead naval investigator, John Clay, to a small group of marine biologists who are quietly on the verge of making history.
With the help of a powerful computer system, Alison Shaw and her team are preparing to translate the first two-way conversation with the planet's second smartest species. But the team discovers much more from their dolphins than they ever expected when a secret object is revealed on the ocean floor. One that was never supposed to be found.
Alison was sure she would never trust the military again. However, when an unknown group immediately becomes interested in her work, Alison realizes John Clay may be the only person she can trust. Together they must piece together a dangerous puzzle, and the most frightening piece, is the trembling in Antarctica.
To make matters worse, someone from the inside is trying to stop them. Now time is running out...and our understanding of the world is about to change forever.
About the Author
Michael C. Grumley lives in Northern California with his wife and two young daughters where he works in the Information Technology field. He's an avid reader, runner and gardener. He dotes on his girls every chance he gets. His email address is michael@michaelgrumley.com and his website is www.michaelgrumley.com
Breath of Dragons
*A 2016 Readers' Favorite Silver Medal Winner*
After Prince Alaric's death, Daria and Alex set off in search of the legendary box of the Pandors'. The box is famed to hold a secret of power-one strong enough to overcome Lord Eris and the shield of power he stole from Valdon. Daria doesn't know where the box is hidden, but she can't ignore the silent urging, beckoning her to the land of Pendel-the land her mother, Aurora Pandor, was from.
Time is running out. Lord Eris's army of shadowguard vastly outnumber Valdon's forces, and if Daria doesn't find the box in time, Valdon will need reinforcements from the other territories to survive. But those territories will not hand over their armies willingly, not without Daria's hand in marriage.
And there is another, older power rising, one that hasn't been seen in centuries-one thought lost since the days of Galahad: the dragons.
Breathe Deep & Swim
“A fast-paced and timely exploration of brotherly love in the midst of family and political turmoil. Great for fans of Gayle Forman’s If I Stay [and] Jandy Nelson’s The Sky is Everywhere.” —BookLife
Perfect for fans of We Are Okay and The Thing about Jellyfish, this witty and achingly beautiful coming of age story will tackle what it means to be alive, loved, and trusting in a world gone mad...
All 14-year-old Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Thomas wants is normalcy. But a global pandemic prevents him from having anything close to a typical teenager's life. When Wolfgang discovers his father dead in bed from the coronavirus, his world is thrust into even more turmoil and chaos. Wolfgang and his 16-year-old brother, Van Gogh, know that they must do everything they can to stay together and avoid foster care. In a cross-country road trip, they hit the road in their father's Pontiac to find their only hope: the mother who abandoned them a decade ago. As they journey for answers to their mother's whereabouts, they uncover devastating mysteries about her that they never could have imagined. Just as they near their destination, tragedy strikes once more. Wolfgang is drowning in fear and pain, but he must pull it together or lose his family for good. Can this broken adolescent find the strength and courage to Breathe Deep & Swim?
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More Reviews:
“I loved Breathe Deep & Swim by Jenna Marcus and want to share it with the world. This book speaks of hope, innocence, and challenges from the perspectives of teenagers. Highly recommended.” —Vernita Naylor for Readers' Favorite
“...compelling...memorable...An often moving portrait of brotherly love.” —Kirkus
”Jenna Marcus’ incredible story captures the depths of brotherly love and the determination of a spirit faced with insurmountable odds.” —Manhattan Book Review
“Crossing over genre lines between thriller, suspense, and coming of age, Breathe Deep & Swim is a beautiful story that portrays the unconditional love and trust shared between two brothers.” —Amy Powers for Readers' Favorite
Author Bio:
Jenna Marcus is an academic leader and published author of the YA novel, My Unusual Talent. She has a fervent passion for leveraging her decade of expertise to robustly enhance and redefine the quality of teaching and learning. As an avid reader, she believes that every child should find a book to love. In addition to her profession experience, she holds a MS. ED in Educational Leadership, a MS. ED in Middle Childhood & Adolescent English Education and a BA in Literature; she is also certified in School Building Leadership and ELA. Currently, she lives in New Rochelle, NY.
Book Excerpt:
Chapter 1: Not Midnight
It felt like a phantom clock was striking midnight.
I thought I heard twelve chimes, but maybe they were ringing somewhere off in the distance. Maybe I was just imagining it because the sound of midnight—that finite clang—would have fittingly stamped this moment. But even without hearing the distinctive ringing of a midnight bell, even without confirmation of the time, I’d always remember this moment. At some point in the night, Dad had died, and we’d been left to figure out the rest of our lives, or at least the next few hours.
I’d never seen a corpse before, not in its organic form, before being preserved in a coffin—only after being coiffed and cleaned to a perfection that never replicated the actual living person I once knew.
At Uncle Earl’s funeral, he’d worn an intensely black suit with a matching tie, but he’d once said he would rather die than wear one. Well, I guess the suit was fitting then, because if he’d taken one look at that Windsor knot, he would have dropped dead on the spot.
Lying in that shiny coffin, Uncle Earl had been like a wax statue, a pristine, unnatural representation, not the Uncle Earl we knew. That wax figure wouldn’t ruffle my hair while saying, “When are you going to cut that thing? Are you looking to grow a pet?” It’d always driven me crazy when he said that, but he was being true to who he was; he was his authentic self. In that coffin, any semblance of authenticity he’d once had dissipated, leaving a body in a proper suit. I supposed he’d been prepared and preserved to look like that for an audience, to appear “more palatable.”
This was different though, and not because the dead man lying in the bed was my dad. This was different because my dad still looked like himself. He wasn’t made up for anyone; his life had just faded away. His lily-pad-green eyes were dull and staring at nothing on the ceiling. His jaw was slack. He looked like he was waiting to sleep, but his soul had left his body instead.
The most potent difference was the absence of living movements. He was missing those subtle movements, like adjusting himself under the bedspread, or twitching his nose from time to time. He was missing his stare, when he would focus on a particular point as if to turn it over in his mind before slightly shaking his head to refocus his eyes. His dark-brown hair somehow had lost its sheen, which seemed impossible since it had grown oily from not showering for days on end.
It was his stillness that filled the room. His severe lack of movement connected him to all other corpses, but because he wasn’t in the standard coffin, in the standard funeral home, I couldn’t shake the expectation of seeing him move. It was almost like I was taking for granted that people could move. Even if you were a quadriplegic, your eyes could move back and forth, and your chest would rise and fall with every breath you took.
It was impossible to mistake a dead man for what he was, and however I felt about this situation, I knew that he was dead.
“Wolfgang, why is this door open?” Van Gogh called from the hall. His footsteps began to slow to a stop as he hesitated to enter the room. We both knew this room was off-limits, and we both knew why.
Normally I followed the rules, especially ones set by Van Gogh, but I’d felt compelled to go into our dad’s room, almost as if…as if I knew that I would find my dead dad lying in his own filth. As I mentioned, it had been a while since he’d showered.
“Wolfgang, why are you in here? You know you shouldn’t—holy shit!” Van Gogh shouted, stopping a few feet away from the bed.
Although my brother’s eyes were usually a mirror image of our dad’s lily-pad-green ones, his naturally seemed livelier. In fact, they seemed to be expanding and retracting, if that was even possible.
I had no idea how to respond, other than to say what we both knew was a lie.
“I don’t know what happened. He just … died.”
He just died. Yes, he had, that was obviously true, but we both knew what happened, we both knew the cause.
Van Gogh ran his fingers through his short dark-brown hair, staring down at the body.
“Shit, shit, shit.” My brother didn’t always know what to say in uncomfortable situations, but that was probably because he was rarely uncomfortable. Even when he got into verbal boxing matches with Dad, he didn’t seem uncomfortable, just angry and disgusted. But now, as he continued to run his fingers through his hair, it was obvious that he was severely uncomfortable.
“I know. I don’t know what happened. I just found him here,” I repeated. Normally, I was very verbose. It probably came from the fact that I was a bona fide bookworm, at least that’s what my teachers told me. That was one of the reasons I did so well on my compositions, especially in English class. I usually knew how to sew together sentences that sounded articulate, but not obnoxiously so. Dad always said I was too smart for my own good, and that he couldn’t understand a word I was saying—but that was because he wasn’t really listening. He never really tried to understand.
“What are you even doing in here? You know you shouldn’t be in here without a mask!” Van Gogh exclaimed, adjusting his white N95 mask.
“I mean, does it really matter anymore? He’s dead,” I said, reaching for the mask tucked in my back pocket.
“Wolfgang, we don’t know if he’s still contagious!” Van Gogh cried as he pulled a pair of gloves out of a pocket in his tattered Levi’s. He handed them to me before helping me adjust my mask. “There, that’s better.”
We simultaneously looked down at the stiffening body. I didn’t feel his skin, but I knew my dad’s body was getting colder and that rigor mortis would set in at some point; it was only a matter of time. However, how much time we had, who knew? I couldn’t tell you what time it was.
It was at that point that I asked the obvious yet complex question I knew was on both of our minds. “Now what?”
Van Gogh took a deep breath, so deep that I could feel him holding it for some time—as if he needed the oxygen, any oxygen, even if it were contaminated. He slowly exhaled as he looked over our dad’s body.
“Now? We need to get out of this room,” he said, taking hold of my hand and walking me into the hall. My brother hadn’t held my hand since I was eight years old and he was ten. Even though Dad had never instructed Van Gogh to do so, he’d always taken hold of my hand as we walked across the street.
Although it was six years later, and I knew that as a high school freshman I was a little too old to walk hand in hand with my older brother, I was reluctant to let go. Van Gogh had always been my life raft. I knew I needed him, and I also knew I could always rely on him.
Although my brother’s plans weren’t always fully thought through, I knew he would have one. I knew he would do everything in his power to get us safely across that street.
When we were in the hall, Van Gogh released my hand and walked over to the couch, but he didn’t sit down. Instead, he just walked around it, circling it like a vulture waiting for the right moment to land.
I pulled off my mask and tucked both the mask and the gloves into my back pocket. I couldn’t help but watch my brother as he continued to circle the couch, looking down at the brown carpet.
“What should we do?” I just needed to ask this question. Van Gogh always knew what to do, even if he acted on a whim, which he usually did. Me, on the other hand … it took me forever to construct a plan. I had to think it through too much; I’d always anticipate the worst-case scenario and would end up scrapping fully formed plans. But not Van Gogh. No, he would just go with it and whatever happened, happened.
Also, my brother would take full responsibility for his actions, but he never seemed to regret them. For example, when he’d been caught tagging a wall when he was into graffiti art, he said that if Keith Haring could do it, why couldn’t he? Granted, I’m sure Haring’s younger brother didn’t have to use his lawn mowing money to bail his brother out of jail, like I did. Even though our dad had yelled at him for a good hour about getting arrested and focusing more on his art than anything else, Van Gogh didn’t seem remorseful. Although he never apologized to Dad for his actions, he did apologize to me because he knew that it had taken me a while to earn what became his bail money.
The following week, I’d found my money paid back with interest on my dresser. It was only later that I learned that my brother pawned some of his new art supplies to pay me back. I didn’t even attempt to get them back because I knew that if I did, it would hurt his pride. We never spoke of the incident again because there was no need to; we were brothers. We would do anything for one another. That was just a fact.
For this reason, whatever decision Van Gogh made would affect the both of us, and he knew it. He normally worked well under pressure because he never let it get to him, but this was different. We both knew whatever decision he made would determine our fate. Nevertheless, he would figure out what to do. I didn’t need to worry because whatever he decided, that was what we were going to do. Even if it wasn’t the perfect plan, he would make sure it all worked out in the end. He always did.
I knew not to disturb my brother while he was thinking, so I calmly took a seat in the chair adjacent to the couch. I was tempted to pick up the book I’d left under the coffee table, not to read it but just to feel it in my hands. There was just something about holding a book, any book, that just put me at ease.
I eyed the spine, a cracked white crease severing the dull orange spine that read: The Catcher in the Rye, by J.D Salinger. You only needed to read the book once to know why the publisher chose to emphasize the words “catcher” and “rye” in the title, but I chose to read it about a dozen times, to the point where the annotations I jotted in the margins could be time stamped by the evolution of my penmanship. I really liked it when even the publisher would provide readers with a subtle hint about the book’s deeper meaning. It was as if even those binding the book recognized its potential greatness.
As I was just about to lean forward to pick up Salinger’s coming of-age tale, Van Gogh stopped in his tracks. He turned toward me but didn’t really see me. He seemed to be looking off in the distance, at an indiscriminate part of the wall. It could only mean one thing: Van Gogh had come up with a plan.
“Pack,” he commanded. “Empty out our backpacks and pack everything we can carry,” he said, marching toward our bedroom.
Pack? Following him into the bedroom, I watched him riffle through his canvas backpack, pulling out every textbook and notebook that he could find until the backpack was completely empty. I don’t even think that he left a single pencil in there.
“Pack? Pack for what?” I questioned.
“We’re leaving,” Van Gogh stated, opening up his dresser drawer and pulling out a few pairs of socks and some of his boxers.
“We’re leaving?” I sounded like an echo, mirroring his statements but recreating them into queries. “Why?”
“We have to,” he stated, not looking up while continuing to shove his clothes into the backpack, trying to fashion it into a makeshift suitcase. “Damn, this may not be big enough.”
“We have to?” Van Gogh didn’t even bother to address that echo. He just walked over to my side of the room and emptied out my backpack.
“I know you’re going to want to take some books, but don’t take too many,” my brother warned. “We’re probably going to have to carry these backpacks for a while and if they’re too heavy, we won’t make it.”
“We won’t make it? Make it where?” Getting tired of my own questions, I shook my head, as if to reconfigure my brain, trying to prevent myself from being a parrot. “Van Gogh, where are we going? Why do we have to leave? What is the plan?” My questions came flooding out, a waterfall of inquiries that just seemed to spill out of me. I felt like I was talking a mile a minute, but I couldn’t help it, my mouth was trying to catch up to my brain.
“Just pack first, ask questions later,” he stated, punching down his clothes. “We need to make a list of essentials. What we absolutely need, not what we would like to have, okay?” Before Van Gogh could move toward our closet, I grabbed his wrist, giving it a firm hold.
At the touch of my hand, he finally looked into my eyes. His were a steady wash of green, with slightly dilated pupils, all nestled under a furrowed brow.
“Van Gogh, please, I need to know what’s going on. Why are we packing?” I pleaded. “I’m not going to fight you on this, I never would, but I need to know what we are doing.”
Van Gogh nodded, knowing me too well.
Although I would follow any plan my brother would put into motion, I needed to know the intricacies of the plan. This applied to anything, really. I had a habit of resisting something unless I knew exactly what was happening. For example, when I was little, I would scream when the dentist began to work on me because he had never explained what he was going to do before he stuck his instruments into my mouth. Apparently, I was screaming so much that the dentist was afraid to continue unless my dad agreed to having the dental assistants hold me down and give me a sedative. Although my dad agreed to this, Van Gogh yelled at the dentist when he heard the plan. Unfortunately, since Van Gogh was a kid himself, the adults won in the end.
Maybe it was that instance that caused me to hate doctors. I knew that we needed doctors to survive, especially now that we were in the midst of a global pandemic, but I just couldn’t get over this underlying hatred. Well, actually, it wasn’t not that I hated them, but that I didn’t trust them. I would always trust Van Gogh, though. I trusted him more than anyone else, so whatever we had to do, we were going to do it, but I just needed to know what exactly we were doing. I needed to make sense of it first.
Van Gogh took a deep breath and placed my now empty backpack on my bed.
“Wolfgang, we can’t stay here. Pretty soon, the state will discover that Dad died. As far as I know, he is our only living relative in this state. Uncle Earl was his only brother, who never had any kids, and Dad’s parents died a long time ago, so it’s just you and me. So, since there is no one who can take us in, we are now wards of the state, which means that we will be placed in foster care. I’m sixteen, so in the state of Florida, I am still a minor—if I were eighteen, it would be a different story, but I’m not. So, it’s inevitable that we will go into foster care and then we will be separated. I know that you don’t want that to happen, and neither do I, so our only choice is to run away.”
Van Gogh’s tone was so calm, but more than calm, it was steady. His tone was a stark contrast to my mind, which was still racing with questions and trying to process what he was telling me.
Words like “foster care” and “separated” kept flipping over and over in my mind. Was he right? Would we wind up in foster care? Would we be separated? He spoke as if he was speaking from experience. Even though I knew he’d never been in foster care, we did go to school with a few classmates who were not only in foster care, but who seemed to jump from home to home. Actually, to call the places where they lived a “home” was entirely inaccurate. They were more like temporary landing bases until they found a home—if they ever found a home. I did have one friend, Sophie, who’d found a permanent home with her foster family. Sophie said that she looked so much like her foster parents because they all wore the same black-framed glasses, and like her, her foster mom also had asthma. Although Sophie was adopted by a family that she loved, they’d adopted her when she was a lot younger than us, and she was not adopted with a sibling.
Van Gogh was right. Who was going to adopt two teenage brothers? It was a possibility, but we both knew that it was too slim. Van Gogh was right—we couldn’t take that chance, we needed to leave. However, he still hadn’t answered all my questions.
“Okay, but where are we running to? We have to be going somewhere, right?”
Van Gogh looked down at my hand, which was still gripping his wrist. When I let go, he placed both of his hands on my shoulders, and continued to look me right in the eyes. His gaze was even steadier than before, but his pupils seemed to retract a bit, so he looked more like his normal self.
“There’s only one living relative I know about … our mom. I know that she ran away when we were both very young, but I remember Dad once mentioning that she lived in New York when they first met. It’s a long trip but we have to make it. It’s our only chance to stay together.”
As I looked up into Van Gogh’s eyes, I nodded, still processing the plan. Van Gogh always had a few inches on me. For this reason, although we were both pretty lanky, his hand-me-downs were always too long for me. I knew that if our dad was still alive, the blue T-shirt and matching jeans that Van Gogh was wearing would be passed down to me in a few months—but now who knew what would be passed down. Our dad was no longer alive to make those decisions, or any decisions at all. So now, we sought a new decision maker. Our mom.
Our mom. I had not heard that phrase in a long time. She left when I was three and Van Gogh was five years old. Dad never spoke about her and didn’t keep any pictures of her in the house. I barely knew anything about her, except that she ran away and that she was the one who named us. I think that’s why Dad felt the need to shorten our names to “Wolf ” and “Van.” He couldn’t stand any memory of her in his house, and our names—our existence—were constant reminders of her imprint on his life.
“How are we going to get there?” I quickly pulled out my phone and did a search. “It’s nearly 1,200 miles away, and we don’t even know which part of New York she lived in,” I stated, tucking my phone back into my front pocket.
I could feel Van Gogh’s grip tightening a bit before he took his hands away from my shoulders and turned back to my empty backpack.
“The Bronx,” Van Gogh stated, picking up my empty backpack and handing it to me. “She used to live on Pelham Parkway in the Bronx. So, that’s where we’re going—the Bronx, New York. Now, pack.”
“How do you know that?”
Van Gogh shrugged as he looked at my backpack. “I just do.”
“How are we going to get there?” I asked, feeling the weightlessness of my empty backpack.
“I have an idea. First, I need you to pack. We are wasting too much time,” he said.
As he started pulling a couple of T-shirts and light sweaters off hangers, I took a look around our room.
I tried to relive that ubiquitous scenario when your house is on fire and you need to grab everything that is important to you. But I was coming up short.
Van Gogh didn’t have to tell me that we would never return—that was a given.
As I scanned the room, I saw cracking white walls that really needed spackling. Aside from the cracks, the walls were dull and bare. In fact, essentially everything was bare. It was almost as if we lived a utilitarian lifestyle. The unmade beds and the clothes in both of our dressers and in the closet were the only signs that the room was lived in, but aside from my books and Van Gogh’s art supplies, you would never know that we lived in this room.
Before packing any clothes, I decided to put on a few of the bulkier items so I could fit more books in my backpack. As we were nearing autumn, with the temperature cooling, I decided to pull on a sweater and wear my jean jacket over it. I was already wearing a pair of jeans, and my sneakers, so I thought I was wearing enough layers to be warm. Even though it was the middle of the night, I never bothered to change for bed. It was only at night that I could read my books in peace, without hearing Dad’s cough reverberating throughout the house, or hearing him calling to Van Gogh to bring him something. With my dad’s death, the house had become eerily silent, but I knew that even in this silence, I could never read here again. Van Gogh and I could never stand still here; we needed to keep moving.
I sized up my backpack and determined that I could take about ten paperback books, a few shirts, pants, socks and underwear. After I riffled through my dresser drawer and closet, I picked out my clothes and smooshed them down into the backpack.
As I scanned the bookcase, I noticed how engorged it was from years of hoarding books. Between the school letting us keep our paperbacks, birthday gifts from Van Gogh, and the library’s weekly bookfairs, I genuinely had an abundance of books.
“Not too many,” Van Gogh warned as he walked out of our bedroom. “I’m going to see what cash we have lying around.”
Alone with my books, I determined that, like with my clothes, I could only take the essentials. But how do you determine which books are essential? They were all important to me, every single one, whether they were assigned or I’d chosen them myself. Each book carried a memory for me. I could tell you exactly when I read and reread each of the texts. Only a few were annotated, though. These were irreplaceable, so these would be the ones I needed to take.
I narrowed my selection down to seven essentials: S.E. Hinton’s The Outsiders; Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451; Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart; John Knowles’s A Separate Peace; Amy Tan’s The Joy Luck Club; Khaled Hosseini’s The Kite Runner; and Jean-Paul Sartre’s play, No Exit. Every single one of these texts had Post-its hanging out the sides and annotations in the margins.
After I put each book in my backpack, I zipped it up and swung it over my shoulder. Although it had more heft now, I could still fit a few extra items in there.
I quickly found J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye underneath the coffee table, unzipped my backpack, and added this to the collection.
I can fit a couple more books in here, I thought as I turned back to our bedroom. But before I could take another good look at the bookcase, I heard my brother calling for me down the hall, from Dad’s bedroom.
“Van Gogh?” I questioned, as I inched into the room.
“I’m in the closet!” he yelled. I could see his feet sticking out of the open closet door as he was kneeling on the rug.
I diverted my eyes from looking at our dad’s corpse, trying not to imagine it slowly deteriorating.
Van Gogh moved over so that we were both kneeling, looking into the closet.
“So, I was trying to find some money, and I think we hit the motherload,” he said as he held a huge wad of cash in front of me. “There has to be over $1,000 here, easy. I’m sure there is more back here, we just need to look.”
I nodded, still trying to process seeing that huge bundle of money. It was wrapped in a dingy, white rubber band, so Dad must have had that money for a while now.
“I checked his wallet too, but there was only about $20 in there. He had a few credit cards, but those are useless to us,” Van Gogh said, as he sifted through a few pairs of shoes and pushed aside our dad’s toolbox.
“Why is that useless? Do you think that they are maxed out?” If they were, that wouldn’t surprise either one of us. Between paying the bills and our dad’s growing bar tab, he had maxed out his cards a few times.
Van Gogh shrugged. “Maybe, but they are traceable. Once someone discovers his body, he will be in the system. If we were to use the credit card of a dead man, the card would be considered stolen, and the police would find us. At least if we use cash, the police can’t trace us,” Van Gogh reasoned.
“Well, they could trace the serial numbers,” I noted.
Van Gogh smirked and shook his head. “You read too many detective stories. Hey, what’s that?” he asked, pulling out a small, wooden box, buried deep in the closet. Before I could look at the box, I noticed that hidden behind the box was a stack of papers and two paperback books.
The papers seemed delicate and a little crumpled. In the middle of the papers, there was a photograph of a woman holding a swaddled baby. Before I could inspect the photo, my brother said, “This box is locked.”
“What? Locked?”
“Yeah.” He pointed out the small brass padlock dangling from the middle of the box. “I didn’t see a key, though, did you?”
“No, but it doesn’t look like you open it with a key,” I said, pointing at the four small, metal loops jutting out from the bottom of the lock. Each loop had a set of numbers, zero through nine, etched into the metal. “It looks like a combination lock, but I’ve never seen one like this, have you?”
Van Gogh shook his head as he inspected the lock. “Maybe there’s a slip of paper with the combination on it. Did you find anything like that?”
“No, but I did find this,” I said, showing him the photo.
As my brother inspected the photo, he smiled. “Mom and you. Wow, I almost forgot what she looked like.”
I’d completely forgotten what Mom looked like, as I stared at her shoulder-length, wavy light-brown hair and light-blue eyes. She was smiling down at the baby, who was apparently me. I couldn’t have been older than a few weeks, maybe a few months.
Our dad never displayed any photos, let alone kept any of them, especially of our mom. It was almost as if he was trying to erase her existence from our lives because she left us. However, to our dad, she really left him.
“I also found these,” I said as I handed Van Gogh the papers. He placed the box next to him as he carefully, but quickly, unfolded the papers. Once again, he smirked.
“You know what these are? These are our birth certificates.”
I inched over to him to take a closer look. As we inspected the birth certificates, there was no surprising information. Granted, now I knew what the Mayor, Commissioner of Health, and the City Registrar’s signatures looked like, but aside from this, the time of birth and the hospital in Florida were unsurprising. Mother: Ann Miller. Father: Benjamin Stephen Thomas. It all seemed pretty standard.
My gaze lingered on our full names though: Van Gogh Vincent Thomas. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Thomas. I couldn’t help but wonder why Mom chose those names. Clearly, Van Gogh’s name matched him perfectly. Although he never expressed a particular interest in post-impressionist art or the need to replicate Starry Night, he was unquestionably an artist. Maybe that’s why “Van Gogh” was his first name. Mom had known that his artistic talents would emerge sooner or later. Maybe that’s why she chose “Mozart” as one of my middle names. Perhaps she was questioning whether or not I would be a prodigal musician, like my namesake. By making “Mozart” my second—not even my first—middle name, it was almost as if she were planting the seed of musical genius, but she still doubted whether or not it would emerge. Perhaps she had been right in doing so because I couldn’t play any instruments, and I enjoyed reading much more than I enjoyed trying to learn how to play music.
“I’ll put the certificates in my bag. We may need these,” Van Gogh said, as he pulled out his backpack and placed both the wooden box and our birth certificates inside. “Do you see anything else?”
“Just these books,” I said, holding up the two paperbacks. One was too thin to be a novel. I inspected the orange cover with a black border, and what looked like an upside-down building with white smoke or clouds bleaching the orange cover and a tiny white airplane shooting out as if it was flying into the lower right border. I read the title to myself, All My Sons by Arthur Miller. “I wonder if he was related to Mom?” I muttered.
“What?” Van Gogh asked as he stood up.
“Oh, nothing. I was just wondering if Mom was related to Arthur Miller. I mean, they both have the same last name, but maybe that’s a coincidence.”
“I don’t know. In any case, we need to leave soon. I’m going to see if I can find anything else. Meet me by the front door in a few minutes, okay?”
I nodded as Van Gogh left, leaving me to scan the other book cover. A lonely woman, who looked like she was from the Victorian age based on her attire, stared out at the reader with an expression of boredom. The title, Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert, hung over her head. Although I had heard of Arthur Miller, I had never read anything by Gustave Flaubert. As I tucked the books under my arm, and stood up, I couldn’t help wondering why these books were in the back of our dad’s closet—a man who rarely read. Despite not knowing who owned these books, I decided that these were the last two books that I would take with me.
Chapter 2: Stealing a Dead Man’s Car
“What now?” I asked Van Gogh, standing outside of our house. It was practically pitch-black, and it felt like the temperature had dropped quite a bit. Wearing layers was definitely the right choice.
I looked back at the house, as if trying to etch it into my memory. I don’t remember living anywhere else other than the house our dad inherited from his parents. Uncle Earl already had a house, so when their parents died, they left their faded blue home to my dad and his new family. Maybe it was a home to them, but it never really felt like a home to me.
Oddly enough, I didn’t feel a sense of attachment to the one-story, pale-green house. For the past fourteen years, I’d slept in the same room, read on the same dingy couch, and mowed the same patchy lawn. But it’d never really seemed like a home to me; it was more like a building where I could rest, read, and refuel. I once read a poem that began with the verse, “People are made of places.” Perhaps this was the case for that poet, but I have to disagree. Maybe some people are made up of places, but it was difficult for me to believe that this house was a part of my identity.
Maybe that’s why I did not feel an ounce of sadness as I stood in front of the closed front door. This “place” wasn’t a part of who I was. This was never my home. Van Gogh and I were each other’s home. Nevertheless, we could not live on brotherhood alone.
Van Gogh dug into his front pocket and pulled out a set of keys.
“Now, we drive,” he declared, walking toward the driveway.
“Drive?” I asked as he approached our dad’s 1995 Pontiac Bonneville— another “inheritance” from his parents. The sea-green car was caked with grime and dirt from years of shunning car washes. When Van Gogh opened up the driver’s side, you could see the tears in the beige interior from miles away.
“Get in,” Van Gogh commanded as he pulled off his mask, flung his backpack on the backseat, and eased into the driver’s seat. Following suit, I slid into the front passenger’s side, placed my N95 mask next to me, and tossed my backpack next to Van Gogh’s, praying that the car would start.
“Do you really think this is a good idea?” I asked, as he fought to turn over the engine.
After a few more tries, Van Gogh muttered that he would give the car a minute. Then he gave it one more attempt, and as if sensing Van Gogh’s determination, the car obeyed with the prompt rumble of the engine.
Van Gogh smiled as he shifted the gear into reverse and looked back at the dark, empty street as we backed out of the driveway.
We sat in silence for a beat before Van Gogh said anything.
“Did you bring your charger?” Van Gogh questioned as he gripped the beige steering wheel.
Charger! Damn! I’d known that I was going to forget something.
“Sorry, I forgot,” I admitted.
“That’s okay, I brought mine, but it’s in my backpack. Can you pull up Google Maps?”
As I was scrolling through my apps, I repeated the question, “Do you really think this is a good idea?”
As my brother eased the car to a stop at a red light, he turned to me.
“We need to get to New York, right? As you said, it’s around 1,200 miles away. I can’t think of a better way to get there, can you?”
Although I felt there was probably an alternative to this plan, which did not involve us stealing our dad’s car, I just nodded.
“Just take a deep breath and relax. Everything will work out,” Van Gogh assured me, hitting the accelerator as soon as the light turned green.
Breathe deep and swim, I said to myself, as I closed my eyes and inhaled all of the oxygen that I could take in. I may not have remembered our mom’s appearance, but I clearly remember that that was her phrase. Her voice was like honey pouring into my ears. “Breathe deep and swim,” she’d advised. Although I clearly remember this statement, I don’t remember being near a body of water. The setting is fuzzy and frayed, but I distinctly remember a lack of swim gear. No water, no inflatable, neon water wings, no swim trunks. I don’t even remember being wet or preparing for this eventuality. However, that phrase had stirred a sense of comfort and assurance in me, especially in that moment. Maybe it was because she was the one who said it, or because there was something about that moment that I couldn’t recall where that phrase would make sense—I didn’t know. All I knew for certain was that she’d said this phrase directly to me, and that this was my only memory of her.
Breathe deep and swim. Perhaps, when we found her, I could ask her what she’d meant when she said those words. Of course, I had a million questions to ask our mom, like, “Why did you leave? Why did you leave us with Dad? Did you leave us, Dad, or both?” The list was endless. However, one of my first questions would inevitably be, “What does ‘breathe deep and swim’ mean?”
Without knowing her intention, I had to apply my own meaning to the phrase. Whether or not it was “correct,” there was no way to tell, but I always said this to myself in order to prepare for a challenging task. First, you take a deep breath to build your confidence, as if you are breathing
in the world to absorb its strength. Then, you just go. You apply yourself to the task and do not stop. You just need to swim. You have to trust in the proverbial water and your own intuition to take you to where you need to go. So, you navigate the watery depths to make your way to your destination. Maybe that’s what Van Gogh did every time he took a deep breath. Maybe I was not the only one who ever received this advice. I could’ve just asked Van Gogh, but I didn’t. I liked to think Mom gave me—just me—one thing that she didn’t give both of us. Even if that wasn’t true, it could be my own personal truth.
“What do you remember about Mom?” I asked.
Although I might’ve been the only one who was told to “breathe deep and swim,” I knew that Van Gogh knew more about Mom overall—after all, he had two years more with her than I did.
My brother stared at the road as if he were lost in thought.
“In 100 feet, turn right on Cleveland Avenue and then keep left to continue onto US-41 North,” the feminine, robotic voice instructed. Although I was the one who’d plugged our destination into Google Maps, the sound of “her” voice still made me jump.
“I don’t know,” Van Gogh admitted, gripping the wheel, preparing for the turn. “She looked exactly the way she did in the picture you found. You know, you look a lot like her, actually. Same wavy, light-brown hair and light-blue eyes. I also remember her reading to us each night. I mean, that is until she left. Maybe that’s where you get it from. I had never seen her reading any books to herself, but I can’t recall a night when she wasn’t reading to us. She mostly read us the Golden Books. I’m not sure what happened to them. Anyway, that’s pretty much what I remember,” Van Gogh concluded, and we took a slight left onto US-41 North.
“Continue on US-41 North for 17 miles,” the female voice instructed.
“I don’t really remember anything,” I admitted. “That picture didn’t even trigger a memory.”
“Well, you were only a baby in that picture. Plus, Mom left when you were really young. It stands to reason that you don’t remember her.”
“I wish I did though,” I confessed. “It’s like a part of us is missing, you know?”
Van Gogh nodded as he concentrated on the road. “Yeah, I get what you mean—but hey, we are headed there now, so she can fill in the missing pieces,” he said encouragingly.
“Maybe,” I responded, playing with the strings of my N95 mask, wishing that I had more than one for the trip.
I hesitated before asking my next question. I knew my brother wouldn’t know the answer, but I was compelled to pose it anyway. I knew it was a question that he must have asked himself. However, I could’ve been wrong. Sometimes, my brother was easy to read. He didn’t believe in keeping secrets, especially from me. He was very upfront with his intentions and beliefs, especially with Dad, which was why they had such a turbulent relationship. However, every once in a while, Van Gogh seemed inaccessible. I didn’t know if this was deliberate or instinctual, but there were moments when he was pensive and withdrawn. Although these were rare moments, they felt isolating. I never admitted this to him—that I needed him to be accessible and open, that I needed to know that I could rely on someone, and that person would always be him for me. If not Van Gogh, then who? Our mom abandoned us. And to our dad, I was just a nuisance that he didn’t really understand. In any case, he was gone now, so it didn’t really matter. Whether or not we found our mom, Van Gogh would still be that person because, unlike our parents, he was always there. Even in those rare moments when he seemed to be living inside his head, I knew that eventually he would snap out of it.
“Why do you think Mom left?” I asked.
Van Gogh’s knuckles began to turn white as he gripped the wheel a little tighter. Even though we were moving, everything felt very still as I waited for his response. It felt like a good minute before he said anything.
“I wish I knew what to say,” he admitted. “I don’t know, Wolfgang. I just don’t know. She must’ve had her reasons, but they were always a mystery to me. I’d like to think she left a note, explaining why she chose to leave. It just never made any sense to me. But the fact of the matter is that she left, and if she did leave a note, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t have changed anything. She still chose to leave. What’s worse is that she chose to leave us with Dad.” Van Gogh paused to take a deep breath. “But, in spite of all that, she’s our only chance.”
I nodded, knowing he was right about everything, especially about the fact that Mom not only left us, but that she left us with Dad.
Although we both loved Dad, it felt like an obligatory love. This may seem harsh, but I doubted either of us would associate with Dad if he weren’t related to us. Yes, he was our father, but to say that he raised us would be a lie. Van Gogh raised me and himself. Our dad provided us with a dwelling, food, and clothing—but that was pretty much it.
Some might argue that that was enough. He was a provider, even if what he provided wasn’t consistent. Although he was supposed to provide money for groceries, there were days when our refrigerator was bare. Even though he was supposed to pay the electric and gas bills, there were nights when Van Gogh and I huddled together underneath a blanket, when he held up a flashlight to a book that I was reading so that I could finish the chapter. Since we didn’t have a mortgage, we never feared losing our house, but I remember a few times when Dad almost forgot to pay the property taxes.
None of these actions were done out of spite. I just think Dad envisioned a life for himself where his wife took care of these tasks. I would’ve never said this to him, but I firmly believed that he wasn’t prepared to be a responsible adult, let alone a single father to two sons. But even though I would never criticize Dad to his face, Van Gogh was much more confrontational and open about his feelings. In fact, my brother had even told Dad that he was an unfit father.
It happened pretty recently after we first suspected Dad had COVID-19. His cough was so dry and persistent, we couldn’t help but wonder if it was from our dad’s irrational insistence on smoking one pack of cigarettes a day, or from something else. However, when his frequent coughing fits left him lightheaded and out of breath, Van Gogh and I began to suspect that he had the coronavirus.
Despite our suspicions, Dad had continued to go to his job at the construction site—until he was too tired to move, at least. At that point, Van Gogh called in sick for him. That was only a couple of days ago.
Dad never admitted that he was sick. Even before he got sick, he never wore a mask or socially distanced himself from others. Once it became impossible for Dad to take care of himself, my brother ensured he remained in his bedroom. It became a makeshift hospital room, without a ventilator or any monitoring system. It was the best we could do since neither of us could carry him to the car, and any time we even attempted to call 911, Dad forced all his energy into yelling at us, screaming to get off the phone. By the time he could no longer scream—or speak, for that matter—he was too far gone. Near the end, Van Gogh and I knew there was no point in taking him to the hospital.
However, before this point, Van Gogh had one final confrontation with our dad. It was essentially the last conversation they ever had.
“Face it, you have COVID-19!” Van Gogh had exclaimed as Dad doubled over from his latest coughing fit. “You need to go to the hospital.” Dad cleared his throat and leaned against the wall, trying to balance himself. “Look, Van, it’s just a damn cough,” Dad asserted, wiping the beads of sweat forming on his brow. “Mind your own business.”
“Mind my own business! Are you kidding me?” Van Gogh had screamed, clenching his fists while taking a step away from our dad, trying to keep his distance. “This is my business! We”—Van Gogh pointed to him and me—“are in this house with you! You are putting us in danger!”
“You don’t know what—” Dad was cut off by another coughing fit. He pressed his palm against the wall as he coughed into his fist, which barely covered his mouth. I slid deeper into the couch and raised the book I was reading up to my face, as though I could shield myself from his illness through the sheer force of literature.
“I don’t know what, Dad? I don’t know that you can’t get out a damn sentence because you are coughing up a lung!” Van Gogh raked his fingers through his hair as he scowled out our dad, who continued to cough. “I don’t know that you are endangering the guys on the site! I don’t know that you are endangering everyone in that damn bar who refuses to wear a mask! What don’t I understand, Dad?!”
After his coughing fit, Dad stared directly into Van Gogh’s matching lily-pad-green eyes. They were both so piercing, and so stubborn—firmly believing in their own opinions, deeming the other one as an adversary. But maybe that was appropriate. These fights had come to define their relationship. If they weren’t fighting, they weren’t interacting. They merely coexisted in this house; their relationship was marred by their refusal to try to understand one another.
Dad didn’t understand me either, but unlike Van Gogh, I never confronted him about his beliefs or conjectures. I just stayed out of his way, resigned to the fact that he would never try to understand me, so why bother to fight with him? Why waste my energy? While this attitude came naturally to me, Van Gogh had a hard time letting anything go. Unlike me, he was a fighter, but so was Dad.
When you put two fighters in a ring and do not expect a fight to break out, you are just a fool.
“You don’t know anything!” Dad had growled. “Just stay out of it.”
“Unbelievable! Stay out of it!” Van Gogh’s veins were prominently bulging from his neck as he continued. “You go on about how COVID-19 is nothing and talk about how ‘fake news’ sensationalizes this pandemic! But even when you catch it, you don’t believe in it! To you, it’s none of my business, but it is my damn business because you can give it to me–to Wolfgang! Don’t you care? Don’t you give a damn about yourself, about us?”
To that, Dad said nothing. He just continued to look Van Gogh straight in the eyes. I don’t know what he was trying to accomplish in doing so, but Van Gogh played the game and stared back. I don’t even know if he was waiting for an answer to his question, but Dad’s silence said it all.
“You know what?” Van Gogh scoffed, “You don’t. I mean, how could you? You’ve never been a damn father. You’re only related to us biologically, but you don’t have it in you to be a father.”
By this time, Dad was fuming. His face was as purplish red as a beet, which was caused by a mixture of coughing and rage.
“Get out,” Dad had growled.
Before he could say anything else, Van Gogh picked up his sketchpad and pencils from the coffee table and marched out of the house. As the door slammed shut, a flood of regret had poured over me. Why didn’t I go with you, Van Gogh? What if you don’t return? Why didn’t I follow you?
As I sat next to Van Gogh in the car now—looking down at Google Maps, watching us inch closer and closer to New York—I knew I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. I knew I would follow Van Gogh wherever he led. It was the only way that we could survive.
Breezing
In the world of high-stakes horse racing, is it training, money, or luck that gets the win?
C.J. Jamieson is a young, gifted female jockey with a complicated past and a strong desire to break through in the competitive world of thoroughbred racing.
Trainer Ritchie Gallo, on the other hand, has spent half his life in the sport. He's at the top of his game, but he's never been lucky enough to train a world-class racehorse. Until now. He finally has the horse, but needs the perfect rider.
Call it luck or fate, but when Gallo comes across C.J., he knows he might finally have his ticket to the winners circle.
Follow Gallo and C.J. as they compete in the turbulent world of thoroughbred racing in a beautifully told, fast-paced story of triumph, tragedy, and perseverance. From the tracks of Saratoga to the famous Churchill Downs, their journey together teaches them that winning races on fragile legs isn't so different than winning at life with fragile hearts.
Book Excerpt:
Chapter 1
Ritchie Gallo sat on his track pony and watched the sun slowly rise. The mist and fog shrouding the Saratoga racetrack filtered the sun’s light and allowed him to look at the glowing orange ball without shading his eyes. This was his favorite time of day. The morning was still cool, so he could fully enjoy the muffled drumbeat of horses’ hooves hitting the dirt. Other trainers sat at the rail in front of the empty grandstands to watch their horses run. They measured speeds with stopwatches and made notes in their journals, detailing the progress their thoroughbreds were making in their exercise regime.
Gallo preferred to be mounted on a horse when his colts and fillies went through their paces. He was a horseman, and a horseman should be astride a horse.As he stared down the backstretch, a colt burst from the mist like an apparition charging down an apocalyptic battlefield. Backlit by the rising sun, the horse shot bolts of breath through its nostrils, creating contrails of vapor that streamed down its body. When the racer and its rider drew closer, the ghostly appearance faded, and the animal was once again a brilliant athlete sculpted for speed and endurance.
Gallo’s track pony, General Custer, stood perfectly still, even when the thoroughbred thundered by just a few feet away. The General was a gelding. The removal of his family jewels had done wonders for his personality, making him calm and docile around people and other animals. However, his bulk and strength prevented him from the speed desired in thoroughbred champions, so Gallo had purchased him eight years ago to be his mobile work platform. Together, they had spent countless hours observing some of the most expensive creatures in the world—thoroughbreds preparing themselves for the glory and riches that come with racing success.
Although Gallo now lived in Kentucky, he looked forward to these late summer races in his hometown of Saratoga. His family bred horses on a farm just a few miles from the track, so he’d been around thoroughbreds all his life, even dreamed of being a jockey as a child. His quest to develop the skills necessary to guide a twelve-hundred-pound animal around a one-mile oval at more than forty miles per hour began with a summer job working as an exercise rider. But those dreams were dashed when a growth spurt at age eighteen made a racing career impractical.With no prospects of earning a living in the saddle, Gallo decided to become a trainer. After graduating from college with a major in animal science, his father connected him with one of the nation’s top trainers at a farm in Kentucky. There, Gallo learned the art and science of developing racehorses.
He endured long hours, hard work, and low pay for thirteen racing seasons before he was asked to join the team at a small breeding and training farm near Lexington. They were looking for a young man with a great eye for horses and a willingness to use technology and science to create the ultimate methodology for turning a talented horse into a winning racehorse.
For four tough seasons, Gallo and his staff of grooms and horse attendants travelled across the country, winning races at regional tracks and then major venues like Belmont, Santa Anita, Saratoga, and Churchill Downs. He earned a reputation as a trainer who could design the right regimen for select thoroughbreds and ethically prepare them to compete and win. Gallo took on several horses that other trainers and breeding farms passed over and trained them to run in the money at good quality races. Over time, his compensation grew to six-figures—excellent pay in an industry notorious for its demanding schedules and low wages. Despite his success, Gallo knew he still hadn’t been lucky enough to train a world-class racehorse, one that could compete and win at the highest level.
At least, not until now.
Gallo pulled the reins to the right and walked General Custer down to the finish line. An exercise rider approached on a black colt that was covered in sweat and breathing heavily after a one-and-a-half-mile gallop. “How did he feel today, Hector?”
“Ah, he’s okay, Mister Gallo. He is a big, strong, fast horse, but el es un niño obstinado. He don’t want to do what he don’t want to do.”
“Yeah, I know. He’s giving me some sleepless nights. Okay, take him back to the stable and let the boys cool him down, give him a shower, and feed him breakfast.”The rider guided the colt to the northeast corner of the track, where security guards waited to halt Union Avenue traffic at the crossing to the stabling area. The drivers didn’t seem to mind the wait, and never honked. Why would they? It was a chance to see these magnificent athletes at close range. Some horses were moving from the stables to the track, fidgeting in anticipation of the activity for which they are bred. Others walked from the track to the stables, drenched in sweat, muscles quivering, and blood vessels popping through their skin. It seemed to Gallo that people were always a little overwhelmed by this sight. When did you ever see humans give 110 percent effort in their daily lives? These horses didn’t know any other way to live.Five of the six thoroughbreds Gallo had brought to Saratoga had now completed their daily workout. The black colt that had just left the track was Tackle Tim Tom. He held tremendous potential but was difficult to train. Only two years old, the horse had already run impressive split times in his last four races. Gallo didn’t want to geld the colt because he still felt he could train him to compete effectively. He hoped he could find a jockey that could connect with the horse and ride him to victory. If Tackle Tim Tom found success on the track, he would be worth a lot of money as a breeding stallion. Gallo also had a hunch that this thoroughbred was that one-in-a-million colt who could compete and win in the highest stakes races. To win a Derby, Preakness, Belmont, Travers, or Breeders’ Cup Classic was only a dream for most trainers. More than twenty thousand foals were born every year, but only a handful could win the biggest races.
As Tackle Tim Tom disappeared across Union Avenue and headed for the stable, Gallo’s other great hope moved across the street and stepped onto the track. Hit the Bid was one of the most beautiful horses Gallo had ever seen: a dark bay with white sox below her knees. Physically, she was the perfect horse—superb conformation from her head to her tail. She was big for a filly at 17.2 hands, and now that she was a three-year-old, she tipped the scales at 1,215 pounds. When she ran, she was what trainers referred to as an “A” mover: a low, smooth stride with no wasted energy. Her limbs moved forward and back on a straight line, and when she navigated the turns on a course, there was no lateral movement in her body. She carried herself with a sense of majesty and had a great personality—often playfully nudging the grooms that worked in the stable and entertaining the patrons at the racetrack with the prancing dance moves she made on her way to the starting gate. The only problem with this horse was that she loved to run too much. Unlike Tackle Tim Tom, who had to be in the right mood to run his fastest, Hit the Bid never wanted to do anything except breeze at top speed.
As soon as she stepped on the racetrack, she began to dance, moving her hindquarters left and then right. Her head bobbed up and down, and her ears stood upright as though searching for the roar of an adoring crowd in the gallery. In the saddle was Jacinto Robles, a jockey that had never ridden the filly before and was scheduled to be in the stirrups for her first race at Saratoga just eight days away. Gallo wanted Robles to put her through an exercise run to see how she handled and to get a feel for her ability.Hit the Bid had already achieved substantial success as a racehorse, having won several Grade Two and Grade One races. She was on the industry’s radar as an up-and-coming star, and Gallo’s goal was to prepare her to race on the biggest stages against not only other fillies and mares, but colts as well.
“Are you ready to go, Jacinto?”
“Sure, Mister Gallo. Boy, she is really a rambunctious filly. Is she always this excited when she gets to the track?”“Yeah, but it’s excited in a good way. Here’s what I want you to do: let her canter for a quarter-mile and then bring her up to a gallop. Don’t go faster than eighteen seconds per furlong. She doesn’t like to gallop—she wants to run, so she’ll fight it all the way. We have a heart monitor on her, and I don’t want her heart rate to get too high during the gallop. Once you’ve covered a quarter-mile at a gallop, back her up just before the three-eighth pole and let her breeze to the finish line. Make sure you get a running start at the three-eighth pole, because I want to see what her top speed is for the final three furlongs.”
“No problem, jefe. I got it!”
The jockey guided the horse away at a canter, moving in a clockwise direction around the outer periphery of the track where horses could walk, canter, or gallop. Once he had covered a quarter-mile at a canter, he eased up a little on the reins and stood in the stirrups, raising his butt off the saddle.
Just as Gallo had predicted, Hit the Bid wanted to run, and Robles had to use his hands, arms, and knees to hold her back. When the filly passed the finish line—where Ritchie Gallo and General Custer were standing—Robles let her gallop for another minute before turning her around and moving her down along the inside rail. He asked her to run just before the three-eighth pole. He didn’t have to ask twice; in a matter of five strides, Hit the Bid was at top speed, hurtling around the far turn and approaching the top of the stretch.
Gallo clicked his stopwatch when she was at the pole, watching her make the turn through his binoculars. Every time he watched her run, he was astounded by the athletic grace of this beautiful lady. As thoroughbreds run through a turn, they generate a force on their legs more than eight times their body weight. Despite this physical pressure, Hit the Bid maintained her line as she ran through the turn and kept a constant distance from the inside rail on her left. Her strides were straight, smooth, and powerful, and her head was in perfect alignment with her body.
As she transitioned from the turn to the straightaway, she made a lead change to her right front foot and accelerated toward the finish line. When the filly crossed the line, Ritchie hit the stopwatch and immediately looked at the time. He shook his head and shared the good news with General Custer. “We got us one hell of a horse here, big guy. Three furlongs in thirty-four seconds after a mile-and-a-quarter gallop. Damn, she’s good!”
It took a concerted effort by Robles to bring the filly to a trot after her breeze, but he finally got her to slow down and turn around, moving to the outside of the track. When he met up with Gallo, Ritchie bent over and hooked a rein to the filly’s bridal so he and General Custer could walk her slowly back to the stables, allowing the jockey to relax in the saddle.
Once they got back to her stall, Gallo checked her nose for any traces of blood and then took the wraps off her lower legs to examine her knees, cannon bones, ankles, and feet. Everything looked good, so he had his grooms unsaddle the horse and walk her around a paddock ring to slow down her heart rate. After that, she would be thoroughly washed down, brushed, and given a breakfast of oats, hay, and a small amount of other grains.
“So, what do you think, Jacinto?” asked the trainer.
“At first, I think she got a problem because she dances so much, but once you ask her to run, she does everything right. She’s got heart—un gran corazón. I think she can win against the boys.”
“Yeah, me too. Okay, she’s entered in the American Oaks on July 22. It’s a Grade One race for three-year-olds and up. As far as I’m concerned, you’re my rider. That work for you?”
“Yes sir, Mister Gallo. Just close the loop with my agent and we’re good to go. If we win that one, it’s a big payday for both of us!”
“Thanks, Jacinto.”
Satisfied that all six of his horses were being serviced by his grooms, Gallo made his way to a trailer that served as a temporary office for himself and several other trainers. Inside the trailer were a cluster of desks equally spaced throughout the interior with a couple of chairs at each station. It wasn’t an elegant workplace, but rather a functional one, where trainers could make phone calls to agents, racetrack officials, owners, and the farms where they each trained horses.
Now that the athletic activities for the day were done, Gallo spent the rest of the workday completing race entry paperwork, lining up jockeys, and giving upbeat progress reports to the owners of the horses he trained and to his partners at Stone Fence Farms in Kentucky. He enjoyed the business side of his job, but sometimes he felt it took too much time away from the horses, forcing him to rely on his chief groom to be sure the horses were safe, healthy, comfortable, and properly fed. As he had become more successful, the commercial aspects of being a winning trainer became more demanding. Keeping up with the increasing value of the horses, as well as the size of the purses in the major stakes races, was a lot of work—but his love for the horses and the competition made it all worthwhile.
At 4:30 p.m., he decided to call it quits. Since his workday began at five o’clock in the morning, he needed to be in bed early, which only left a couple of hours every evening to do something other than be a horse trainer. He liked to hit the gym several times each week, but tonight, he just didn’t have the energy for it and decided to enjoy a quiet dinner at one of his favorite restaurants in Saratoga Springs. After one last check on the horses, he got in his truck and began to drive towards the section of town where the eateries and nightclubs were located. Whether by accident or just drawn by nostalgia, he reached the street he considered to be his favorite in this small upstate New York town. Even though it was where he suffered the worst heartbreak of his life, he couldn’t resist its charm, so he made the left turn he had made so many times as a young man.
Both sides of the street boasted large, older homes that screamed “old Saratoga money” to anyone that knew the grand history of this neighborhood. His pickup truck was the only vehicle on the street, so he slowed down to give himself time to admire the handsome and exquisitely maintained houses. Halfway down the block, he pulled over to look at a home he remembered all too well from his days as an exercise rider—over twenty years ago, now. He turned off the ignition and found himself just sitting there, looking at the soaring grey-shingled house with green trim around the windows and thick columns framing a porch that wrapped around the width of the dwelling.
The porch swing he’d enjoyed on cool summer evenings was still there, right in the same place—just to the left of the large mahogany front door. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself laughing with Channing Mellon. They used to tease one another and kiss when they thought nobody was looking. Dark eyes, olive skin, and long black hair framed an amazing smile that wouldn’t let him forget he was with the sweetest girl in the world. Gallo was only five feet seven inches in height, but he would still think about how tall he felt when he placed his arms around her petite frame and held her close. He still thought about her a lot, actually, if he were being honest with himself.
Gallo had taken the time to stop in front of this house many times over the last two decades, whenever he returned to Saratoga for the racing season. And somehow, whenever he did, he always thought about the lyrics of a song entitled Summer of ‘69:
“Standing on your momma’s porch,
You told me that you’d wait forever,
Oh the way you held my hand,
I knew that it was now or never,
He’d had some great moments since the days of holding Channing Mellon’s hand on that porch swing—but he always wondered how his life might’ve looked if she’d been his partner through the years, rather than a memory. Life imitated art as the story of his love for this young woman unfolded. He was the farm boy and exercise rider who thought the greatest place in the world was on the backstretch of a racetrack among the horses, stables, and horsemen. She was the daughter of a Wall Street scion who truly believed that horse racing was the sport of kings, and he wasn’t about to let his princess commingle with the help.
Gallo kept his eyes on that porch swing. It swayed in the breeze, as though still pushed by the ghosts of his memories. He fought off a frown, thinking about how Channing’s father had felt he’d made a mistake allowing her to pursue her love for horses by working at the racetrack—even though it was only during the summertime, when they resided at their Saratoga home. Perhaps it had been a mistake, but not for Gallo. That’s when he’d met her.
She was mucking stalls, helping the grooms with the thoroughbreds, and walking the horses in the cooldown ring. It didn’t take long for him to find out she’d considered him handsome, funny, and a person whose work ethic and love for the racetrack had earned him the respect of everyone working behind the scenes. He’d introduced her to several trainers who paid her to exercise the horses. Her father was appalled when he’d found out about that. He didn’t mind her wearing riding britches, a black jacket, and a helmet with a visor if she was jumping over fences that were only three feet high and competing in equestrian dressage. Breezing racehorses, to him, just seemed so blue-collar. It was a job carried out by small men with foreign accents or white trash who couldn’t do anything else for a living.
This time, Gallo couldn’t fight off his frown. Channing’s father had eventually insisted she bring her relationship with him to an end and shipped her back to Manhattan as quickly as he could.
That was another thing he’d never forget: Channing tearfully telling him goodbye in their final moments together. She’d promised she would be back after graduation from Wellesley, as an independent woman who would take control of her life. He’d waited hopefully for that event, but over time it became clear that she wasn’t going to keep that promise. Whenever he drove by this house, he wondered if her family still owned it and if she continued to summer in Saratoga. He had never seen her or her father again. He guessed that she’d chosen to put a love affair that lasted two summers in her past, moving on toward a very different future—one without him.
Gallo started up his pickup truck and pulled away from the curb. As he drove to the downtown section of Saratoga Springs, he knew that in his future, he would always compare every horse he trained to Hit the Bid and, hopefully, Tackle Tim Tom. Trainers measured potential by comparing a colt or filly to a benchmark. He also knew that he had never married because when it came to women, Channing Mellon had always been his benchmark.
Bright Lights
Heading from San Francisco to Las Vegas, Milton's solo road trip takes an unexpected turn when he picks up Jessica Russo, a young woman in distress at the side of the road. She urgently needs a ride and he's happy to help her out. But what starts out as a simple favour quickly becomes something more sinister. Once they get to their destination, it's clear something isn't right. Working for the Vegas casinos has got Jessica's father wrapped up with the wrong people. A mistake that could prove fatal for him and his family. This is just the beginning of a dangerous journey that will take Milton from Sin City to Siena and beyond. As Milton goes deeper into a world of violence, ruthlessness and revenge, will he finally put his demons to rest? Or is he about to awaken the devil he's been trying to smother for so long? "Mark Dawson has all the skills. A great thriller writer on the top of his game." - Sunday Times bestselling author Steve Cavanagh
Bring Me Back
"For every woman who had a crush on a rockstar and still secretly wishes her fantasy would become reality. Smart, sexy and fun, with enough realism that it could be you." —USA Today bestselling author Louise Bay
Single mom Claire Abby is the glue that holds her dad and her college-bound daughter together, so when her journalism career takes a nosedive, she has to resuscitate it. Now the biggest interview of her life hinges on convincing a notoriously private man to spill his secrets. If only he wasn't one of the sexiest guys ever...
Tall, square-jawed Brit Christopher Penman was Claire's celebrity crush when she was a teen. In person, he's as she feared—unfairly handsome, utterly charming, and completely nerve wracking. Claire has no choice but to ask the tough questions, the ones he's avoided for a decade, but Chris isn't talking...he's flirting...
Before Claire can get her head straight, an improbable friendship forms. Then there's a kiss...and an invitation...and ultimately, nights Claire once only dreamed of. But as they grow closer, she learns that Chris's pain runs deep. When his heartbreaking history repeats itself, will Claire risk her future—and her heart—to save her love with the man she could never forget?
More Reviews:
“This had me gripped from the very first pages…I fell in love with all the characters in the book...This is an adult romance that I completely immersed myself in, and I highly recommend you do the same.” —Best Chick Lit (5 Stars)
“Karen Booth has crafted a compelling story about life, love, and second chances…Ms. Booth has hit a home run with this riveting story that's full of life, trials and tribulations, joy, but most of all, love." —Blackravens’ Reviews (5 Stars)
“Fast-paced, sexy and altogether irresistible, Bring Me Back is made all the more appealing by Karen Booth's inside knowledge of the music industry. A flat-out fabulous read!" —NYT bestselling author Celia Rivenbark
“ Bring Me Back is brilliant! It’s heart-wrenching, funny, sexy, and a dream come true for it’s heroine Claire and for the readers who get swept up into the romance and drama of this book. I loved it…If you are a fan of drama, humor and heart with a wonderful blend of bittersweet and delicious sensuality, then you need to read Bring Me Back. I've added it to my absolute favorites, the ones I curl up with when I'm down and need to remember to love and laugh and believe in magic." —The Book Tart (5 Stars)
"Bring Me Back is a story that will make you laugh, cry, blush and sigh...it is a story that will leave you wanting more." —Jersey Girl Book Reviews
"Hang on for an exciting, sexy, humorous and convincing dream-come-true read...It's one for my keeper shelf." —Manic Readers
"All I can do is gush over Bring Me Back.” —Talk Supe
"Full of humor, love, acceptance, compromises and raw sensuality, Karen Booth delivers an amazing read that is sure to land on your favorites list!" —Hesperia Loves Books
"Bring Me Back is a story every woman who has ever had a teenage crush on a band member can relate to." —Read Your Writes Book Reviews (5 Stars)
"Excellent. Full of swoon!" —Scandalicious Book Reviews
Author Bio:
Karen Booth is a Midwestern girl transplanted in the South, raised on 80s music, Judy Blume, and the films of John Hughes. A former music-industry exec, Karen writes smart, steamy contemporary romance—big city loves stories and rock star romances. When Karen isn't creating fictional musicians, she's listening to everything from Otis Redding to Duran Duran to Tokyo Police Club with her kids, honing her Southern cooking skills (she makes some mean collard greens), or sweet-talking her astoundingly supportive husband into whipping up a batch of cocktails.
Broken Promises
2022 San Francisco Writer's Conference YA Fiction Writing Contest Winner
"Young Sparrow's dilemma had me wondering how she was going to make her way through such a tension-filled situation. I could almost see her growing up, finding unexpected allies, and using her mama's native skills as she faced the political firestorm of the 1840s in California." —Stephanie Foster, author of Take Action
In 1844, fifteen-year-old Sparrow fears what dilemmas her grown-up life will encounter. Sparrow's mother is from the Chumash nation whose territory borders the Pacific. Her father is an American trapper and trader sent by his government to explore the rich California land owned by Mexico.
Sparrow's difficulties are compounded when she learns her father also has an American wife and daughter. Then, she overhears him making plans to overthrow the Mexican Governor of Alta California and acquire the Mexican lands for the United States.
Sparrow's tribal family and indigenous customs are threatened. She must decide if she will keep her father's secret and lose her homeland, or warn her mother and the Mexican authorities but suffer the loss of her father's love.
Author Bio:
Dr. Perez Ferguson is a cross-cultural educator and consultant. Her fiction brings to life the voices of California inhabitants living 200 years ago. Her non-fiction promotes the voices of under-represented communities in the twenty-first century. This earned her the 2014 Lacayo Lifetime Achievement Award from the United States Hispanic Leadership Institute. She is an Advisor and Former Chair for the InterAmerican Foundation and a Visiting Lecturer for the Council for Independent Colleges. She enjoys living and writing on the Pacific coast.
Brooklyn Monroe Wants It All
Love, career, kids-Brooklyn Monroe wants it all. Her beauty company? A triumph. Her love life? Total fail. At 42, that makes motherhood her top priority. With no man in her life, she's prepared to fly solo, but her plan is derailed when a mailing list mishap turns Brooklyn into a someone-get-me-pregnant internet meme. Making her PR nightmare go away entails a soul-baring interview on national TV. And the guy asking the questions? Her all-too sexy ex.
Talk show host Alec Trakas is the king of bad timing. Case in point, his heartbreaking romance with Brooklyn. Alec was all about commitment but Brooklyn was launching her start-up, and forever wasn't in the cards. Now a shot at his ultimate dream job depends on convincing Brooklyn to spill the secrets leading to her viral celebrity. It sets Alec's star rising, but puts Brooklyn in a sea of flirty men. Fate has thrown them back together. Sparks are flying. But is the timing finally right? Because having it all might not be worth the risk of losing each other again.
Brooklyn Monroe Wants It All will be released October 25, 2021. It's set in the beauty circles of Manhattan, just like Gray Hair Don't Care, and includes appearances from Lela and Donovan. Happy ending guaranteed!
"With this funny, surprising novel, Booth might just have written the definitive Gen-X romance." -Publishers Weekly starred review for Gray Hair Don't Care.
Brown Skin Girl
When sixteen-year-old Mytrae Meliana and her family emigrate from India to the U.S., she is determined to avoid the arranged marriage her family expects her to have, and to create her own destiny. But when she falls in love with an American man, her family drags the talented graduate student back to India and keeps her hostage.
Mytrae suddenly finds herself heartbroken and trapped in her homeland, where women's fates are decided for them. But that isn't her only challenge. She must decide: live a lie and keep the secret she'd rather forget, or dare to break with centuries-old tradition and forge a path of her own.
This multicultural inspirational memoir by an award-winning writer is about how family loves and wounds each other, about how immigrants are torn between cultures, and about leaving everything to find yourself. At times heartbreaking, at times triumphant, Brown Skin Girl is a testament to freedom, love, and the magic that finds you when you follow your heart.
Author Bio:
Mytrae Meliana (pronounced my-thray-yee) is an award-winning writer, spiritual teacher, speaker, and holistic psychotherapist. She leads workshops for women who desire to heal from trauma, liberate themselves from patriarchy, connect with the Divine Feminine, and create true, bold, inspired lives. Her own life experience and 15-year career as a psychotherapist shaped Mytrae's professional approach. She increasingly sought ways her clients with trauma could heal quickly so they could live their dreams. When she had a miracle healing from Lyme disease, she was ushered into a paradigm of Spirit and vibration where change can happen at the speed of light. Mytrae is Founder of Temple of Sound Healing and teaches individuals and organizations the practice of sound, story, and Spirit medicine for trauma. She channels healing music transmissions on the piano and has recorded two CDs. She is also a spiritual channel. When she isn't working, you might find Mytrae hiking by the ocean and on hillside trails, traveling, or discovering restaurants with friends in the San Francisco Bay Area. Connect with her at www.mytraemeliana.com.
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Buckaroo Chuck: Cowboy For Reals
2020 Mom's Choice Award Winner
"...wholesome... beautiful... I would certainly recommend Buckaroo Chuck: Cowboy For Reals as a great starter picture book for rodeo fans and little buckaroos everywhere." —Kirkus
"...inspiring children to never give up on their goals." —Children's Bookwatch, Midwest Book Review
Ride along with Buckaroo Chuck as he goes from hopeful youngster to accomplished bull rider. This action-filled story takes the reader through the motions, tumbles and falls of a young buckaroo as he becomes a confident rodeo man. No matter how many times Chuck falls off, he never loses sight of his dream.
The author's purpose is two-fold: promoting the use of helmets and vests when riding in the arena, and inspiring both children and adults to give it their all and never give up.
Author Bio:
Most comfortable in jeans and cowboy boots, Lexi Kinney is an LA city girl with a cowgirl's heart. Lexi has 10 siblings, and is mother to 5 and granny to 5. As the author of 4 picture books—Buckaroo Chuck, Little Rosie Rodeo, Animal Jax, and Little Joe Smileyhead—she draws from her many life experiences to inspire children everywhere."
Building Your Leadership Toolbox
We're all searching for ways to live life to its fullest, be the best in our careers, and lead effectively. But what are the concrete steps to get you there? Business professional, Coach John Wandolowski had the same question. In his first supervisory position, Wandolowski became a student of Dr. Michael Durst's revolutionary Management by Responsibility concept. Through years of studying and putting these concepts into practice, Wandolowski, a successful business leader and teacher in his own right, has devised a strategy for achieving more. Using the premise that "we are responsible for everything in our experience, whether we like it or not," Wandolowski teaches empowering methods that will inspire others and give new and experienced leaders the confidence to level up their careers. Understanding that work and business are based upon human interaction, Building Your Leadership Toolbox introduces strategies that you can begin applying right now to supercharge your business.
Every good craftsperson has a toolbox at the ready for whatever challenges their next project offers. At work, what is in your toolbox? From honing self-awareness to confronting and improving your limitations as a leader, learn to optimize the employee and customer interactions you have daily while removing obstacles and reducing limiting situations. Now is the time to invest in yourself, to give yourself the insights that other successful leaders rely on. Equip yourself with the essentials by following Wandolowski's concise guidance to get more from your team, achieve loyalty, and become more motivated and in control of your business.
Bungalow by the Bay
Maybe there's time for one last wish at Lighthouse Point...
Courtney Davis is perfectly content with the new life she's found for herself and her son on Belle Island. They are finally safe from her past.
AJ Hamilton can't shake his past. He finished trying to prove to his family, the media, or anyone else that he's anything more than the black sheep of the wealthy Hamilton family.
When AJ arrives to hide out at the island, the oh-so-responsible Courtney falls for the footloose playboy. And AJ might just have found the one woman he wants to convince he's not really the person everyone believes he is.
But when AJ's choices accidentally put Courtney's son in danger, there's no escaping the past for either AJ or Courtney.
Maybe everyone is right about AJ.
Maybe Courtney will never truly be safe.
Or maybe, just maybe, one last wish at Lighthouse Point will change everything...
Bungalow on Pelican Way
The dramatic continuation of the Emerald Cove saga from a USA Today Bestselling Author.
Moving to the Cove gave Rebecca De Vries a place to hide from her abusive ex. Now that he's in jail, she can get back to living her life as a police officer in her adopted hometown working alongside her intractable but very attractive boss, Franklin.
When Franklin's ex-fiancee comes back to town it will disrupt everything developing between the two of them.
Cindy's ex-husband has returned to the Cove as well, along with the woman he left her for. And it isn't long before his presence disrupts Cindy's burgeoning relationship with the town doctor, his former best friend. A face-off with the girlfriend throws Cindy into a tailspin, but in the end she'll have to make a decision about what, or who, is more important to her.
Meg and Brad get some good news, but with his paraplegia they'll learn once again that nothing is as easy now as they'd hoped it would be.
Please note: This book is the third instalment in the ongoing Emerald Cove saga.
Buried in Secrets: Carly Moore #4
Burn the Ashes
Bury Your Past
When a violent storm uncovers the remains of an unknown young woman, long buried among the sand dunes, DI Tom Janssen must piece together fragmentary evidence to determine how she came to be there.
In the years she lay undiscovered several young women have disappeared and as the team work through the possibilities they come to an uncomfortable conclusion... is a serial killer stalking coastal Norfolk? Each missing person had a story. Each of them had enemies. Some were more dangerous than others...
They appealed to the same men, dabbled in the occult and came to the attention of powerful figures who would brush them aside without a second thought. But who had the motivation to kill? Where is the killer now? When the past is brought into the light will they be willing to ensure their closely guarded secrets remain buried?
To do so, they will have to kill again...
Set within the mysterious beauty of coastal Norfolk, this fast-paced British detective novel is a dark murder mystery with a little humour and a touch of romance, one that will keep you guessing until the very end when the final shocking twist is revealed.
Bury Your Past is the second novel in a new series of thrillers from Amazon number one bestselling crime writer, JM Dalgliesh, the author of the Dark Yorkshire books. Perfect for fans of LJ Ross, JD Kirk, Angela Marsons, Joy Ellis and Damien Boyd.
About the Author
Dalgliesh, J. M.: - Jason Dalgliesh was born on the south coast of England and grew up in Hampshire, UK. He has worked in the power transmission industry, the retail sector, call centres and as a night-owl in a bakery. His greatest challenge of all is ongoing, as a stay at home parent. Having spent time abroad, Jason has lived and worked in various parts of England as well as the Scottish Highlands. He currently resides in Norfolk with his wife and two young children.
Buy-Sell Agreements: The Last Will & Testament for Your Business
"Paul's book is written in plain language that even a client can understand, yet it still manages to cover virtually all of the key issues that a business owner needs to address.... Buy this book." -Howard M. Zaritsky, Esq., co-author, Structuring Buy-Sell Agreements: Analysis with Forms, Second Edition.
"Paul is extremely knowledgeable about buy-sell agreements, valuation and estate planning for the business owner. He clearly has a passion for the topic and depth of experience that shows throughout the breadth of the work." -Edwin P. Morrow III, J.D., LL.M., CFP(R), Huntington National Bank, co-author, The Tools & Techniques of Estate Planning (19th Ed.)
A buy-sell agreement (BSA) must set the rules of transition for a closely-held business. Author L. Paul Hood, Jr. shares 30+ years of experience writing BSAs to help business owners avoid the ugly consequences of a poorly drafted BSA. You'll learn about:
- Types of BSA agreements
- BSA trigger events
- Tax consequences of BSAs
- Best practices for best outcomes
Filled with expert information, handy checklists, and useful templates, Buy-Sell Agreements: The Last Will & Testament for Your Business will help you prepare a quality BSA as well as be the lifeline for your business in times of transition.
About the Author
Hood, L. Paul, Jr.: - A native of Louisiana (and a double LSU Tiger), Paul Hood obtained his undergraduate and law degrees from Louisiana State University and an LL.M. in taxation from Georgetown University Law Center before settling down to practice tax and estate planning law in the New Orleans area. Paul has taught at the University of New Orleans, Northeastern University, The University of Toledo College of Law and Ohio Northern University Pettit College of Law. The proud father of two Eagle Scouts and LSU Tigers, Paul has authored or co-authored seven books and over 500 professional articles on estate, charitable and tax planning and business valuation. He was with The University of Toledo Foundation for over four years as Director of Planned Giving, leaving in January 2018. Today, Paul is an author, speaker and consultant on tax, estate and charitable planning. He also is a Vice-President with Thompson & Associates, a charitable estate planning firm.
By Broken Birch Bay
“Through an intricate weaving of characters, Knipfer constructs an engaging story that doesn’t just live on the printed page, but the characters speak to your heart.” —Readers’ Favorite
Set in the early twentieth century, single mother, Petra Livingston, and her young son, Jefferson, have come home to Broken Birch Bay, Minnesota braving the town gossips over her sordid past.
Spurred by contention with her dad, Petra takes a job at a local cafe, working for her independence and meets Don De Muir, who worms his way into her heart-which she swore she'd never give away again.
Thrilled to have her ally and sister, Petra, back home, Honey sets aside her mom's disappointment in her and plans her wedding to a local fisherman, Jeb Spangler, a man with a broken past and a temper. However, as the time draws near, Honey gets cold feel, reevaluating her feelings for Jeb.
Will Petra allow Don past her defenses? Will Honey and Jeb move forward into their future or be derailed by what comes between them? Will it be one of the sisters, a boyfriend, or a parent who lifts their hand to protect another, taking a life in the process?
Told in a split-timeline of prison diary entries and narrative, fans of Christian mystery, Christian historical fiction, and clean romance will relish this unique mystery.
More Reviews:
“Knipfer masterfully weaves a small-town historical drama, peppered with a sharply crafted whodunit, resulting in a rustic and remarkably engaging work of pastoral historical fiction.” —Self-Publishing Review
”Written in a way that evokes all kinds of emotions. Knipfer does a fabulous job of weaving a story full of suspense, love, tension, and mystery.” —KC Hart, bestselling author of the Katy Cross mystery series
Author Bio:
Jenny Knipfer lives in Wisconsin with her husband, Ken, and their pet Yorkie, Ruby. She is also a mom and loves being a grandma. She enjoys many creative pursuits but finds writing the most fulfilling.
California Roll: A Paranormal Journey
"Hard-edged truck-driving thriller faces American racism with killer prose." -BookLife
"The suspense kept me on the edge of my seat. There was always a surprise waiting around the corner, and I could never predict what would happen." -Readers' Favorite
"Amos expertly builds the tension and delivers a variety of plot twists that keep the reader engaged." -City Book Review
"...a unique and intriguing story helmed by a blue-collar Everyman who transforms into an action hero (and possibly a pawn in a demonic game)." -Rob Errera, IndieReader
"A dialogue-heavy adventure that offers some clever twists and an unlikely underdog hero." -Kirkus
A dark energy has followed Noah Sowles since he was a child. As he hammers his big rig alone over the backroads and highways of the country, it's only getting worse.
In the wilderness of the Northern California redwoods, he's highjacked and brutally abducted by two seedy, racist men. They deliver him to their boss, an enigmatic owner of a thriving marijuana farm. After days of struggling for his life, he accepts a dangerous, non-negotiable deal: to drive the rig loaded with seventeen tons of high potency weed to El Paso, Texas, while accompanied by one of his abductors.
Trucking with his armed captor takes a twisted turn when Noah glimpses into the dark underbelly of drug smuggling and human trafficking-he knows there is an ominously familiar evil pushing them toward their destination.
As he finally reaches the crossroads, he discovers a more nefarious, sinister and far-reaching criminal network than he could have imagined. With his own eternal fate hanging in the balance, the aging trucker uses his best wit, humor, and inner strength to survive, but realizes that nothing is as it seems when the devil is in control.
Can Old Be Beautiful?
This Amazon #1 Best Seller book in 4 categories (Peer Pressure, Values, Self-Esteem & Self-Respect, and Girls & Women's books) is part of the Cultivating Compassion in Children series. Six-year-old Maggie questions her grandmother whether old things can be beautiful. This is after Maggie sees advertisements to wash the gray out of your hair and creams to wipe away the wrinkles to make you look young and beautiful. They talk about things that are old and beautiful, like the patchwork quilt on her lap. Maggie comes to her own conclusion on beauty and age. The intent of this story is to see beauty from beyond societal norms to what is simply natural in life. It can lead to thoughts and discussion on positive self-esteem. The illustrations in the book are beautiful and culturally diverse. There are questions at the end that the adult can discuss with the child to encourage thinking and increase their understanding. This is a warm and wonderful book for grandparents and elderly friend to read to young children.
Can't Fight The Moonlight
“…WOW such an emotional book. The characters were so well written, with so much depth. There were scenes in this book that gave me a lump in my throat.” —Booklovers Anonymous
Justin Blackwood can't remember a time when he believed in the magic of anything, least of all love. A cynical businessman, who grew up in a broken home, he guards his heart with every breath he takes. His job has taken him all over the world and roots are the last thing he wants...until he meets a beautiful innkeeper in Whisper Lake.
Warm-hearted, free-spirited Lizzie Cole wants it all—the dream job of running her own inn and a man who wants to settle down. Despite a previous romantic setback, she still believes in happily ever after and her perfect soulmate. She just has to find him. While the dark-haired man with the shockingly blue eyes makes her heart beat faster, Justin Blackwood is the last man who should leave her breathless. He's her complete opposite and they don't want the same things.
But when a lunar eclipse throws Whisper Lake into darkness, Lizzie and Justin find themselves struggling to fight the moonlight and a love that could change their lives—if they're willing to take the risk.
Author Bio:
Barbara Freethy is a #1 New York Times bestselling author of 41 novels ranging from contemporary romance to romantic suspense and women's fiction. Traditionally published for many years, Barbara opened her own publishing company in 2011 and has since sold over 4.8 million copies of her books. Nineteen of her titles have appeared on the New York Times and USA Today Bestseller Lists. In July of 2014, Barbara was named the Amazon KDP bestselling author of ALL TIME! She was also the first indie author to sell over 1 million copies at both Barnes and Noble and Amazon. An author known for writing emotional stories about ordinary people caught up in extraordinary situations, Barbara has received starred reviews from Publishers' Weekly and Library Journal and has also received six nominations for the RITA for Best Single Title Contemporary Romance from Romance Writers of America. She has won the honor twice for her novels Daniel's Gift and The Way Back Home.
Shop all Barbara Freethy books
Canaries' Song
Eric Northcraft is struggling to raise his three daughters without his wife, who recently died of cancer. While he misses his late wife, Emily, he must do his best to be both a father and mother to his young daughters.
Lisa, the oldest at fourteen, loves horses, an interest not well-supported by his teacher's salary. Grace, his middle child, is physically and intellectually challenged, mentally more like a five-year-old than a girl of eleven. Monica, the youngest, is the rebellious one and is convinced her father loves her sisters more than he loves her. They each deal with the loss of their mother in different ways, some good, some bad.
As Lisa finds a way to be around the horses she loves so much, Monica grows more rebellious and difficult. Grace, however, is happy with her canaries, preferring to sit and listen to their beautiful singing while doing her best to convince her family of the happiness they can bring.
Meanwhile, Eric is having difficulties at work. One of his administrators is causing problems, and his best student, an African-American girl with issues of her own, refuses to be coaxed into attending college, even on a scholarship. When tragedy strikes once again, Eric and his family must deal with its outcome.
A story of resilience, love, and the beauty that surrounds us to help us through life, Canaries' Song will make you laugh, cry, and finally, turn the last page with feelings of joy and satisfaction. It will remind the reader of Tabb's acclaimed novel, Floating Twigs.
Capturing Wishes
Can old dreams find new life amongst sparkling tinsel and twinkling lights?
Virginia defied the odds to make nearly all of her girlhood wishes come true. Except for one. She's spent decades doing work she's loved alongside a supportive husband. Now health struggles and languishing sales at her beloved bookstore threaten more than her livelihood. Walking away would be the practical thing to do, but Virginia isn't a practical woman.
Nathan needs to figure out his life. College graduation is looming, and he should be in the job hunt, but his dreams don't include cubicles or corporate ladders. He'd rather help Virginia and her husband make the most of this holiday shopping season. If he can't help turn things around, their life's work will fade away.
When a chance discovery unearths Virginia's biggest regret, can she finally summon the courage to try again, or is it too late? Will things fall into place, or will it all fall apart? It feels impossible, but no one should underestimate the magic of the season.
Capturing Wishes, the fourth book in Kimberly Diede's uplifting Gift of Whispering Pines series, will take you on a heartfelt exploration of new and old loves, fresh and forgotten dreams, and the inevitable perks of different perspectives.
The pull of Whispering Pines continues. Whether you are new here or eager to continue on your journey with this refreshing circle of family and friends, you deserve the gift of this feel-good story. It will remind you we never outgrow the power of a wish.
Cardinal Cabin
From New York Times bestselling author Joanne DeMaio comes a heartwarming novel as merry and bright as a red-feathered cardinal taking flight.
Frank Lombardo's never been spontaneous. The closest he's come was accepting a side job chopping firewood for a lakeside community of rustic cabins. But with another lonely holiday season imminent, Frank's sister urges him to be spontaneous because, seriously, who does he ever expect to meet out in the woods?
With a suitcase in hand and a bit of reluctance, too, Penny Hart arrives at Cardinal Cabin on Snowflake Lake. It's only for a brief stay, though nobody knows where she is. Not her boss, not her friends...
Only Frank Lombardo. As the two unexpectedly meet at Addison's hidden hideaway, a spontaneous kiss sets everything amiss. But can the magic of this quaint New England town keep these snowy sweethearts together?
Cardinal Cabin is an enchanting tale about finding love where you least expect it. So come on inside. A cozy fire crackles, lights twinkle on the evergreen tree, snowflakes tap at the windowpanes, and little redbirds bring cheer this time of year.
Author Bio:
Joanne DeMaio is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary fiction. The novels of her ongoing and groundbreaking Seaside Saga journey with a group of beach friends, much the way a TV series does, continuing with the same cast of characters from book-to-book. In addition, she writes Winter Novels set in a quaint New England town. Joanne lives with her family in Connecticut.
Carregan's Catch
Is gold worth gambling for when death is at stake?
A fragile peace is broken and James Carregan is called to action. All thoughts of finding a suitable wife evaporates. Months later, the Shona rebellion quelled, James finds himself crossing paths with power-hungry Gavin Morgan, the son of his old friend, Rhys.
With an irresistible proposition, James and his new acquaintance leave the Morgandale Estate for Cape Town. Becoming the toast of the town, Gavin hosts a series of bacchanal parties attracting high-ranking British officers and beautiful women alike... Including the scintillating Sonny, James's love interest.
But despite his new-found fame and fortune, Gavin senses a war brewing between the British and Boers. Young Morgan makes plans to deal with both sides... Treason punishable by death if discovered. As tensions mount and fighting breaks out, Gavin and James are forced into a series of lies and deceptions to hide his complicity.
In matters of love and war, fortune favours the brave. But with Sonny waiting in the wings, James must decide if his loyalty to his old friend Rhys justifies betraying his country...
Carregan's Catch is the next chapter in an epic saga immersing readers in British colonial Africa.
Carry Your Own Backpack: Simple Tools to Help You Live Peacefully
Carry Your Own Backpack is a self-help guide to emotional well-being from award-winning mental health coach and psychotherapist Holly A. Schneider.
Based on two simple principles-what you pay attention to grows, and what you carry builds strength-this powerful book will help you choose what to carry and what to let go to lighten your journey through this world.
By defining your healthy emotional boundaries, you'll learn the difference between what belongs to you, what belongs to others, and what belongs to God. Better yet, you'll learn how to apply those boundaries, even under the most difficult circumstances, to protect your own mental health.
Throughout these pages, Holly A. Schneider bravely unpacks the experiences of her past, showing you how to unpack your backpack to become the best version of yourself. As you apply these emotional, cognitive, and behavioral skills in every aspect of your life, step by beautiful step, your heart will lighten in a way you never thought possible.
About the Author
Schneider, Holly A.: - Holly A. Schneider, LCSW, has twenty-six years of expertise in strengths-based systemic cognitive behavioral and dialectical behavioral clinical frameworks. Today, she works as an Organizational Life Coach and Culture Trainer for the employees of Delta Defense, LLC, in West Bend, Wisconsin, promoting mental health well-being. In 2020, Holly won a moral courage award through the Wellness Council of Wisconsin for her mental health coaching in the workplace. Known by her clients as a toolbox therapist, her mission is to help others become the best version of themselves, regardless of what they carry in their backpacks. She is married to her high school sweetheart, and together they have raised three daughters.
Castaway Cottage
About the Author
Joanne DeMaio is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary fiction. She lives with her family in Connecticut and is currently at work on her next novel.
Castle of the Red Contessa
"Fantasy fans will take a dive dive in this lavishly detailed story." -Kirkus
Despite the success of their first adventure, Thurmond and his companions, Sarah, Roscoe, and Torgul, are out of money and about to be expelled from their new home at Grimsgard. The only solution-a raid on Castle Sathas, the home of an infamous witch-cult.
To get there, they must undertake a long and perilous overland journey through a wilderness rife with ruthless bandits, voracious wolf packs, and greedy robber-knights. Along the way, their every step is shadowed by an unseen nemesis bent on their destruction.
Beset by treacherous landscapes and deadly enemies, it seems their quest is doomed to fail. And even if they win through, will they survive the ancient evil waiting in Castle Sathas?
Throat-gripping and unpredictable, Castle of the Red Contessa takes the reader on a heroic quest of rousing medieval adventure.
About the Author
MacKenzie, Robert John: - Robert John MacKenzie is an experienced educator with an abiding enthusiasm for medieval history and literature. He has traveled extensively throughout Europe, exploring museums, castles, and battlefields. After living for years in Asia and Europe, he now resides in northern California.
Cause to Repine: A Pride & Prejudice Variation
Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy come from two different worlds. She loves her country estate existence. He was born for London’s high society. If his aunts have anything to say about it (and they always do), Darcy’s future depends on finding a bride with connections to the nobility.
Can Darcy and Elizabeth overcome their families, fears, and the constant berating of London’s gossipmongers to follow their hearts?
Author Bio:
E.M. Storm-Smith is a mother, wife, attorney, former engineer, and literature lover. A lifelong obsession for books drove her to create stories of her own. Several years into the journey of writing about characters she loved, E.M. decided to take her passions to the world and see what happened.
When she’s not writing, E.M. is spending her time reading others’ books—preferably somewhere with lots of sunshine—traveling, and cooking things.
Cecilia: A Regency Romance
She dreams of marrying a nobleman. Too bad he's only pretending to be one.
Cecilia Cosgrove's beauty opens doors and hearts everywhere she goes. With a marquess courting her, the status and wealth her family is counting on her to obtain is finally within her reach-until she meets Jacques Levesque, the French nobleman who immediately pegs her as affected and superficial. While piqued and offended, Cecilia secretly begins to wonder whether he might not have a point.
Poor French migr Jacques Levesque has been disguised as a French nobleman for almost as long as he can remember, trying his hardest to keep his head down in a society obsessed with rank and high birth. But when Cecilia Cosgrove comes into his life, he finds it hard to maintain his fa ade-or to want to.
While Cecilia struggles between the desire to please others and the wish to pursue her own course, Jacques's interest in her provokes a powerful enemy intent on taking him down. With love, acceptance, and the future on the line for them both, Cecilia and Jacques must decide whether a life lived behind a mask is any life at all.
Celia's Gifts
Before becoming a wealthy matriarch and the proud owner of Whispering Pines, Celia Middleton faced the challenge of a lifetime-saving her family. Kimberly Diede's heartwarming series, Gift of Whispering Pines, began with this amazing woman's legacy. Now it's time to discover the secrets behind her success.
Intent on escaping the far-off echoes of World War II, Celia tags along to her friend's small lake resort, Whispering Pines. She'll soon realize the quaint family getaway is the perfect place to spend the hot, humid days of a Minnesota summer. One glorious month of sun-drenched days and starlit nights will never be enough.
The tranquil environment is a balm for Celia's anxious heart. Troubles back home fade away. Here, she can be herself, even if she doesn't quite fit in. Her friends are focused on nabbing the perfect husband, but Celia has other plans. Her own father left them destitute, and she's vowed to never wind up like her poor mother.
Celia's steely resolve softens as she twirls across a crowded dance floor in the arms of a man she barely knows. She's intrigued-tempted, even. But when tragedy shatters the serenity she's found at Whispering Pines, she faces an agonizing decision.
Can Celia hold tight to her vision and battle through crushing discrimination to build the career and financial independence she so desperately seeks? Even if she manages to protect her family, how can she save Whispering Pines, too?
Travel back to an earlier era in Celia's Gifts where Kimberly Diede introduces you to a loyal, ambitious young Celia in this sixth book in her uplifting series. Immerse yourself in the making of an incredible woman. Will societal expectations and unthinkable loss destroy Celia, or will she emerge stronger than ever?
Celia's Legacy
Celia Middleton sacrificed nearly everything to become the wealthy matriarch of her family and the proud owner of Whispering Pines. After everything she's been through, does she have the strength to hold on to it all?
Celia overcame rampant discrimination by proving herself, time and again, to build the unique life she envisioned. Now retirement will bring her the freedom to finally relax and have fun at Whispering Pines again . . . unless haunting memories threaten that dream, too.
Old friends know best, so when Ruby suggests it's time for Celia to walk away from Whispering Pines, she's afraid the woman might be right. She used to fantasize about seeing the world. Should she let the resort go and travel instead, while she's still young enough to enjoy it?
Every choice comes with a cost.
Celia will have to fight to keep her heart open through the hurt and loss that comes with aging. She may grow old alone, but she refuses to be lonely. She's learned valuable lessons along the way, and her family needs her hard-earned wisdom more than ever. Can she help her precious nieces and nephew-Renee, Jess, Ethan, and Val-avoid the regrets that tarnish her golden years?
Celia's Legacy, the seventh book in Kimberly Diede's uplifting Gift of Whispering Pines family saga will take you along on Celia's final journey as she battles to protect what she worked so hard to build so it can serve generations to come.
What more could a woman want?
Center Stage for Murder
First book in the four book USA Today bestselling Magnolia Steele Mystery series by the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestselling author, Denise Grover Swank.
Ten years ago, Magnolia Steele fled Franklin, Tennessee after an incident that left her with hazy memories and a horror of the place where she had been born and bred. Though her abrupt departure destroyed most of her relationships, she vowed never to return . . . until she has no choice. When Magnolia's breakout acting role in a Broadway musical ends in disgrace, there's only one place she can go.
Magnolia reluctantly agrees to help her mother's catering company at a party for a country music star, only to find herself face-to-face with a sleazy music agent from her past. After a very public spat, Magnolia not only finds him dead but herself center stage in the police's investigation. Now she must scramble to prove her innocence, relying on the help of acquaintances old and new.
But the longer Magnolia stays in Franklin, the more she remembers about the incident that chased her away. The past might not be finished with her yet, and what she doesn't remember could be her biggest danger.
Chalet on Cliffside Drive
The touching fourth instalment in the Emerald Cove saga from a USA Today Bestselling Author.
At forty-four years of age, Ben Silver thought he'd never find love. When he moves to Emerald Cove, he does it to support his birth mother, Diana, after her husband's sudden death. But then he meets Vicky.
Vicky Hawkins is younger than Ben, much younger. But there's something about his earnest brown eyes, the sadness behind them, the depth to them, that draws her in. He becomes her friend, but it isn't long before she realises there's more to their relationship than that.
It's time for Cindy to get on with the rest of her life. She'll have to decide if the cafe she's spent her life nurturing will be a part of her retirement or if it's time for her to let it go.
Sarah finally finishes the book she's been working so hard to write. But will she be able to rejoin the industry she left behind? Even as she steps forward, she and Mick are considering the next phase of their relationship.
If you haven't begun this uplifting ongoing series yet, be sure to start at the beginning. Enjoy these moving stories of love, hope, loss and heartache for fans of Debbie Macomber.
Please note: This book is the fourth instalment in the Emerald Cove saga.
Good book easy to read but well written. I loved maim character. And the ghosts. They were my favorite part. The author pulled it all together well. I recommend it and look forward to other of her books.
Charleston Green
“Charleston Green is a charming and clever novel…. Eminently readable and quietly inventive, the novel’s unusual tone casts a lingering spell.” —BookLife, 2020 Quarter Finalist in Fiction
If Tipsy Collins learned one thing from her divorce, it's that everyone in Charleston is a little crazy—even if they're already dead.
Tipsy, a gifted artist, cannot ignore her nutty friends or her vindictive ex-husband, but as a lifelong reluctant clairvoyant, she's always avoided dead people. When Tipsy and her three children move into the house on Bennett Street, she realizes some ghosts won't be ignored.
Till death do us part didn't pan out for Jane and Henry Mott, who've haunted the house for nearly a century. Tipsy's marriage was downright felicitous when compared to Jane and Henry's ill-fated union. Jane believes Henry killed her and then himself, and Henry vehemently denies both accusations. Unfortunately, neither phantom remembers that afternoon in 1923. Tipsy doesn't know whether to side with Jane, who seems to be hiding something under her southern belle charm, or Henry, a mercurial creative genius. Jane and Henry draw Tipsy into their conundrum, and she uncovers secrets long concealed under layers of good manners, broken promises and soupy Lowcountry air. Living with ghosts, however, takes a toll on her health, and possibly even her sanity. As she struggles to forge a new path for herself and her children, Tipsy has a chance to set Jane and Henry free, and release the ghosts of her own past.
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Awards:
2021 Annie McDonnell Memorial Literary Award Finalist
2020 Chanticleer International Book Awards Finalist for Paranormal Division
2020 Publisher's Weekly BookLife Prize Quarter Finalist for Fiction
2020 Readers' Favorite Book Awards Silver Medalist for Paranormal Fiction
More Reviews:
“An enchanting novel of a woman finding her way out of a midlife (and mid-death) crisis…. [In Charleston Green], Alexander blends the warm humor of her characters with balmy descriptions of her Southern gothic setting.” —Kirkus
“…Stephanie Alexander has crafted a delightfully cozy mystery that, despite not being without peril, is a fun and pleasurable read…. There’s an intriguing puzzle to be solved, as well as life lessons to be learned, and it’s very entertaining to follow the escapades of the various characters, both alive and dead.” —Manhattan Book Review
“Stephanie Alexander does an outstanding job of not only outlining a mystery and the dilemma of a psychic who would rather not imbibe in the problems of the afterlife as she faces her own relationship and family dilemmas, but who finds her own psyche buffeted by too many emotional entanglements…. [Audiences] will find Charleston Green a thoroughly engrossing saga.” —Midwest Book Review
“Charleston Green is a highly entertaining and enjoyable read for fans of women’s fiction; a cozy clairvoyant mystery and family saga.” —Readers’ Favorite
“Charleston Green is the perfect read for summer.” —San Francisco Book Review
“This southern tale of love and loss, life and death, and intricate family dynamics is like a taste of fried green tomatoes with a side of sweet tea, while sitting on the porch’s joggling board painted a deep Charleston Green.” —BookTrib
“Impressively original and solidly entertaining from beginning to end, Charleston Green showcases author Stephanie Alexander’s genuine flair for deftly crafted fantasy fiction that will completely engage the reader’s full and appreciative attention.” —Small Press Bookwatch
"…once I started reading Charleston Green by Stephanie Alexander, I was captivated. This novel leaves the reader entranced; the writing is skillful and clever and funny. I highly recommend this book." —New York Times bestselling author Elin Hilderbrand
"With humor, heart and a heaping helping of Southern Charm, Charleston Green brings an entirely new meaning to the term 'unwanted house guests.' Tipsy is a lovable, flawed, complex heroine that readers will root for from the first page to the last-and pitch-perfect storytelling will leave fans begging for a sequel. This is Stephanie Alexander at her best!" —USA Today bestselling author, Kristy Woodson Harvey
Author Bio:
Stephanie Alexander is a writer and a family law attorney. She lives in Charleston, South Carolina, with her husband, their blended family of five children, and their miniature dachshunds, Trinket and Tipsy.
Book Excerpt:
Chapter 1
If Tipsy learned one thing from her divorce, it’s that everyone in Charleston is at least a little crazy— even if they’re already dead.
She had to move into Miss Callie’s place to figure out that the dead carry on like the living do. She almost always ignored dead people, because early experience had proven that if she paid any bit of attention to them, they became a straight up nuisance. When she met Jane and Henry Mott, Tipsy had to stop avoiding and start listening. Some ghosts refuse to be ignored.
She wasn’t worried about ghosts on moving day. She was thinking how damn lucky she was to be moving into Miss Callie’s house, rent free. By the time the movers cleared out at five o’clock, she was done in. Even the house seemed wiped out, and it hadn’t done anything but sit there since the 1890s. Thank goodness it was Ayers’s weekend with the kids; she couldn’t have handled them running in and out and rustling through boxes. The whole crew, Ayers and all three children, had stayed with his parents for the weekend to avoid the chaos. Ayers had moved out six months ago, and now with Tipsy moving to Miss Callie’s and him returning to their old house, she felt like she was in a game of musical domiciles. She had trouble remembering where anyone lived.
She carried the last box, the one containing Mary Pratt’s American Girl dolls, through the white picket fence and up the porch stairs to the double front doors. Miss Callie’s tea roses had run amuck since she passed on. The June sunshine woke the yellow blossoms, and they reached for Tipsy through the banister. Ayers’s brother-in-law Jimmy had offered Tipsy this temporary solution to her housing problem.
Jimmy’s mother had recently died, and he was happy to let Tipsy move into Miss Callie’s place and look after it for a time. She made a mental note to rein in those rebellious flowers once she got settled. Tipsy hadn’t known Miss Callie too well, but she certainly owed her now. Her status as honorary caretaker would give Jimmy time to fix things up before selling the place, and buy Tipsy precious months to figure out her increasingly unpredictable life. She planned on earning her keep in the meantime.
Tipsy took the winding staircase to the second floor for the hundredth time that day. She couldn’t help but compare this crumbling yet palatial house in the Old Village of Mount Pleasant—one of the most elegant neighborhoods in the Lowcountry, a place legendary for all things refined—with her grandmother’s four-room 1950s rancher in the upstate town of Martinville. She grew up at the end of a dirt driveway. The nearest body of water: the aboveground swimming pool behind the neighbor’s doublewide trailer. Now, her neighbors across the street sipped cocktails on their docks and watched the sunset over the harbor. On the other side of the Ravenel Bridge, the Charleston skyline wiggled through humid air. Bronze crosses grabbed at the sky, the Episcopalians trying to reach God before the Presbyterians. She could hear her Granna’s voice: My Tipsy, ain’t you all fancy now.
Shush, Granna, Tipsy thought. Not too fancy in the bank account department at the moment. Besides, this place has seen better days.
Tipsy dropped the box of dolls in the twins’ bedroom. They grinned at her, reminders of the days when she and Ayers had casually doled out hundreds of dollars on smiling plastic little girls. She transferred her hands to the small of her back.
Glass of tea, sugar? Granna’s voice rose in her mind again. Granna and she had shared that strange affinity for the dead, so although Granna herself was many years gone, Tipsy still sometimes heard the voice that had steered her through her haphazard childhood. Truth be
told, at times Granna resonated clearer than living people, with their yammering on about this or that. She didn’t tell anyone this, of course, because that would qualify her own mental church as infested with a bad case of the batshit crazies.
Bats and belfries aside, Granna’s voice had a good idea. As Tipsy backtracked down the narrow hallway she ran her hands over accent tables and the random chairs elderly people always place in spots where no one ever sits. Heavy wood and dark reddish upholstery in velvets and satins had an old-plantation-house kind of prettiness. While the mustiness made her nose itch, the well-worn furniture made the place homey. She hadn’t wanted to take much of the furniture in her old house. Ayers had picked all of it, and he preferred stark modern styles. Made no sense for a hunting-and-fishing boy like him to have the aesthetic of an effete New York theater director, but that was Ayers. A study in contradictions.
Tipsy avoided her passing reflection in the glass covering Miss Callie’s framed Duck Stamp prints. She let her long hair down from its too tight ponytail and rubbed her sore scalp.
That hair. Not blonde. Not brunette. Granna’s sniffing laughter. So sweaty dark it looks like you had a run in with the wrong shade of L’Oreal. Like thirty-four years of hard livin’!
Thanks, Granna.
Oh, come now. You know I’m teasing. You’ve barely changed since seventeen. Who’ d know you had three kids? But damnation, you need some of that Botox! You got my worrying brow.
You’re biased, and then out loud, “Got to grow old gracefully.”
“Is someone there?”
That shrill voice shot out of one of the guestrooms and knocked Tipsy sideways. Her ankle rolled. As she fell, she grabbed one of Miss Callie’s antique porcelain lamps. She hit the Oriental rug with a thud. The three cavorting cherubs on the lamp reached out to her in sympathy. She thanked god those expensive little dudes were still in one piece.
Tipsy stood and rotated her foot until most of the pain dissipated up her leg. She peered into the cheery little room, with its yellow wallpaper and accent pillows in the shape of lemons and cherries. A woman sat on the four-poster bed. While she appeared to be about Tipsy’s age, her tiny bare toes didn’t reach as far as the lace bed skirt. Her pale, almond-shaped eyes stared into Tipsy’s with startled curiosity, like a Siamese cat who unexpectedly found itself pinned down by the tail.
The woman jumped to her feet, buried her face in her hands and sobbed. She wore a sleeveless lavender dress with a dropped waist and a multi-layered lace hemline that ended below her knees. Her skin was translucently white, her hair black. Tipsy’s initial assessment had classified the women’s coiffure as a messy up-do, but her fidgeting revealed it to be a disheveled bob.
She whimpered with no break to gasp for air. It was too repetitive, too staccato. She wrapped her thin arms around herself. The edges of her dress smudged and faded and solidified again as she swayed. The fading spread from her clothes to her hair to her skin.
She’s dead, Tipsy thought. She doesn’t need to draw breath.
As a child, suffering from her own loneliness and tired of finding friendships in storybooks, Tipsy would speak to a ghost here or there, although most of them had lost their senses over time, like the teenage girl who haunted Martinville’s single public park. She once caught Tipsy staring at her. She followed Tipsy, in her Little House on the Prairie garb, from the slide to the swings, begging Tipsy to help her find the family pig. By age ten, Tipsy had to swear off the park all together. It had been years since she made such a mistake, and not only because a ghost’s desperate jabbering could annoy the hell out of a person in a skinny minute. Granna had warned her that while most were harmless, there were a few who were anything but. In educating Tipsy about their mutual peculiarity, she emphasized downplaying its existence, for everyone’s benefit.
Something about this woman, though, made Tipsy pause. She reminded her of a little girl in the middle of some childish heartache. Grown women don’t cry so hard without a good reason. This one was producing enough tears to fill the River Styx, and being damn loud about it—and in the bedroom right beside Tipsy’s. Tipsy’d probably seen a hundred or more ghosts in her day. She’d run across them in places as predictable as the old Dock Street Theater— during a showing of A Christmas Carol, no less—and as random as the Mount Pleasant Whole Foods.
She’d never, however, lived under a roof with one, or tried to have a real, adult conversation with one. Tipsy wasn’t really sure how any of it worked, from a ghost’s perspective. Now suddenly, she and this lady were two chickens in the same coop. Tipsy would need to make her acquaintance sooner or later, if she didn’t want to have the bejesus scared out of her on a daily basis.
Besides, from the antiquated look of the ghost’s dress and hair, it appeared this had been her house a hell of a lot longer than it had been Tipsy’s. Tipsy wasn’t going anywhere, and this woman’s ghostly existence meant she wasn’t going anywhere either. Tipsy knew that much. The ghost couldn’t leave the house if she tried, bless her heart. Trapped as a blind and clawless kitten on a high tree branch. Compassion, practicality, and a smidge of plain old curiosity overrode Granna’s deeply entrenched wisdom.
“Can I help you with something?” Tipsy asked. She raised her voice to be heard over the woman’s bawling.
The woman hugged herself tighter and rocked herself faster. “I can’t say I know how to reply. Perhaps I did once, but I’ve forgotten.”
Tipsy didn’t know anyone other than Granna who shared her talent, so opportunities to speak probably hadn’t come this woman’s way too often. She tried a different route. “I should have introduced myself. My name is Tipsy Collins. Sorry if I startled you, but I didn’t expect to find a ghost crying in the spare bedroom.”
The woman’s fingers twirled among themselves, as if she were knitting an invisible scarf. She sniffed and went solid. Aside from her pallor, she didn’t look particularly dead. “Tipsy? Is that a French name?”
“No. My real name is Tiffany Lynn. Tiffany Lynn Denning, now Collins. The pastor’s son couldn’t say Tiffany when I was a baby. So I’ve always been Tipsy.” She waited for the ghost to make the usual alcoholic comment, before remembering she probably wasn’t familiar with booze-related slang.
“You can see me.” Still her fingers spun, as if she were raveling together fractured pieces of thought.
“Yes.”
That seemed enough of an explanation. “My name is Jane Mott. I was born a Robinette. The Robinettes of Water Street. My mother’s people came from the Old Cannon, on the Wando.” Jane ran both hands over her face, and giggled. She smoothed her hair a little too eagerly.
Uh, oh. Maybe I’ve popped the tab on a shook up can of Coke.
Too late, now, said the voice of Granna. She might be crazier than a stoned possum, but now she knows you can see her. You’re stuck with her.
Tipsy backed toward the door. She would only need three of the house’s six bedrooms. One for herself, one for her six-year-old twins, Mary Pratt and Olivia Grace, and one for her eight-year-old son, Ayers Lee Collins V. Maybe she’d be able to steer clear of this diminutive spirit. “I live here now,” Tipsy said. “So maybe we could, you know, mind each other’s space.”
The ghost’s mouth hung open, as if she needed a straw to draw meaning from Tipsy’s words.
“I guess I’ll see you sometimes,” Tipsy said, “but I’m usually really busy. So if I don’t chat—”
“I’m accustomed to being ignored.”
“Because no one sees you?” Again Tipsy felt the tug of sympathy.
“My husband ignores me. I ignore him. It’s to our mutual benefit.”
“Your husband is still alive?”
Jane looked at her with eyes as clear as Miss Callie’s best Waterford vase. “He’s just as dead as I am, Miss Tiffany-Tipsy.”
“Oh, of course,” said Tipsy, feeling slightly stupid. “Why do y’all ignore each other? It seems like a nice arrangement. Like a couples’ haunting?”
For someone who wants to mind each other’s space, you’re asking a lot of questions, said Granna.
Tipsy ignored her. Sometimes Tipsy and Granna ignored each other, too. It could get crowded with both of them inside Tipsy’s head.
“We don’t get on,” said Jane. “Haven’t gotten on in quite a spell of time.”
Tipsy found it odd to hear someone who appeared to be her own age speak in the soft drawl she associated with women of the grandmotherly sort, albeit rich Charleston grandmothers like the ones in Ayers’s family. Jane seemed to blink when a particular word needed emphasis. The combination of bobbed hair, batting blue eyes and fey voice was reminiscent of Betty Boop. “If I can be frank, Henry and I don’t get on at all.” Blink-blink!
Tipsy did some rough math in her head. The woman’s attire put her squarely in the 1920s category, like Downton Abbey, later seasons. “And you’ve been stuck in this house together for…ninety years?”
“Ninety-five.”
Tipsy thought of being trapped in a house for decades with only Ayers for company. She couldn’t bring herself to hate him now, despite the damage he’d dealt her over the past six months, but she damn sure would after a century. “That’s understandable. Marriage is only supposed to last ‘til death do you part. You’re not meant to keep at it for all eternity.”
“How can we possibly be congenial”—blink-pause-blink—“when he killed me?”
Boop-Boop-be-do! said Granna.
Tipsy sank into an antique chair. “Well, shit.”
Jane scowled, and she remembered that proper southern ladies probably didn’t drop the word shit very often in the 1920s. “Sorry. Wow, he did? How… or…” Is it polite to ask a ghost the details of her murder?
“Yes, he did. Although he still denies it.” Jane balled her hands into fists. “But I know he did it! And then he killed himself.” She hugged herself again and her black hair went smudgy. Tipsy saw right through her.
“Wait!” she said, and Jane returned to focus. “I’m moving my children into a house that’s haunted by a murderer?”
The air around her cooled as Jane crossed the space between them. Jane’s legs didn’t move fast enough to explain her momentum, but she came on just the same, as if the wood floor had turned into a flat airport escalator. A lemony scent overrode the dusty smell of Miss Callie’s antique quilt. Tipsy shuddered. She’d have had the same reaction if hands tipped a glass of lemonade down her shirt.
Granna! Tipsy thought as she stood. Is she one of the bad ones?
But Granna said nothing. Tipsy knew that if Granna had the answer, she’d give it. The thought brought her no comfort.
She took a step into the hall and Jane followed. “Henry will never admit to it,” the ghost said, with blinking ocular italics. “He won’t. But I know he did it.”
“Of course. I’m sure it was horrible—but I have to—”
Jane’s eyes filled with sparkly diamond tears. “Beg pardon. I’m frightening you.” The sobbing again. “I believe he did it. In my heart…” She buried her hands in her hair. “But oh, my soul, I can’t remember. I can never remember.”
And with that, Jane Mott disappeared.
…
Tipsy wasn’t keen to stay in the house that evening, but her girlfriends had been itching to check it out. So after a rushed tour, she sat on the late Miss Callie’s front porch with Shelby and Lindsey. She gripped a cold Bud Light in a koozie emblazoned with the cheerful message, “Joe and Julie, October 18th, 2013—Love is Always a Party!” Tipsy had never met Joe and Julie, but she’d somehow acquired this token of their undying love. She wondered if they were still partying five years later, maybe with a couple kids and a mortgage and Julie’s growing suspicions that Joe was shacking up with his assistant.
She took a long swig of beer and it stuck in her throat. I live in a house with a murdering ghost and his discontented, possibly deranged wife. Hey Julie, want to trade?
“And so there she is,” Shelby said, “standing out on the driveway at three in the morning. Drunk as Cooter Brown. Screaming up at his window. I know you’re in there, Glen! I know you’re in there! And all the neighbors opening windows—”
“Wait—what?” Tipsy asked. “You lost me.”
Shelby pursed her lips. “You’re worse than a man with one eye on ESPN and the other on this month’s Playboy.” She crossed her eyes, as if Tipsy and Lindsey needed a visual.
Tipsy had first laid eyes on Shelby Patterson during a sorority rush skit at Carolina. Shelby’s portrayal of Sandy from Grease was the stuff of legend in the Kappa Zeta house. Tipsy would never forget watching Shelby’s skillfully teased blonde hair float across the makeshift stage. Her skintight black pleather pants had accentuated the purposeful shaking of her voluptuous butt.
“Glen’s ex-wife,” said Shelby, “y’all know she hates me—”
“You hate her, too,” said Lindsey. Lindsey was always one for stating the obvious, but at least she gave Shelby her full attention. With her wide brown eyes and round face she resembled an early rising owl come to roost on the porch for Happy Hour.
Shelby sniffed loud enough to drown out the cicadas. “Hell, I don’t hate her. But she is a tramp—”
Movement at the other end of the porch caught Tipsy’s eye. Miss Callie’s joggling board bounced ever so slightly.
Did you invite Miss Jane to your girls’ evening? asked Granna.
Tipsy eyed the wooden contraption, just like the one Granna had kept on her own modest porch. No different from the boards she’d seen on umpteen South Carolina porches. Joggling boards were part lawn ornament and part outdoor furniture, a long single board with a dip in the middle, held up by two simple wooden pedestal ends. They had always reminded her of church pews without the back, or of saggy picnic table benches.
As a general gravitational rule, a joggling board didn’t bounce unless the weight of someone’s butt on the center plank made it bounce. Tipsy stared at the empty air above the board, but made out nothing beyond the haze of a summer evening punctuated by a few swirling no-seeums.
“Of course I was pissed. Who spends a whole Friday night with his ex-wife shooting at zombies?”
“Zombies?” Tipsy asked. Aren’t ghosts enough?
Lindsey rescued Tipsy once again. Shelby looked like she might scream at the next interruption. “Glen and his ex,” said Lindsey. “They took their son to paintball for his birthday. It’s zombie paintball.”
“Oh. He took his son. You can’t get angry.” Tipsy sipped her beer and glanced down the porch again.
A man sat in the middle of the joggling board, his elbows resting on his knees. He wore baggy tan pants and a white button down shirt. His bright red wavy hair suggested a failed attempt at flattering it with pomade. A man like that should have been pale all over. Instead, his dark eyes clashed with the rest of him. High cheekbones towered over a full, sensuous mouth. He was either one of the oddest looking men Tipsy had ever seen, or the handsomest.
“What are you looking at?” asked Shelby.
Tipsy cleared her throat. “The joggling board. It needs a fresh coat of paint.”
“Charleston green,” said Lindsey.
“Mmmm, hmmm.” Shelby squinted at the board and tilted her head. “Nice shade.”
Tipsy nodded. If she turned her head just right, so sunlight glanced off the board, the oily sheen of the paint revealed the true color. The green of a forest at midnight, under a full moon. “Probably hand mixed.”
“Hand mixing always makes the best Charleston green,” said Lindsey.
While most people wouldn’t have noticed the subtle tone, Tipsy, an artist; Shelby, an art dealer; and Lindsey, a part time but unusually talented interior designer, could pick it out from a mile away. Or at least from across the porch. “I could work up a batch once the kids are settled in—”
“Good lord, Tips, I’m trying to tell a story!” said Shelby. “I know the three of us can make a whole conversation out of mixing paint, but come on now.”
“I’m sorry,” said Tipsy. The man on the joggling board picked at the peeling paint, but no flecks of blackish green drifted to the floor below him.
“Pay attention. You’re about to send my train of thought off the rails and into a ditch.”
“I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” Tipsy got a peek at the yin and yang tattoo on Shelby’s right wrist before Shelby took her hand. Years ago, Tipsy had taken to tapping that black and white symbol when Shelby needed to be talked off an emotional ledge. Shelby’s ledges tended to be steep and high and loom over unyielding concrete and racing emotional traffic. The gesture had become part of their friendship’s long code. Come back to the light, sister.
Sometimes, though, life turned the tables on them. Shelby was her rock during the dark days after the twins’ birth, when sadness settled over her like a stalled low pressure system, soaking her in fear, worry, and inexplicable despair. While no challenge, before or since, equated with the emotional mêlée of postpartum depression, in the wake of her divorce, Tipsy was once again more of the sooth-ee than the soother.
“Honey, you must be so tired,” Shelby said. “Let me shut up about Glen, Sexy Fishing Charter Captain Extraordinaire.”
“That sounds like a better story than Glen, Possible Deadbeat Dad, and His Annoying Ex-Wife,” said Lindsey. “Besides, y’all have only been dating two months. Story can’t be that long.”
“You know with me it can be.” Shelby scooted closer to Tipsy on the wicker loveseat. “When is Ayers bringing the kids back?”
“Tomorrow afternoon,” Tipsy said. “I’ve got to set up their rooms.” She looked over her shoulder, but the redheaded man was gone.
“Y’all know I love to decorate!” Lindsey grinned and hopped to her feet. She wore obscenely tall platform wedges, despite Tipsy’s and Shelby’s flip-flops. Regardless, she barely reached Tipsy’s chin, and even Shelby could still look down at the top of her head.
“It shows,” said Shelby. “Your house is straight out of Architectural Digest.”
“Thanks, honey,” said Lindsey. “I had to get something out of my ex—that pathetic old goat!”
Tipsy laughed, and Lindsey joined her. She never minded being the butt of the joke, even after the intense public humiliation of her divorce from Barker Davies, one of the richest lawyers in town. Barker had left his first wife and kids for Lindsey. Ten years later, he had once again
traded in for a newer model, leaving Lindsey a single mom with one daughter, a huge house, a fat bank account, and a great attitude. Tipsy thanked the good lord Shelby had introduced her to Lindsey after she left Ayers. Lindsey’s positivity gave her hope.
“I might never have rustled up the nerve to leave him myself, so this new chick did me a favor.” Lindsey’s short blonde ponytail bounced. “Come on.”
Tipsy’s calves ached as she walked to the kitchen, the result of too many flights of stairs on Lowcountry legs unaccustomed to inclines of any sort. Lindsey called over her shoulder as she and Shelby headed upstairs: “Bring the beer to the nursery, Jeeves!”
Tipsy imagined the red headed man appearing in the doorway holding a levitating Yeti cooler and a butcher’s knife. She assumed him to be Jane Mott’s homicidal husband, Henry. Henry’s flat, dark stare hadn’t done anything to rouse the sympathetic curiosity that Jane had evoked.
By the time she reached the refrigerator, she’d squashed her burgeoning fear by donning the Armor of Mommy. Tipsy’s children needed more than pretty rooms. They needed stability. She wasn’t going to let a ghost risk their first opportunity at either in months.
Be careful, sugar, said Granna. You already caught the attention of one loony spirit. Knowing you, you’ll poke your head right into a Venus flytrap. You’re not sure what he’s capable of.
That’s what I need to figure out. And I will. Sooner over later.
Tipsy, that man killed his own wife.
What choice do I have? Tipsy grabbed hold of the perpetual panic that lurked in her stomach before it could poke her heart. It’s this or a friend’s couch and blow-up mattresses for the kids.
Ain’t that the truth. What if Ayers wants the kids full time? Or his parents do? asked Granna.
No way. My children will stay with me, and I’ll make a home for them. I will make this work.
Tipsy rose and fell on her toes to stretch her calves as she hunted through unfamiliar drawers for her Gamecock bottle opener. Tomorrow she’d go for a long run. She didn’t have tolerance for wobbliness in her limbs or her living situation.
She watched for signs of Henry as she popped the tops on three beers: her own Bud Light, Shelby’s Mich Ultra (always watching her carbs) and Lindsey’s Corona Light (always with a lime). She carried them up to the second floor landing, where Shelby and Lindsey were examining a table covered with old vases.
“What’s the latest with the ex-husband from hell?” asked Shelby.
“Okay, Shelby.” Tipsy handed over her beer. “That’s a bit extreme.”
“Screwing your wife out of her alimony qualifies as extreme to me.”
“Seriously,” said Lindsey. “Even Barker didn’t do me like that.”
“Ugh, y’all, I don’t want to talk about screwy South Carolina alimony laws.” Tipsy walked faster. “What’s done is done. He’s paying me child support—”
“Not enough to come close to getting y’all by.” Shelby gripped the skinny neck of a green vase as if she were choking it, or might knock someone upside the head.
“I know, but he’s having a really hard time. I’m trying to give him a break.”
“Whatever!” said Shelby. “He shouldn’t even expect you to speak to him, after what he’s done to you. Accusing you of adultery? When y’all weren’t even living together anymore?”
“We all know the laws in this state.” Tipsy had learned the ramifications of South Carolina’s unusually conservative divorce laws the hard way. “You date someone before you have a settlement agreement in place and it’s adultery. Ayers was depressed, and his lawyer talked him into it. And I left him. I don’t know what that feels like.”
“Jesus, Tipsy,” said Shelby. “Why are you defending him? You left him for a hell of a lot of reasons. You were intimidated by his ornery ass when you were married to him.” Shelby waved the vase in Tipsy’s direction. Lindsey swiped it out of her hand and rearranged all the vases in neat rows. “Now add feeling guilty to feeling scared,” said Shelby, “and it’s a recipe for disaster.”
Sometimes the truth can get under a person’s skin. Shelby didn’t sugarcoat anything, so her truth often came with a double dose of annoying. “I hear you, Shelby, but we have to get along for the kids.”
“Right, but you’re too nice. Ayers can go screw himself.” Shelby grinned. “I’ve been engaged three times and never married so I’m the expert on ending relationships.”
Lindsey stepped carefully over a stack of bubble-wrapped frames as Tipsy steered them into Little Ayers’s room. “Time to move on,” Lindsey said, “and we know who you need to move on with. Will Garrison.”
Tipsy opened a moving box near the closet door. Soccer trophies, a Carolina piggy bank, a few framed photos from Little A’s christening, and the antique toy cars her father-in-law had given him. The cars were heavy and cool in her hands. Solid craftsmanship, not like the flimsy Walmart specials that Ayers always bought. “Glen’s fishing buddy?”
“Yes! He and P.D. were roommates at the College of Charleston, and they grew up together in Beaufort, too. He’s handsome—”
“He didn’t seem very friendly.” She thought of the time she’d met Will Garrison in passing on the way out of a restaurant. He’d pretty much glared at her through a mumbled nice to meet you and good-bye.
“He’s so sweet, once you get to know him,” said Lindsey. “Wouldn’t it be fun? We can all hang out.”
“Hmmm,” Tipsy said. Lindsey’s boyfriend, P.D., was a gentle giant of a man who worshipped the ground she walked on, despite her post-marriage habit of philandering with the local college students. Tipsy trusted his good opinion. Glen’s, however…
Shelby clapped. “He’s a great dad, and he has a good job—”
“And good hair!” Lindsey tapped her head.
“Maybe. A little distraction can’t hurt, right?” She held Little Ayers’s old bunny in front of her chest like a tattered plush bridal bouquet.
Shelby reached over and hugged her, the embrace squashing the bunny between them. Little Ayers didn’t need it every night anymore, so Tipsy hadn’t sent it with his dad. For some reason the feel of that beloved toy against her best friend’s hug brought tears to her eyes.
“You think about it, sister,” said Shelby. “No hurry. Just think.”
Tipsy gave her a watery smile. As she wiped her eyes, a shiny black shoe and one trouser leg disappeared past the doorframe.
When that ghost comes calling, you might as well ask him to set awhile and chat. Tipsy could have sworn she felt Granna’s warm breath on the side of her neck. The smell of grits and apples and Prell shampoo. Memories like that returned to her, clear as day, at the most peculiar times. Sometimes they ran through her head like movies on a screen, or recordings of long past thoughts. The smells and sounds and tastes just as full and loud and flavorful as ever they were in the original.
When Tipsy was not long out of diapers, she’d seen a car hit a squirrel while she and Granna waited for a ride at the end of the state road. When she was eight, for no reason at all, the little creature’s death had come back to her in all its gory detail. Granna found her crying in her bedroom. She’d tried to explain the blood shooting across hot asphalt, and the thump of a tiny body against an uncaring tire. Granna had barely remembered the squirrel at all. She’d said, Sugar, maybe your talent serves you in other ways. Not just seeing ghosts. You find a way to use it.
The next day, Tipsy drew a picture of the squirrel’s demise instead of talking about it—much to the disturbance of her third grade art teacher. Drawing became her release, and then, as she discovered the comfort of a brush in her hand and a picture in her mind, she turned to painting. As the years rolled on, she stopped trying to explain the movie memories. That didn’t mean they stopped coming.
Good book easy to read but well written. I loved maim character. And the ghosts. They were my favorite part. The author pulled it all together well. I recommend it and look forward to other of her books.
Charleston's Germans
By 1900, the German population in the United States was close to 2.7 million. In numerous cities in the Northeast and Midwest, those who had immigrated in the nineteenth century congregated in demarcated ethnic neighborhoods-"little Germanies." This was not the case of the German immigrant community in Charleston, South Carolina. The establishment and evolution of the nineteenth-century German immigrant community there was as unique as the southern Lowcountry city itself.
Early German-speaking immigrants had become settled Charlestonians by the middle of the eighteenth century, having founded the first German militia in America (the German Fusiliers), supported America in the Revolutionary War, and established themselves as successful merchants, a number of whom could be counted among the city's leaders.
By the middle of the nineteenth century, a new wave of German immigrants-primarily of North German origin-constituted an ethnic community that would become fully integrated with the southern host community by the turn of the century. These German-Americans and their descendants would nonetheless experience the anti-German animus that prevailed in the period before and after WWI. The ethnic heritage of Charleston's German-Americans, many of whom had contributed significantly to the city's rich social, cultural, political, and economic history, would be suppressed and denied to the extent that it almost completely disappeared.
Robert Alston Jones, a Charleston native and Emeritus Professor of German at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee, takes us back in time to this unique period in Charleston's history. He uncovers the vibrant and often surprising lives, contributions, and culture of the city's nineteenth-century German community of immigrants as it developed, matured, and transitioned into the twentieth century. He argues that the legacy of that ethnic community is still perceptible, if only infrequently acknowledged. He invites the reader to reflect on what it has meant to have had North Germans cross the Atlantic to settle in Charleston and become Charlestonians.