After moving to California with her parents in 1967 and saying goodbye to her father as he leaves for Vietnam, Bets tries to settle into a small town routine. It doesn't take long before the town's most mysterious resident pushes Bets to reconsider how she feels about her mother, the war that has taken her father far away, and her own role in the events that show up in newspaper headlines and flash across her TV screen. "The characters unfold beautifully. They are complex, intriguing, and most of all, real." Sarah Milne, English teacher, Kilmer Middle School, Fairfax County, Virginia.

"An immensely readable account by a man whom companies call when all else fails." —Kirkus

For more than 25 years, Domenic Aversa has worked as a crisis manager and corporate restructuring professional. He has advised and operated small and middle-market companies in 45 different industries and worked through every possible extreme with his clients, including coup attempts in developing countries, the dot.com bust, 9/11, Ponzi schemes, corrupt bankers, and the Great Recession. In Corporate Undertaker: Business Lessons from the Dead and Dying, he shares his best advice for dealing with adversity and crisis.

• dramatically improve cash-flow through a period of crisis
• preserve the most value in your company while restructuring
• create emotional stability in and around your company
• effectively communicate with your bank and investors
• retain key employees and critical customers
• manage and restructure current debt with all creditors
• address potential and existing lawsuits
• prepare for a bankruptcy filing
• effectively manage a partial liquidation or sale of a business
• recover from a “corporate death”

If you’re looking for answers in today’s tumultuous business environment, Corporate Undertaker has them.

More Reviews:

"A savage peek behind the corporate curtain. The power of Aversa's storytelling is undeniable. Corporate Undertaker truly is a gripping read." —Self-Publishing Review

"Written by an industry expert, Corporate Undertaker...is filled with drama...written with confidence and expertise." —Clarion Forward
"Aversa's writing is entertaining...readers will find a lively, rare view of the dark side of business ownership and meet a business advocate who risked his life, health and spiritual outlook to try to save the jobs of thousands of employees." —Blue Ink Reviews

"Corporate Undertaker is a business book with a difference: a glance at the dark side of the corporate world from a vastly experienced crisis consultant, penned with humor and a wealth of enthralling personal context." —Indie Reader

Author Bio:

As an entrepreneur and managerial consultant, Domenic Aversa is sought after by both global business leaders and government agencies. He has actively assisted companies in dramatic transition for more than 25 years. His experience with corporate restructurings ranges from crisis management to recession preparation and recovery to global market transition. In addition to helping many businesses in the United States, he has helped command-economy companies, such as those in China and Russia, transition to market-economy practices. Domenic has served as an educational speaker and managerial advisor on international business development and insolvency issues for many business and academic institutions. Audiences have included the Harvard Business School and the Sloan School of Management at MIT.

“Anyone who enjoyed [the] thrilling tales of 'Indiana Jones' will enjoy this book…” —David A. McCormick

The Saudi king is dying, and a successor must be chosen from the next generation, the grandsons of the assassinated Abdul Aziz and the founder of the kingdom. One prince, His Royal Highness Rashid Abdul Aziz is determined to rule, but royal blood is not enough. He needs to demonstrate he is worthy of the crown. If his wife can find the first Qur’an, used by the Prophet, Prince Rashid will be the next king. The prince fears, however, that the exquisite find won’t be enough. Secretly, he orders terrorists to eliminate his half-brothers and cousins.

Rashid needs someone he can trust. He asks Amy Prowers, to assist his wife, Princess Hassa, on the excavation and to validate the finding. Though Amy is not an archaeologist, her aunt’s private international organization, the Committee, has access to experts in the ancient city of Ubar in the Empty Quarter. Eager to help her deceased husband’s friend, Prince Rashid, Amy arrives and discovers there is more at stake than ancient cultures.

The kingdom is a breeding ground for a new generation of terrorists. A secret sect called the Black Princes put Amy’s life at risk as she becomes a participant in her friend’s quest for the Saudi throne.

Author Bio:

Katherine Burlake qualified as one of the first women Air Force Officers to attend the Air Force Navy Intelligence School and serve in the Vietnam War. Living in Thailand, England, and Germany led her to the Department of State and Broadcasting Board of Governors reporting on embassy operations globally. She has traveled to over 130 countries including Afghanistan and Iraq. Her vast experiences plus her four years in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia bring in the trench action to her engaging novels. Colorado is now her home.

Shop the Amy Prowers Thriller series

"...elements of magic and mystery abound....Tanner also does an admirable job weaving in politics and mythology of a bygone people. A complex and promising start to a new fantasy series." —Kirkus Reviews 

"History truly comes alive under the pen of author Linnea Tanner, but there’s also plenty of room left for characters to breathe and develop under watchful narration. The plot is stellar: well-thought-out and executed with a great sense of beat and pacing as each moment of both the romance arc and the curse is portrayed. Overall, an un-put-down-able fantasy adventure from start to finish."  —Readers' Favorite

"An engaging historical fantasy, Apollo's Raven by Linnea Tanner is a captivating tale of triangles [and an] epic Celtic tale of magic and a curse.“ —2019 Pencraft Book of the Year Award

A Celtic warrior princess is torn between her forbidden love for the enemy and duty to her people. Award-winning Apollo's Raven sweeps you into an epic Celtic tale of forbidden love, mythological adventure, and political intrigue in Ancient Rome and Britannia. In 24 AD British kings hand-picked by Rome to rule are fighting each other for power. King Amren's former queen, a powerful Druid, has cast a curse that Blood Wolf and the Raven will rise and destroy him. The king's daughter, Catrin, learns to her dismay that she is the Raven and her banished half-brother is Blood Wolf. Trained as a warrior, Catrin must find a way to break the curse, but she is torn between her forbidden love for her father's enemy, Marcellus, and loyalty to her people. She must summon the magic of the Ancient Druids to alter the dark prophecy that threatens the fates of everyone in her kingdom. Will Catrin overcome and eradicate the ancient curse. Will she be able to embrace her forbidden love for Marcellus? Will she cease the war between Blood Wolf and King Amren and save her kingdom?

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More Reviews: 

2020 Readers' Favorite Bronze Medal Fiction Magic/Wizardry

2019 PenCraft Best Book of the Year Award

2018 New Apple Book Awards: Official Selection Fantasy

2018 eLit Book Award: Silver Medal Fantasy/Science Fiction

2017 Global Ebooks Award: Bronze Medal Fantasy/Historical

2017 New Apple Book Awards: Official Selection Historical Fiction and Cross Genre

"...a captivating tale of triangles; love, lust and espionage, friend, foe, and spies., barbarians, civilized Rome and spiritual-supernatural beings. The author's knowledge of the mythology and the history of 43 AD Celtic tribes is astounding as she weaves a tapestry of intrigue, a Gordian knot of rivalry and a love story." —Authors Reading (2019 Pencraft Book of the Year Award)

"...a historical fantasy with strong elements of romance, political intrigue, and magic. Many surprising twists enrich the historically drawn plot. Points of view shift between different characters effectively, heightening the tension from one moment to the next." —Historical Novel Society Review

"If you're looking for something entertaining with a fast, action-paced rhythm, Apollo's Raven by Linnea Tanner is a definite must. For a women who is trying to figure out where she belongs in her world, this tale is relatable to other young women in our timeline who are also trying to figure out where they belong." —Literary Titan (Gold Book Award) 

"... a soaring epic that carries its audience on an adventure full of ancient magic, passionate romance, and political intrigue."  —IndieReader (Indie Approved)

"The historical romantic fantasy takes readers to 24 AD to the Southeast Coast of Britannia, blending magic, romance, and politics into a satisfying tale of one determined Celtic woman who must choose between doing her duty and following her heart." —BlueInk Review

"Apollo's Raven is a good introduction to what life was like for the Celtic Brits when the Romans invaded. The plot is intriguing, and the forbidden love angle adds to the punchiness of the story." —Author Luciana Cavallaro

"An unpredictable, spellbinding tale, made so much richer by the historical integrity of the research carried out by the author, Linnea Tanner." —Author Ann Frandi-Coory 

"...an enticing avalanche of one revelation after another....I like to think of this story as a huge metaphor for history rewriting itself through fiction and allowing individuals to take charge of their own destinies."  —OnlineBookClub.org

"a rapturous read that mixes Celtic mythology into a good historical romance." —Foreword Reviews 

Author Bio:

Award-winning Author Linnea Tanner weaves Celtic tales of love, magical adventure, and political intrigue into the backdrop of Ancient Rome and Britannia. Since childhood, she has passionately read about ancient civilizations and mythology which held women in higher esteem. Of particular interest are the enigmatic Celts who were reputed as fierce warriors and mystical Druids. 

Depending on the time of day and season of the year, you will find her exploring and researching ancient and medieval history, mythology and archaeology to support her writing. As the author of the Curse of Clansman and Kings series, she has extensively researched and traveled to sites described within each book. 

A native of Colorado, Linnea attended the University of Colorado and earned both her bachelor's and master's degrees in chemistry. She lives in Windsor with her husband and has two children and six grandchildren.

Book Excerpt:

Chapter 1: Raven’s Warning

24 AD, Southeast Coast of Britannia

Princess Catrin reined in her horse at the edge of the precipice overlooking the sea below to study the pattern of her raven’s flight, seeking an omen. Her dream of the skull-faced moon, bleeding crimson, still plagued her. It was as if she had glimpsed both into her soul and into the future, yet she did not know how to interpret it.

The Raven, her animal guide, shot like an arrow into the thickening mist that partially obscured the sun. The sudden nip of a cool, salty breeze made her shiver. Longing for the disappearing sun’s warmth, she nestled into her plaid cloak and focused on the bird’s aerial acrobatics, first diving at the sheer cliff, then darting up. This close to the edge, one misstep of her horse could dash them both onto the jagged rocks below. Only her raven, a divine messenger, had the power to overcome such a fall and rise into the heavens to soar with the gods.

The Raven disappeared into the fog. Out of the haze, the red-striped sail of a flat-bottom ship suddenly appeared. Driven mainly by oars, it thrust to and fro in the turbulent water; it was unlike the deep-hulled vessels of seafaring merchants powered by air currents over their sails. At the bow of the ship was a strange looking beam shaped like a bird’s beak.

Catrin’s gaze followed the Raven’s movement beyond the white cliffs, where more striped sails were emerging from the mist. She counted ten, but there might be more. A chill feathered up her spine.

Could these be warships?

From the distance, she could not determine the total number of ships or the country of their origin. She needed to see through her raven’s eyes for that. But to do so, she had to be alone to meld her thoughts with the Raven. Uneasy that her sister, Mor, and their companion, Belinus, might disrupt her connecting to the Raven, she scanned a clump of brambles some distance down the grassy slope where she had left them. A few weeks back, the couple had met at the Beltane’s spring festival and had since become intoxicated with each other.

Catrin was still rankled that Belinus had tricked her into weapons training. His real purpose had come to light the evening before, when he told her to wait on the hillside so he could finish practicing with Mor. A warm blush spread across Catrin’s face as she imagined their legs entangled with each other. Did they think that she was deaf and blind and that she was too dimwitted to understand what they were doing? The king would not think kindly of it if one of his trusted warriors charged with training his daughters for battle was seducing one of them.

Now barely discerning the couple through the thick brush, she surmised they were again fully occupied with each other, leaving ample time for her to take the next step with her raven before they again joined her.

She dismounted and raised her sword, a signal for her raven to return. The large bird swooped toward her like a dark shadow. She lifted an arm on which the bird landed. Its midnight-black plumage contrasted sharply with her fair skin and gold braided hair. On the threshold of womanhood, she felt closer to this creature than to many of her own kind. Still, she hesitated connecting with the bird.

A few years back, she had told her father of her ability to see the present and future through the Raven’s eyes. She desired to be a Druidess. He denied her request to be trained in the spiritual order, saying, “I have decreed that no one in my family can use the powers of the Ancient Druids.”

When she asked why, he responded with a grim frown. “The magic is too unpredictable and often alters in deadly ways. Foresight is not a gift but a curse in our family.”

The king’s answer confounded Catrin, but she dared not defy him openly or get caught when she secretly practiced her new mystical ability that the Raven had shown her.

The Raven first sought me out, she reasoned in favor of using her newly discovered powers. I must heed the Raven’s warning. If I am to assess the danger the ships pose, I need to study them up close.

She had to hurry, though. The fire between her sister and Belinus would soon cool.

Catrin lifted her arm and looked to the Raven, considering her decision. “What do I have to fear from you? I am a Cantiaci warrior.”

The Raven cocked its head and gawked at her, as if ready to answer her question.

She asked, “Did the sun god send me an omen about the warships offshore?”

When the Raven mumbled some gibberish, she tapped its beak. “What does that mean?”

The Raven screeched, bobbing up and down. She smoothed its ruffled feathers. “Do you know why the ships are here?”

The Raven grew still on her arm. She winced, recalling the image of the blood moon in her dream. She asked, “Do they plan to attack?”

The Raven nodded excitedly, as if in response. Encouraged, she asked, “If I saw through your eyes, could I learn who they are and the reason they’re here?”

The creature tilted its head sideways, the signal for her to enter its mind.

She hesitated. “What if Father learns that I've taken this next step? Will he punish me for disobeying him … for ignoring his warning?”

The Raven shrieked and arched its wings. She chuckled. “That is right. He did say to study the enemy before each encounter, but never hesitate in battle. That’s what I’m doing—exactly what my father expects. I’m finding out if enemies are aboard the ships, but to do so, I must see through your eyes.”

Catrin again hesitated. Once before, when she had melded and disconnected from her raven guide, she lost consciousness. It took awhile for her head to clear after that episode. If that happened again, it could spell disaster so close to the precipice.

She stepped away from the cliff ’s edge and stared into the Raven’s eyes, which glowed like amber gems. The bird’s talons emitted a bolt of electric heat into her arm. A light flashed in her mind, and the Raven’s essence permeated her core being. She knew that she had entered the Raven’s prescient mind.

The landscape appeared blurry until she adjusted to the Raven’s eyesight. Brightly colored wildflowers dazzled her with purple hues that she was unable to detect with her human eyes. A thrill rushed through her veins as she sensed the bird’s breast muscles contracting to flap its wings. When the Raven began its thrust into flight, she felt the misty air lift its outstretched wings.

When the Raven soared toward the channel, she could see her human form standing as motionless as a statue on the emerald hilltop clasped to the jagged precipice. The sheer chalk cliffs formed an impenetrable wall against the crashing waves. Beyond the cliffs, there was a sparsely vegetated shoreline toward which several ships were sailing and where other vessels were moored. Armored infantry-men were disembarking, wading to the shore, and marching across the beach. On higher ground, soldiers set up tents in a square encampment. One of the guards had a lion’s head covering his helmet. In his hands was a pole with a silver eagle on top. She assumed it meant powerful animal spirits were guiding them.

A palatial tent in the center of the encampment caught her eye. Its outside walls were made of twined linen sheets, violet and red, brocaded with eagles. Surrounding the central structure were crimson banners, each emblazoned with the sun god in a horse-driven chariot. At the tent’s flapped entrance were two foreign noblemen attired in purple-trim white togas. Another man, towering over the foreigners, wore a rustic toga and plaid breeches—garments that nobles from her kingdom typically dressed in. From the back, he looked familiar, his thick coppery hair draped over his shoulders like a lustrous wolf pelt.

To confirm her suspicions that she knew this tall, brawny man, Catrin directed the Raven to circle around, so she could get a closer look. When the man’s ghostly, disfigured face came into view, her heart wrenched. She recognized her half-brother, Marrock.

Grotesque images of ravens pecking tissue out of his face flashed in her mind. For seven years, she had believed herself safe from him, but there he was—a specter arisen from the cold ashes of her nightmares.

Why has he returned with an army?

A sense of doom crawled all over her when Marrock’s head tilted back, as though he knew her essence was flying overhead. His blue-green eyes began glowing and changed to the same amber-gem color as her raven whenever she harnessed its magical power. The Raven’s muscles suddenly paralyzed, freezing its wings. A strong force pulled her through a crevasse in the Raven’s mind and hurtled her into a tunnel of brilliant gold light.

She plummeted, tumbling out of control, toward a black portal in the center of a rainbow-colored arch.

Chapter 2: Secret Magic

Just before Catrin burst through the portal, she found herself lying on familiar, yellow-flowered grass on the cliffs. Above her, the Raven’s wings disappeared into a gray haze. A shiver of panic as sharp as needles prickled down her back.

Was this what my father meant about the magic being unpredictable?

With the landscape settling around her, she inhaled the briny air and felt her own world again. Still, a burning tingle lingered in her arm as questions barraged her mind.

Did Marrock do this to me? Did he somehow sense I was spying on him by using my raven’s eyesight? Did he put me into another world? Is this the deadly magic my father warned me about—the double-edged blade that others who detect my raven-sight can do me harm?

A woman’s shrill voice startled Catrin. She rolled on her back to find her sister, Mor, looking down at her, the reins of her bay horse in hand. Gusty wind swirled Mor’s ebony tresses around her face, which was etched with concern.

“What happened?” asked Mor. “Your horse was loose. From a distance, I saw a raven on your shoulder as you collapsed.”

“I slipped and fell,” Catrin said, trying to wrap her mind around what had just happened. “Help me up.” She grasped Mor’s extended hand and pulled herself to her feet. Still light-headed, she teetered while brushing the chalk from the cliff stones off her leather chest armor.

“Did that raven do something to you?” Mor asked. “Before you collapsed, you appeared frozen; your arms twisted over each other like broken wings. It was as if you left this world and became some-thing else. A wraith or a soulless corpse comes to mind.”

Catrin glanced around, thinking it odd that Belinus was not with her sister. Assuming he was nearby, she looked beyond Mor, but there was no sign of him.

“Why don’t you answer me?” Mor snapped. “This is the second time I’ve seen this happen to you this week. You know what Father said. You are not to do magic with that raven.”

The image of Marrock with the foreign troops flashed in Catrin’s mind, and she blurted, “I saw warships offshore. Marrock is leading them!”

Mor scanned the ocean channel, now thick with rolling fog. “I don’t see anything.”

Catrin pointed northward. “Look beyond the cliffs.”

Mor shielded her eyes with a hand to search again. A moment later, she gave Catrin a dubious frown. “There is too much fog to see clearly. When did you see Marrock?”

“A bit ago—” Catrin suddenly realized it could have been quite some time since she had been in the Raven’s mind.

Mor gripped Catrin’s arm and pulled her closer. “Did your raven cast a spell on you, and you imagined this? People say your raven makes you mad!”

Catrin bristled. “That is utter nonsense! I only connect to the Raven when I need its help and have complete control over it.”

When Mor’s jaw dropped, Catrin realized she had let her secret slip out. She bit her lower lip, but it was too late to take the words back. Upon further consideration, she didn’t know how to convince Mor of the threat posed by Marrock and the foreign army unless she disclosed her use of forbidden magic. She finally admitted, “When-ever I need help—like … like seeing something in the distance—I can enter the Raven’s mind and see through its eyes.”

“Explain exactly what happens when you see through its eyes,” Mor said. “Do you shape-shift into a raven?”

“My human vision turns off when I switch to the Raven sight. I can see below me when it flies. The Raven also sends me dreams of the future. Last night, I dreamt the moon turned into a bleeding skull. I took this as an omen that our kingdom is in grave danger. When I saw Marrock with foreign soldiers, I confirmed this was true.”

Mor paused, as if trying to absorb what Catrin had just said. “Merchant ships are always sailing near the coastline. How could you even tell they were warships from the distance?”

“Armed soldiers were disembarking from vessels moored on the beach beyond the cliffs—”

Mor interrupted. “Nobody can see that far, even through raven eyes.”

“Let me finish!” Catrin snapped. Mor’s lips clamped into a scowl as Catrin continued. “My raven flew over the bay, where I saw hundreds of soldiers setting up camp on shore. That is where I saw Marrock!”

“I find your tale truly hard to believe,” Mor said, shaking her head.

“I’m not a liar,” Catrin insisted. “We must heed the Raven’s omen. Soldiers would not be with Marrock unless he plans to attack us. We need to warn our father.”

“Warn him of what?”

“Marrock is back with a foreign army!” Catrin declared. “Remember, sister, Marrock swore to slay everyone in our family when Father banished him seven summers ago.”

“You’ve made a bold claim without proof.” Mor exclaimed. “I never saw Marrock with my own eyes and, for that matter, I never saw any warships. What if you’re wrong? You don’t have any evidence that he is plotting to attack our kingdom. Father will be furious when he discovers you used your raven’s magic. Besides, I want to stay here and finish training with Belinus.”

Catrin could feel her face flush with anger. Train with what—his sword? She pointed to herself. “I’ll accept the blame if I’m wrong, which I’m not. We must go back now!”

Mor put her hands on her hips. “I’m not leaving until I see these phantom soldiers and ships with my own eyes.”

Catrin, noticing her sister suddenly glance up, turned and spotted Belinus waving from the adjacent hilltop to signal weapons had been set up for practice. The last thing she wanted was for Mor to persuade him to stay so they could finish their tryst before slinking back home. Mor had lost all sense of propriety with a common warrior.

Of all days to practice, I should be warning Father!

When Mor pulled the reins of the bay and began walking away, Catrin yanked her by the arm to halt her. “What are you doing?”

Mor spun toward Catrin. “Belinus is set to go. I am getting your horse ready, so you can practice spear throwing."

Catrin wagged her head in disbelief. “Didn’t you hear what I just said? We must go now and tell Father what we have seen.”

Mor glared. “I don’t take orders from someone who practices black magic with a raven. You see things nobody else can.”

Catrin ripped the reins from her sister’s fingers. “I don’t care what you think. I’m going. If Father asks me why you are not with me, I will tell him about your little meeting with Belinus.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

Wordlessly, Catrin mounted her bay and stared at her red-faced sister.

“Answer me!” Mor shouted.

Catrin pointed to the spear on the grass. “Hand me that lance.

I’ll tell Belinus about what I saw. You can load up your weapons and join us.”

Mor flung the spear up to Catrin.

Catrin adjusted the weapon and kicked her horse into a gallop. Gale breezes from the channel stung Catrin’s eyes as she drove her horse near the cliff’s edge and up the ridge to where Belinus was waiting. With thoughts running wild about a possible attack by Marrock, she ignored the perils of the precipice and the rocks below. With spear in hand, she clamped her legs against the horse and threw it.

The metal tip pierced the raven’s image on a shield that Belinus was holding. Clad in leather breeches and chain mail, he yelled, “Why did you do that? I wasn’t ready.”

Catrin halted in front of him. “We need to get back! Warships have landed; Marrock is leading them!”

Belinus gave a shocked look. “Marrock? Warships? Where?” Catrin pointed northward. “In the nearby bay.”

Hearing horses approaching, Catrin turned and found her sister riding the black stallion and leading a pack horse.

Mor huffed. “Why didn’t you wait for me? You’re lucky I don’t have to scrape your smashed bones and flesh off the rocks.”

“No time to argue!” Catrin snapped. She ordered Belinus, “See to the weapons. I’ll explain everything to you on our way back to the village.”

Mor blazed at Catrin as Belinus packed the weapons. After he mounted his horse, he told Catrin, “With the coming fog, it may be difficult to see the ships on our way home. Ride with me and tell me more about what you saw.”

Catrin rode with Belinus on the pathway while Mor followed them. As they descended the grassy hilltop, Catrin told Belinus about the warships and Marrock's return. Belinus appeared alarmed, glancing all around. He asked Catrin more questions and suggested they take a closer look at the seashore.

They directed their horses into a darkening forest in the valley. When they rode out of the woods and approached the beach, thick fog was swallowing the ships in the bay and marching out of the haze were soldiers heading their way.

Catrin glanced back at Mor. “See … there is the danger.”

Mor’s shoulders stiffened. “Keep riding.”

Belinus rode ahead and kept his hand on his sword’s pommel. “Follow me. Don’t look scared. These are Romans!” 

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 "...a joy to read!"  —Readers' Favorite

"In the Heart of a Mustang is one of the finest books ever written for teens and preteens." —Literary Classics

Hunter was told that his father was a brave soldier and virtuous man. Someone that Hunter needed to emulate. The only problem is that the whole story was a lie, all of it. The truth is that his father has spent the entirety of Hunter’s life in jail, paying his sorry debt to society. Angry and hurt, Hunter gets into some serious trouble and is sent to Promise Ranch, a home for troubled teenage boys. 

A wild mustang mare and her herd are rescued from certain starvation by the Bureau of Land Management (BLM). In a sandy corral at Promise Ranch, Hunter and the mare meet. It takes a weathered, old cowboy to bring them together—a mentor for one, a trainer for the other. The bond that forms between boy and horse becomes one that saves the lives of both.

Awards:

2016 Literary Classics Gold Medalist
2016 Nautilus Book Awards Silver Medalist
2017 Readers' Favorite International Book Award Silver Medalist
2017 Equus Film Festival Gold Medalist

Author Bio:

M.J. Evans is the multi-award winning author of middle-grade and young adult fantasies and novels. She is best known for her horse stories such as In the Heart of a Mustang and PINTO!, as well as her fantasies, The Mist Trilogy and The Centaur Chronicles. Mrs. Evans is a life-long equestrian, a former teacher of middle-grade and high school students, and the proud mother of five grown children. She loves to ride her horses in the Colorado mountains.

“An exceptional map for understanding the actions, decisions, market positioning and personal development that ultimately determine whether we have effectively managed our careers or fallen short." —John Koryl, President, Neiman Marcus Stores & Online

As a nationally respected executive recruiter, Chris Nadherny knows what it takes for professionals to get to the next level, and what holds them back. During his 30 years with Spencer Stuart—one of the world’s top executive recruiting firms—Nadherny conducted more than 700 search assignments for a wide-range of companies, assessed thousands of successful professionals and counseled many whose career paths have been disrupted or stalled.

More Reviews:

"Having read and prescribed many career books, this would be my absolute top choice. The author's perspective is unique in that his vast executive search experience provides insight both from a company's view as well as from the prospective executive. Together, they form a mosaic of what really defines exceptional talent and how this should guide one's career decisions. Chris Nadherny has created a career management reference guide that will prove invaluable for many aspiring executives in the years to come." —Fred Ley, SVP Corporate HR and Global Talent Management and Acquisition, Walmart, Inc.

"In Proactive Executive Chris Nadherny has consolidated his decades of learnings in the executive search business to create an invaluable blueprint for optimizing your career. His book is packed full of insights, practical how-to's and suggestions for aspiring C-suite professionals. The lessons that he shares are particularly relevant in today's ultra-competitive marketplace." —Jody Bilney, SVP and Chief Consumer Officer, Humana, Inc.

"Want help in improving your career? Then read this book before it's too late. Chris Nadherny turns 30 years of executive search experience into a reference guide that offers invaluable advice for executives at every stage of their careers." —Gian Fulgoni, ‎Co-Founder & CEO at comScore, Inc.

"Chris Nadherny shares his considerable experience as a national C-suite recruiter to capture the most critical, but often overlooked, elements of professional development and career planning in his book, The Proactive Executive. His book is full of proven and practical advice, insights, how-to's, action steps and real life case studies to guide your journey. A great read!" —Kimberly Williams, CEO, Consumer Safety Technologies

"Today as you move up an organization or change companies in a leadership position, you need the total package. Chris Nadherny outlines the steps needed to prepare yourself in advance for a significant career move, and to make sure it is the right one. Importantly, his approach makes these difficult steps achievable." —Roger Adams, Chief Marketing Officer, Fortune 500 diversified financial services company, Board Member, Association of National Advertisers.

"Read this book! No fluff here. Only practical tools and 'hard' career management skills that are guaranteed to result in positive career and personal growth. This is a 'go to' resource successful executives can pick up throughout their careers." —John Seebeck, VP and General Manager ECommerce, CDW, Inc.

"Physician heal thyself hasn't typically been relevant advice for business executives. Until now. Chris Nadherny's Proactive Executive does just that. This book reminds smart, strategic, and effective executives, who have mastered goal setting, planning, execution and monitoring, to apply these very talents to managing their own careers. Starting with the most important trait, self-awareness, Chris brings evidence in the form of examples and cases proving the qualities, and then the strategic actions that he's seen work over a stellar career of his own in executive search." —Tom Collinger, Executive Director Medill IMC/Spiegel Digital and Database Research Initiative, Northwestern University

"I have known Chris for nearly 20 years as a candidate, client and friend. This book powerfully distills career management insights from the thirty year career of someone I consider to be one of the world's most respected search executives. The detailed case studies, what-if scenarios, lessons learned and proactive action plans he lays out will be invaluable to executives at any stage in their career." —Love Goel, CEO, GVG Capital

"It's easy as an executive to be so focused on your job that you forget to manage your career. Nadherny's The Proactive Executive is filled with savvy observations and practical suggestions to help even the most successful executives improve the odds of building successful, long-term careers.  I loved the real-world examples, and I have already earmarked a bunch of pages that I'll be going back to. The Proactive Executive is a must read for any modern executive!" —David Spitz, CEO, ChannelAdvisor

"Today's business environment requires leaders to manage multiple, complex initiatives while reacting to new information on an ongoing basis. Good leaders almost always have a proactive plan to handle these challenges. Perhaps the toughest project any leader faces is the long-term management of his or her career through the series of changes in their personal situation and the rapidly evolving marketplace. In his new book, The Proactive Executive, Chris Nadherny provides an excellent roadmap for managing your most important business project—your career. The Proactive Executive provides a career's worth of practical perspective, insights, suggestions and "how to" tips designed to keep you ahead of the curve and achieving greater personal career success." —Michael Linton, Executive Vice President and Chief Marketing Officer, Farmers Group Insurance, Inc.

"I wish this book had been written sooner! There is lots of wisdom here that I could have used in my own career. I am overnighting The Proactive Executive to both my adult kids. Chris Nadherny's insight and advice is that important." —Bill Bass, Chairman, Black Wolf Group

Author Bio:
As a nationally recognized C-level recruiter, I spent 30 years with Spencer Stuart, a leading global executive search firm. My early career was in brand marketing after receiving a Wharton MBA. While at Spencer Stuart my executive search clients included leading Fortune 500 companies, private equity portfolio companies, and later stage start-ups. Along the way, I assessed the track records and backgrounds of over five thousand aspiring and C-suite executives. The insights and observations gained from these assessments provided me with unique perspective on how successful careers are formed. I also counseled many other executives whose careers had become derailed.

After many years in the recruiting trenches, I decided to leave Spencer Stuart with the goal of helping executives achieve greater professional success through proactive and thoughtful career planning and management. In my forthcoming book, The Proactive Executive: A C-Suite Recruiters 5-Step System for Achieving Greater Career Success, I share the best of my 30 years’ worth of observations, learnings and insights. The book provides practical, straightforward advice, action steps and how to’s for immediately improving your career prospects, job satisfaction and earnings potential. My hope is that this book will positively influence the careers of many executives, including yours.

"The author is a gifted storyteller, as this book engages the reader on several levels…Mahkovec has written a story that defies the reader to put it down before the end, and the end is impossible to guess. The Garden House is a slow-paced, insightful novel that I enjoyed very much, the sort of beautifully-written story I associate with literary fiction." —Readers' Favorite

“Mahkovec's prose is sharp and fluid…The premise is a fun one, and Miranda is a finely drawn character...An engrossing, if subdued, psychological tale." —Kirkus 

A story of love, family, and home set among the lush summer evenings of Seattle. Themes of gardens and buried secrets bring to mind the novels of Kate Morton, while the importance of home and family is reminiscent of Maeve Binchy.

When Miranda's two children leave home, her sense of loss is intensified by a void in her own life journey. She has set aside her dreams of becoming an artist for far too long. In an attempt to rekindle the beauty and passion of her youth, she fixes up the garden house as a studio—only to discover her husband has rented it out for the summer to a shy, somewhat mysterious young man.

Soon after his arrival, Miranda begins to have disturbing dreams. Her friends dismiss them. Her husband blames them on the teen shelter Miranda has recently visited. Is she simply experiencing a mid-life crisis? Perhaps empty-nest syndrome? But Miranda is convinced her dreams have meaning, especially when she notices her new tenant's increasingly suspicious behavior.

When her dreams become more urgent, Miranda can no longer ignore her fear that someone is in danger. Is something sinister lurking right outside in her beloved garden?

There's only one way to find out... 

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Author Bio: 

Linda Mahkovec is the author of World War II historical fiction, short stories, and contemporary novels.

Themes of love, family, and home dominate her stories, and though they may be set against the backdrop of war or deal with the disappointments in life, the overarching feel is uplifting and hopeful. Threads that run through her work are the search for beauty and meaning, and the artistic female character—whether she is a painter, a gardener, or simply someone who lives creatively and seeks connection.

Mahkovec was born and raised in a small town in Illinois. She then spent several years in the San Francisco Bay area and Seattle, and for the past thirty years has lived in New York City. She has a PhD in English, specializing in Victorian literature. She has previously published as Agnes Irene.

Book Excerpt:

Chapter 1

Miranda awoke to the darkness of early morning. A barely-there breeze softly swelled the curtains, causing the sheers to billow as if in slow motion. Before going to bed, she had opened the window and parted the curtains, to better hear the sounds of the night and the morning birdsong. But at this hour all was hushed, except for the rhythmic breathing of her husband. The troubling sense of yearning, that of late had kept her company, had awakened with her. She slipped off the comforter, and walked to the window.

She lightly rubbed her bare arms. In the garden below, only the white flowers were visible – cone-shaped hydrangeas, discs of Queen Anne’s lace, full-blossomed peonies – dream flowers of night. They appeared weightless, as if they hovered in timelessness, and would not attach to the stems and root until the fuller light of morning connected them. Further down, the garden house loomed out of the darkness – like the flowers, not yet anchored, still in silent communion with the night. As she rested her eyes on it, almost imperceptibly it shifted – from pale gray to the beginnings of white, gaining in shape and substance as dawn gave way to day. Now she could make out the blue trim, the window boxes. Soon it would stand firm in the bright light of morning.

Everything was right there – in the tenuous linking of night with dawn, in the garden house full of memories, in the flowers and paths of the garden, in the longing that spilled out into it all. It was as if she were looking at a puzzle, and almost had it pieced together while it lingered at the edge of night—but then it completely disappeared with the morning light, as if it had never existed.

Breakfast. She would make breakfast.

She dressed quietly, washed up, and went downstairs. As she got out the eggs, milk, and butter, she tried to brush away the webby sense of discontent that clung about her. A nudging that she should be doing something more now. That her old role had changed and she must also change, or risk slipping into vagueness.

Into a large blue bowl she cracked the eggs, and added milk, vanilla, a touch of sugar. Then she began dipping slices of bread into the mix and placing them in a pan sizzling with butter.

While they browned, she turned on the tea kettle. She reached for the coffee press, and opened the bag of coffee – lifting it to her nose and taking in the rich aroma before measuring it out. The scent alone warmed her to morning, made her eager to begin the day. She took out several oranges and began slicing them to squeeze for juice. While she prepared breakfast, she heard the shower running. She smiled. The scent must have drifted upstairs.

Cooking grounded her, rooted her, in the same way gardening did. And Ben. And the kids. She caught the spray of citrus mixing with the aroma of fresh coffee, and moved more briskly as she began to set the table.

She filled a few ramekins with jams and sour cream, and poured maple syrup into a small beaker. Then she took out a bowl and filled it with strawberries and blueberries. She looked at the table and wanted it to be fuller, richer. She lifted the bright pink kalanchoe from the window shelves, and set it on the table. Too bad the kids weren’t there to enjoy  it. Clara  would  love  the  way  the  flowering plant matched the quilted placemats. And Michael would appreciate the mound of French toast dusted with powdered sugar; he had his father’s love of big breakfasts.

With one hand on the counter, she gazed at the table, secure now in the routines of her kitchen, of good food, of color and light, a prettily laid table. She leaned her head to one side and studied the setting as if it were a painting, and briefly imagined herself sitting at the table, wearing a long kimono-like robe – peacock blue, or perhaps a pattern in pinks and orange.

She glanced down at her sweat pants and t-shirt. Well, they were more practical for cooking, she told herself. Still, she wished she blended more with the arrangement – the one of the table, as well as the one in her head.

Miranda smiled at Ben’s quickness of step coming downstairs. She could always count on his appetite.

“Smells wonderful!” Ben said, entering the kitchen and giving her a quick kiss. He stared at the table. “All this for us? On a weekday?”

Miranda lifted and dropped one shoulder. “I was up early so I thought I’d make breakfast.”

“I’m not complaining.” Ben took his seat at the table and poured the steaming coffee into their cups.

Miranda sat down and looked at the ceiling-to-floor shelves behind Ben, a sort of small green-house that jutted out into the garden. It always filled her with happiness – the photos of the kids among the flowering plants, painted boxes and vases and tiny candles scattered throughout. But this morning, as a backdrop to the breakfast table, it filled her with melancholy.

She took a slice of French toast and poured some maple syrup over it and added a few strawberries. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to cooking for just two.”

“It’ll just take some time,” said Ben, as he drizzled syrup over his French toast.

“I suppose so.”

Ben looked over at Miranda, her tone at odds with the enthusiastic breakfast spread.

“I think I’ll get started on the cupboards and closets,” she said. “Paula has been asking me to hand over any of my old pieces that are gathering dust. I told her with the kids gone, I was going to clean house and get rid of things. She seems to think my old paintings and sculptures will sell at her stores. You know how she can make anything look good. I doubt if they’ll sell, but I guess it’s worth a try.”

“I’m sure she’s right. Your work is great. I always tell you that, but you never believe me.”

“That’s because you’re partial, Ben.”

“Can’t fault me for good taste.”

“Hmm,” Miranda responded with skepticism. “I guess I’ll show her my old stuff, but what I really want to do is set up the studio and get started on some new things.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” said Ben. “I think I found a renter for the garden house for the summer.”

Miranda put her fork down. “I thought we decided against it.”

Ben looked up. “We did? I thought the plan was to rent it out until we were ready to put up that wall, make some of those changes we talked about.”

“Ben, that was months ago. I told you just last week that I wanted to use it as a studio this summer. I want to finish that screen, for one thing. And I haven’t done any painting in years.”

“Miranda, I cut the boards for that screen two years ago.” Ben’s hand hesitated over the berries. Berries or jam? He decided on a few mixed berries and sprinkled them over another piece of French toast.

“I know. And now that I have some time, I can finally finish it.”

“So I’ll tell the guy it’s not available.” He lifted the coffee press and refilled his cup. “Oh, remember to set out Michael’s camping gear if you come across it. He wants us to take it to him the next time we’re down. Apparently, his new girlfriend – Casey? – is a hiker and camper.” He raised his eyebrows at Miranda and grinned. “He sounds pretty happy. Portland was definitely the right choice for him.”

“Caitlin,” said Miranda. She placed an elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand, lightly tapping her lips with her knuckles. She took a deep breath and resumed eating. “No. Don’t tell him.”

Ben raised his head. “Tell who what?”

“The tenant. The guy.”

“Oh. You sure? I thought you just said – ”

“No. That can wait. The rent will help with the renovations.” She took another slice of French toast and spread on some sour cream and raspberry jam. “So who is he?”

“Somebody Doug knows. Or his wife, rather. A teacher or journalist or something.” He looked up, trying to remember if there was anything else he knew about him. “From out East. New York, I think,” he said, as if that summed it all up.

Miranda made a small sound of exasperation. “Is that all you know about him? How old is he? Is he married? Kids? What’s he like? What does he teach?”

Ben drew a blank at each question.

“What’s his name?”

“William. Something. Been teaching for thirty years. I don’t think he’s arriving until next week. I’ll find out more today and let you know.” He tried to read the expression on Miranda’s face—far-off look, slight frown. He had been sure that his news of a tenant would make her happy. “What?”

“Nothing. It’s just that – I thought that if we rented it out, it would be nice to have a woman. An artist. Maybe someone with a small child or two. Wouldn’t that be nice? To have kids down there? Just on a temporary basis.”

“You can always turn it into a daycare center if that’s what you want.” His suggestion, as he knew it would be, was met with a sharp glance from Miranda. “I mean it,” he continued. “The kids are gone, and now you finally have some time to do what you want to do. If it’s a daycare you want – ”

“I don’t want to run a daycare.”

“Well,  you  did  a  few  years  ago.  Don’t  you remember? You had plans to – ”

“Well, I  don’t  now. That’s  the  whole  point, Ben. I want to start doing some of the things I’ve been putting off for the last twenty-five years.” As soon  as  the  words  were  out, she  regretted  them. Ben  would  think  she  was  blaming  him  for  why she hadn’t pursued her dreams, even though it had been her idea to leave school when they got married and work while Ben finished his degree.

Ben looked down at his plate, and then up at Miranda. “I know. I’m behind you on that. Just – tell me what it is you want to do, and I’ll help you with it.”

Miranda’s eyes filled with worry. “That’s just it, Ben. I don’t know. I really don’t. How can I have gotten to this age and not know what I want to do?” She glanced about as she searched for an answer. “What if all those things they say about middle age are true? What if I get foggy-brained and too tired to accomplish anything ever again? And I just keep gaining weight and – ”

Ben laughed and leaned over to rub her shoulder. “Aw, c’mon. What are you so worried about? You just keep getting better and better. I never could keep up with you.”

“Ha!  You  haven’t  gained  a  pound.  While I – ” she shook her head at the unfinished thought. “Though  I  do  think  the  dry  cleaner  is  partly  to blame – everything comes back smaller. More coffee?” she asked, preventing any chance of a rebuttal.

Ben smiled and held up his cup. “Take your time and think about the tenant. You can always say no. It’s completely your call.”

She watched him fix another piece of French toast. “No. It’s a good idea. I’m not quite ready to paint or whatever, anyway. It’s going to take me weeks, maybe months, to really clean out closets and organize everything. A tenant makes sense. I’ll work on the garden house today, get it ready for him. It needs a few things.” She heard herself and almost cringed, as if another delay in her plans was exactly what she wanted.

Ben caught the wistful tone behind her words. “Hey – how about dinner tonight?” he asked. “At McMillans – watch the sun set on the lake. You’ll have your hands full today; this way you won’t have to think about cooking.”

“You know me well,” she said, stretching her legs and resting them on his lap. Miranda loved the restaurant’s seasonal menu and always looked forward to a new culinary experience – a fresh way of preparing a vegetable, an unusual combination of herbs or spices, or a completely new dish that she would later try to recreate.

Ben’s phone rang and he glanced at the number. “Sam.”

He chatted with his old friend, rubbing Miranda’s legs as he talked, stopping and starting in pace with the conversation.

Miranda picked a few berries from the bowl, eating them one at a time, and watched Ben, always so  animated  and  energetic. After  all  these  years, she thought, I’m still wild about him. He doesn’t even  have  to  do  anything. He  can  just  sit  there and eat and talk on the phone and laugh – and it all makes me love him so much. He was agreeing to something, raising his eyebrows at her at some good news. She just hoped it didn’t involve fishing.

Ben  speared  one  last  slice  and  shrugged  at Miranda, as if it was so delicious he couldn’t help himself. He poured out some syrup, gave a chuckle, and  nodded  again. “Sounds  good.  I’ll  tell  her – she’ll love it. See ya, buddy.” He slipped the phone into his pocket.

“What will I love?”

“He invited us to his new place on the peninsula.  Another  month  or  so  and  it’ll  be  ready. Doesn’t  that  sound  great?” He  cast  an  imaginary fishing line.

A weak smile formed on her lips.

“Hiking, fishing, sitting around the fire pit at night. He said he’s discovered a local berry farm that you’ll love.”

Miranda smiled at the cozy vision. “That does sound nice.” Dear ole Sam, she thought. Always sure to include something she would enjoy.

Ben took one last bite and scooted his chair from the table. Then he took his jacket from the hall tree and headed out the door.

Miranda followed him outside, rubbing her arms against the chill. “I’ll make a reservation. What time should I say?”

“Better make it 8:00. See you there.” He squeezed her goodbye, intensifying his embrace until he got the laugh he was looking for.

She walked out on the flagstones and watched him drive off. A trip to the peninsula might be a good idea, after all. It would be beautiful there. She loved the deep forest walks, the smell of wood fire at night. And Sam was always good company. Though only ten years older than Ben, Sam was in many ways his mentor. She would always be grateful to him for helping Ben through a tough time. The memory of those years, of the stress Ben was under, still filled her with pain. At one point she feared he was heading for a breakdown. Long hours, corporate politics, an ever-increasing work load. It was Sam who convinced him to leave the firm and work with a smaller architect company. And it had changed their lives.

A weekend with Sam would be good for them. She could walk along the shore while they fished. After all, she’d been wanting to exercise more, get back into shape. Here was her chance. Why did she always meet everything with such resistance? Like the idea of a tenant. That, too, might be a good thing. I used to be more open, more adventurous, she thought. When did that change?

Miranda lifted her face to the sun. She loved the way the garden smelled in the early morning, the earthy dampness from the light Seattle rain, the whiff of pine, the sun just beginning to release a hint of jasmine from the trellis. And if she leaned in close enough to the roses – she cupped her hands around the dewy pinkness, buried her face in the flower, and closed her eyes at such sweetness. She often wished they could move their bed out here, sleep under the stars, put up a little canopy against the rain –

“Hey, neighbor!”

There was Paula, waving to her.

“Good morning!” called Miranda, and crossed over to where Paula was planting flowers along her wooden fence.

Paula stood and held up a potted flower. “Just look at this clematis—it’s as big as a saucer.”

Miranda reached out to touch the pale purple flower. “It’s beautiful.”

“Just got it at the nursery yesterday. They still have some left.”

“I’ll go this morning. I need to get flowers for the window boxes,” she said, gesturing to the garden house. “I think we’ve found a renter for the summer.”

Paula inclined her head. “I thought you were going to use it as a studio.”

“We changed our minds. I want to organize the house first. Then think about what I want to do with the garden house.”

“I  hope  that  doesn’t  mean  you’re  going  to postpone  your  plans  again.  I  remember  a  time when you were always working on some painting or sculpture or something.”

“Yeah, well – that was ages ago.”

“What is it you’re afraid of? What’s stopping you?”

Miranda laughed at the ridiculous notion. “I’m  not  afraid  of  anything,  Paula. It’s  just –  I haven’t done anything for so long, and…”

Paula put a hand on her hip. “Does this have anything to do with turning fifty?”

“No, of course not. No. Not at all. It’s just – I’m not sure if I can tap into that part of myself again. I think it might be gone.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment. It’s in there. You just need to dig.” And with that, she knelt back down and shoved the trowel into the ground. “So who’s the tenant? A young painter with a five-year old child?”

Miranda laughed at the details of her earlier vision. “No, an older man. A teacher.”

“Well,  you  can  still  move  ahead  with  your plans. No reason you can’t paint outside or in the garage.”

“First I want to organize the house. Now that the kids are gone, I can clear out old stuff, get rid of things. And then think about painting or whatever.”

Paula gave a skeptical raise of her eyebrows.

Miranda pushed her foot at a clump of grass along the fence. “I think it will help me to focus, to start with a clean slate. I have so much stuff – old pieces I’ve held onto, half-finished projects. I want to lighten my load, and start fresh, you know? Then maybe by the fall or so I can be ready to really work.”

“Hmm.  Well,  don’t   throw   away   anything without letting me check it out first. The new shop opens  in  a  month. I  need  to  fill  it  up, and  your things would add just the right touch.”

“I doubt if there’s anything you can use, but I’ll start going through things.”

“You really should start on something new, as well. You’ll have the time now.”

“Yeah.” Miranda nodded and looked around. “Well, I better get started with everything. See you later.” She began to walk back to the house.

“Don’t wait too long, Miranda!”

Miranda turned and waited for a final word of reprimand.

But Paula was holding up the pale purple clematis. “They’re sure to go fast.”

Shop all Linda Mahkovec books

“…readers whose hearts aren’t made of stone will likely be moved by [Mahkovec’s] thoughtful explorations.” —Kirkus

Juliet, Offering, Peonies, The Asking, Romantic Love, Caramelized Onions, Solomon Grundy

Seven brief tales depict various expressions of love—unwanted, unrequited, passionate, enduring—in the bright beginnings of youth, the doubts and changes of middle age, and the comfort and familiarity of old age.

In these tales, a chance encounter with an old friend sheds light on a man’s failed love life; a young woman celebrates her day off in search of delight and pleasures, but encounters the unexpected; a young couple realizes that their relationship isn’t working, despite their affection; a middle-aged woman’s belief in her rock-solid marriage is shaken while on vacation; two friends disagree about the type of love that matters most; a woman chooses the memory of love over the possibility of new love; and an old man discovers that his love transcends the boundaries of life and death.

Lyrical and intimate, these stories portray love as sometimes thrilling, sometimes disappointing, but always what we yearn for.

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Author Bio:

Linda Mahkovec is the author of World War II historical fiction, short stories, and contemporary novels.

Themes of love, family, and home dominate her stories, and though they may be set against the backdrop of war or deal with the disappointments in life, the overarching feel is uplifting and hopeful. Threads that run through her work are the search for beauty and meaning, and the artistic female character—whether she is a painter, a gardener, or simply someone who lives creatively and seeks connection.

Mahkovec was born and raised in a small town in Illinois. She then spent several years in the San Francisco Bay area and Seattle, and for the past thirty years has lived in New York City. She has a PhD in English, specializing in Victorian literature. She has previously published as Agnes Irene.

Book Excerpt:

Howard Ashbury strolled along Columbus Avenue, enjoying the fine weather—autumn in New York—a welcome break from the gray of Seattle. Something about the pulse of the city, the charm of the Upper West Side, brought back his younger self, and he felt happy, hopeful. He stopped in front of a little café, and, though it was too early for dinner, he decided to go in. He would read the new script over a glass of wine.

As he entered, he took in the exposed brick walls, the long windows, the candles just being lit in the softening light. Then his heart gave a little lurch when he saw her sitting there—Anna Avilov, his old Juliet. Suddenly, the twenty years since the production of Romeo and Juliet in San Francisco vanished.

My God, he thought. She’s as beautiful as ever. There she sat, with a dreamy look in her eyes, pen poised in her hand as she searched for some word or phrase. She wore her hair loosely swept up, and the shimmering aquamarine blouse caught the color of her eyes. What was she searching for—some hidden world of beauty? What did she see?

Howard felt the old chivalrous urge to help her.

But Anna had never needed anyone. He remembered how they were all in love with her, in love with the beauty and charm she possessed. Men and women alike took to her, as did the audience. They all wanted some of whatever it was she exuded—to possess it, to be in its presence, however briefly. He remembered how she had felt pulled down by that hungry need from everyone, and had shied away from the very attention the other actors sought.

Perhaps feeling his gaze, Anna looked over at him. Their eyes met, and her brow furrowed as she tried to place him.

Howard gave a small, wry smile. Have I changed so much? he wondered.

He walked over to her. “Hello, Juliet,” he said, hoping the name would bring back the memory of him. He waited a beat. “Don’t you remember your old stage manager?”

Anna’s eye widened as she gasped. “Howard!” She jumped up and hugged him. “I can’t believe it! Oh, how wonderful! Can you sit with me? I just can’t believe it!” In between each exclamation she searched his face, stepping back a bit to take in the changes.

He had forgotten how petite she was. She had to stand on her toes to kiss his cheek.

Howard pulled out the chair across from her, and waited for her to take her seat. He then sat down.

They ordered a bottle of wine. As Howard crossed his legs and turned the saltshaker around in his fingers, Anna clapped her hands in delight.

“Oh! You still wear red socks. You haven’t changed. Not a bit. Still so handsome and dapper!”

Howard smiled, realizing that it was ridiculous for her words to mean so much to him. But his recent failed affair had left him wounded and unsure of himself.

They talked and laughed and caught up on the last twenty years. Howard told her that he was still working as a stage manager, the last twelve years in Seattle. He described some of the more memorable productions.

Anna filled him in on the rather haphazard path she had taken. When she moved to New York eighteen years ago, she had found work as an off-off-Broadway actress, filling in the gaps between shows with waitressing and temping. The years since had been marked by a variety of unrelated jobs, a bit of travel, and, ten years ago, the meeting of her husband.

Howard was disappointed to hear that she had given up acting after she married. But Anna said it was writing that she had always felt more at home with.

“Yes, I remember that. You were always writing during rehearsals. What was it you used to say? That you were trying to create the world you were forever in search of. Have you found it? Or have you created it?”

Anna laughed. “Neither, I’m afraid. It still eludes me.”

“And are you still interested in theater?”

“Yes, of course.” She glanced at her watch.

“As a matter of fact, my husband has tickets for tonight. Dinner, and then Chekhov. He’s picking me up here. I’m so happy you’ll be able to meet him.”

She went on to say that she had written some one-act plays and was working on a screenplay. As he listened, he observed the old air of wistfulness about her.

After two hours of talking, Howard noticed that evening had crept closer to their window. The candles on the tables and the lights outside shone brighter now, against the dark. That artful thrill of early evening filled the air, and shone from the faces of the couples filling the tables next to them, and from people hurrying by outside—the thrill that the night might hold something wonderful.

Howard knew that her husband would be there soon to take her to dinner, yet there was so much more he wanted to know. He gave a small ironic smile; she still had the power to stir up a hunger in her audience. He poured the last of the wine into their glasses, and asked if she remembered William Chase.

“Of course, I do! Benvolio. Or was it Balthasar? You’d think I’d remember.” She looked above his head, scanning the stage of so long ago, squinting ever so slightly, as if the stage lights were still in her eyes.

Howard also wondered how she could forget. “Benvolio,” he said. “And so terribly in love with you.”

Anna nodded. “Benvolio. Of course.” She took a sip of wine. “What ever became of him? Do you know?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I ran into him last year in Portland. He became a lawyer, of all things.”

“A lawyer?” Anna asked, surprised. “Good for him.”

Howard had always wondered if Anna was aware of the effect she had on people. He thought it unfair that beauty could so effortlessly cause pain to others. He recognized his buried resentment, mixed with admiration, for all the things she represented to him. He had never wanted to sweep her into his arms, or make love to her. Rather, he had wanted to be like her, to move through the world with such power and beauty and ease.

Howard would later blame the wine for making him press on as he did. His words came out almost accusingly. “William told me that he never really got over you.”

Anna leaned slightly back, as if in defense. Her full lips shaped her words as she spoke.

“Well, there was never anything between us. I certainly never encouraged him. I guessed he had feelings for me, but you know how that is—how often that happens in an emotionally charged cast.”

Howard nodded and looked down. The image of the beautiful Roberto filled his mind: how their eyes had met across the stage, how their love had developed, those first perfect months. With bitterness, he remembered the torch he had carried for Roberto, long years after being rejected.

“You know,” said Howard, allowing some of his resentment to creep into his tone, “William always thought it was because of his height. He thought you never took him seriously.”

This was actually Howard’s belief, but he assumed this must be the case since William had been strikingly handsome. “That was one of the reasons he went into law, he said. More weight—or height, in his case.”

Howard waited for her answer. He wanted to know whether he had been correct all these years in attributing to Anna a certain small-mindedness; or whether he had ungenerously projected onto her the reasons for his own unrequited loves.

Again, Anna squinted into the past. “Yes. I remember him saying something about that once. He invited me to dinner, but I just wasn’t interested. He asked if it was because of his height. I think I laughed out loud at such a ridiculous notion. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was his whininess that made him unattractive. It was so off-putting. Do you remember? He complained about everything and everyone.”

Anna swirled the wine around in her glass, and smiled. “Besides, I’ve always preferred short men. A better fit, you know.”

Howard snapped upright in surprise—both by her candor, and by his mistaken assumption. He had always believed that height was one of those universally desired attributes—attributes that he, for the most part, did not possess.

He responded with a simple, “Oh?” and began turning the saltshaker around again. His thoughts tripped over themselves as he attempted to reorganize them, realizing that he had indeed misjudged Anna—and perhaps his own beloved—all these years.

Anna spoke as if merely stating a fact, but a sly seductiveness played about her lips.

“Yes, whether kissing when standing, or cuddling at night, or...” Her aquamarine blouse shimmered in the candlelight as she gave a light shrug.

Howard quickly replayed the arguments with Roberto. He had always assumed that Roberto had rejected him because of his age, ethnicity, or some other quality over which he had no control. For the first time, the thought gripped him: What if Roberto had simply found him boring? Or, God forbid, whiny?

Then, as if on cue and choreographed to maximize the insight into his own failed affairs, in walked Anna’s husband—short, if not shorter, than William Chase. He was equally as handsome, though, Howard had to admit, in a more genial manner.

Anna’s whole being surged with pleasure at the sight of her husband’s flashing smile and warm eyes. She stood to embrace him—in a comfortable fit, Howard noticed—and introduced them.

As she slipped on her wrap, the three of them spoke briefly and exchanged business cards. Howard declined the invitation to join them for dinner, but promised to stay in touch.

Anna and her husband waved good-bye and left the café.

Howard sat back down at the table and tried to put his ruffled thoughts back in order, tapping the saltshaker up and down. As he shook his head at life’s vanities and wretched misunderstandings, the beautiful Anna Avilov tapped on the window and blew him a kiss, her arm linked with that of her Romeo.

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“This cast of characters and their witty dialogue makes me laugh out loud! The readers of our community paper have been treated to top-notch entertainment over the years and I’m delighted that the stories will find new readers to entertain.” —Suzanne Detar, Author, Publisher, and Editor of The Daniel Island News

Bless their little hearts...

Marriage is a compilation of laughter, tears, and occasional inane spats over nothing. Life in the south is a combination of sass, sophistication, and sticky situations. And when you mix them together, the result is gut-splitting hysterical. In these Southern short stories, the whimsical Williams couple takes readers on the highs and lows of their Southern marriage.

Dalton Williams, a well-meaning and kind-hearted gentleman, has ideas that are quirky and kooky—many times going awry. His practical and sensible wife, Grace, keeps him grounded.  Embark upon a fun-filled and hilarious journey through the aisles of Publix supermarket to the frustration of Daylight Savings Time. Dalton and Grace are familiar faces experiencing life’s oftentimes silly mundanity, and when you add in their adorable and sassy Aunt Toogie, you have a real southern treat!

More Reviews:

"I enjoyed a peek into the lives of Dalton, Grace, and Aunt Toogie. This gem is an easy read. Pick it up and enjoy one or two stories, or grab a cup of tea and settle in for a longer stretch. Thank you Ann and Bill for sharing your humor with us."  —Joan Hyams Schmitz, author of Carried by a Feather

“[a] hilarious and endearing gem of a book…” —★★★★★ Reader Review 

“If you want an enjoyable read that will bring tears and laughter, buy this book.” —★★★★★ Reader Review 

“This book is a humorous, easy read that will cause you to chuckle a lot. You will see friends and family in the stories. There are great observations on human nature. I highly recommend it and hope there will be another book by the authors.” —★★★★★ Reader Review 

“Wonderful read by a talented duo who contrast the challenges of today's technological world with growing up in mid-century America. Written with humor, each story reminds us of life's gifts, sometimes hidden in plain view. Dalton and Grace's memorable family and friends help convey the message. Hoping for another edition.” —★★★★★ Reader Review 

“…a well written and very funny collection of vignettes…Each episode is a stand-alone column, so the reader can either read the book from front to back or anywhere in between. A very enjoyable book!” —★★★★★ Reader Review 

“I love this book! So many entertaining and comical stories.” —★★★★★ Reader Review 

“These stories have kept me laughing! They are so well written and so true. Each story depicts real life experiences in such a humorous manner…These stories read like mini Seinfeld episodes.” —★★★★★ Reader Review 

“This is a wonderful book filled with so many amusing anecdotes about daily life to which we can all relate. There are also may tender moments that elicit a warm smile. Well done Dalton and Grace!” —★★★★★ Reader Review 

Authors' Bio:

These short stories were written by Bill Stevens and edited by his wife, Ann. They live in Daniel Island, a suburb of Charleston, South Carolina. They enjoy reading, writing, giving back to their community, and spending time with their four children and ten grandchildren.

“Here's a new kind of sleuth with an ecological bent and an unlikely sidekick, a sometimes tense, sometimes funny murder mystery with a touch of romance.” —P.B. Parris, author of Waltzing in the Attic and His Arms are Full of Broken Things

Callahan Banks returns to her beloved Timicau Island near Charleston, South Carolina, to settle her mother's estate. Her grief is compounded by Pepper Dade's plans to develop the island and destroy the only home she's ever known. When the body of a bikini-clad blonde washes up on the beach, Callahan is pulled into a web of intrigue that has her questioning all she thought she knew about her own life. Struggling to resist her attraction to Pepper, Callahan suspects he may be involved in the death of the blonde. She ignores her misgivings until nine-year-old, freckle-faced Harry Applegate, her sidekick, disappears. Now Callahan must muster all her skills as a naturalist and tracker to find the little boy before it's too late.

Author Bio:

Dershie McDevitt, a Wilma Dykeman Writing-Excellence Award Winner at UNC-Asheville, lives outside Asheville, North Carolina with her rescue dog, Sassafras, her opinionated calico cat, Orphan Annie, and her first and second husbands. Dershie and Larry, who have had the good fortune to have married each other twice, own a whimsical vacation home off the coast of Charleston, South Carolina on a buried island teeming with wildlife—the perfect setting for the fictional biology professor Callahan Banks to use her knowledge of nature to solve challenging mysteries.

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If your hiring process is broken, it's definitely impacting your company's bottom line. We all know that attracting and onboarding exceptional talent is critical to growth.

The first step to turning things around is identifying the problems. In Talent War, you'll discover the most common mistakes companies make when trying to hire and retain the most experienced and qualified talent in today's highly competitive job market.

You'll learn how to streamline your hiring process and make it faster and more effective. Author Jermaine Williamson, a 25-year industry veteran, will show you how to start winning the Talent War.

Author Bio:

Jermaine Williamson is the Founder, President and CEO of JLW Consulting, LLC., a Management Consulting firm providing Talent Acquisition, Strategic Business Advisory, Human Resources, Talent Retention and Talent Development services.

Mr. Williamson, who was born in Elizabeth, New Jersey and a graduate of Virginia State University in Petersburg, Virginia, has over 25 years of experience in providing senior and executive level leadership support to Fortune 100, 500, mid-size and start up organizations. Mr. Williamson is recognized as a subject matter expert (SME) in the areas of Talent Acquisition, TA Operations Management, Recruiting Process Design and Implementation. His company, JLW Consulting, LLC offers a new and innovative approach to address a company’s critical business challenges. Whether it’s Technical Recruiting, Executive Recruiting, Talent Development, Diversity and Inclusion, Recruiting Process Compliance, lowering cost per hire or increasing employee referrals, JLW Consulting LLC can customize solutions to fit the needs of clients without straining their budget.

“The Milk Wagon is destined to be a classic...Highly recommend.” —Delta Magazine

The Milk Wagon is a coming-of-age thriller about friendship, redemption, and how the ties made during high school can last a lifetime.

Matt Frazier, Jason “Hop” Hopkins, and Mark Ragone have been close friends since elementary school. On the first day of their junior year of high school, a new kid named Nate Mayes arrives, and with him, a secret.

Nate appears to be polished, flush with cash, and a potential lady-killer. However, they soon discover that something terrible is going on at home with Nate’s father, Dr. Ford Mayes. 

FBI Special Agent Kathryn Cooper believes Dr. Mayes has personally had a hand in several deaths relating to  a money laundering scandal involving compounding pharmacies, dirty physicians, and the United States Government. Her attempts to arrest him, however, are foiled by an insider working both sides. With her career—and social life—in jeopardy, Agent Cooper turns to her new chief-of-police boyfriend for help, but is he truly the cure-all she needs?

When Nate stumbles upon a piece of evidence that ties his father not only to the money laundering investigation, but also to the death of his mother some fourteen years prior, he is devastated and filled with revenge. Enlisting Matt and his friends to help, Nate concocts a plan that will force them all to make unexpected and life-altering decisions. In the end, they will discover the shocking truth and finally understand the loyal bonds of family and friendship.

The trusty Milk Wagon was there through it all.

“Filled with FBI Investigations, scandal, and mysterious deaths, The Milk Wagon is a page-turning read.” —Mississippi Magazine

“It is hard to believe this book is fiction. I enjoyed it so much and will be recommending it to anyone and everyone I can.” —★★★★★ Reader Review

“When I started reading "The Milk Wagon" I was totally unprepared to be engaged in this FBI/coming of age thriller. I could not put it down, reading almost nonstop until the end. I thoroughly enjoyed this novel and would highly recommend it as a great entertaining read.” —NetGalley Reviewer

“If you love crime thrillers, if you loved the 80s, or if you just love a well written book, check this one out.” —NetGalley Reviewer

“The writing is exquisite; the storyline is awesome. Very relatable.” —★★★★★ Reader Review

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.

“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. 

Shop the Tipsy Collins series

Eleanor Brice Desmarais, she of the cracked glass slipper and unladylike intellectual propensities, has learned that happily-ever-after is as rare as a frozen dragon, even for a happenstance princess. She survived a plot against her life, but her marriage to the alcoholic, womanizing Prince Gregory of Cartheigh remains at best a sham, and at worse, a potential noose around her neck. Gregory is increasingly suspicious of Eleanor's unusually close relationship with his best friend, Dorian Finley, and with good reason. Ironically, Gregory seems to be engaged in his own scandalous love affair-- with Eleanor's scheming stepsister, no less. Eleanor understands the harsh realities of women's lives in her kingdom, so she turns her energies to a school for impoverished girls, until an evil magician's deception destroys the school and unleashes a festering plague. From the Fire-iron walls of Eclatant Palace to the slums of Meggett Fringe, no one, magical or mundane, is safe from the fever-induced delirium of the Great Burning. Not even Eleanor's children.

As Eleanor's happily-ever-after morphs from circumspect to heartbreaking to mortally dangerous, for both herself and Dorian, she faces her greatest losses and her harshest reckoning. No matter what life hands her, however, she finds the strength to do what she must. She stares down her challenges, protects her loved ones, and fights to change the world. Just like women everywhere, in her world, and ours.

About the Author
Alexander, Stephanie: - 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 dachshund, Trinket.

"...a sophisticated and fantastical twist to the beloved Cinderella fairy tale." -- A. G. Howard, author of the Splintered Series

When Eleanor Brice loses a glass slipper, she unexpectedly gains a royal fianc and a way out of her abusive stepmother's house. Unfortunately, eight years of mistreatment, isolation, and clandestine book learning hardly prepared Eleanor for life at Eclatant Palace, where women are seen, not heard. According to Eleanor's eavesdropping parrot, no one at court appreciates her unladylike tendency to voice her opinion. To make matters worse, Gregory Desmarais, Crown Prince of Cartheigh, spends his last night of bachelorhood on a drunken whoring spree.

Before the ink dries on her marriage proclamation, Eleanor realizes she loves her husband's best friend, the intellectual, surprisingly sensitive former soldier, Dorian Finley. As Gregory's mercurial nature comes to light, Eleanor wrestles with her feelings for Dorian, flounders in her new role, and makes powerful enemies--foes who use Eleanor as a scapegoat in a magical plot to unseat the royal family.

Eleanor Brice is a princess. She lives in an enchanted castle. She even has her own unicorn. But she's lived through childhood trauma, she has insecurities and anxieties, and she makes dreadful relationship choices. In short, she's a real woman in a fairy tale world, and this is her happily-ever-after.

About the Author
Alexander, Stephanie: - 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 dachshund, Trinket.

"We only have one life, it is precious, and sleep is an essential component in it. Readers, I urge you to take advantage of the life and experiences of this knowledgeable expert in this field, and embrace this essential guide. Not only will it improve your sleep, but also you can utilize the information it contains and take stock of your own personal journey, evaluate what is important to you as an individual, and then using the tools given in this book, go forward with the rest of your life in a balanced and healthy way. Highly recommended! —Susan Keefe, The Columbia Review

Did you know that sleep is a key component for a happy life? Research shows us it is. But with all of today’s technology and stresses, many people are getting less sleep or experiencing poorer quality sleep. This can negatively impact mood, concentration, productivity, physical health and, yes, even happiness.

As a practicing physician for more than twenty years, Dr. Venkata Buddharaju (known as Dr. Buddha to his patients) has extensive experience treating patients with sleep problems. And the number of patients he is seeing with sleep disorders is on the rise. 

In Better Sleep, Happier Life, Dr. Buddharaju teaches seven simple, practical, and natural methods to help you get better sleep in order to refresh your mind and body. Filled with wisdom from his years of experience as well as simple lifestyle changes, Better Sleep, Happier Life can help you find rest and refreshment in the midst of your busy life…and reap the benefits. 

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“Dr. Buddharaju dissects the most complex sleep science into simple practical strategies that can be put to use by anyone!” —Murali Ankem, MD, MBA, Associate Dean School of Medicine at University of Louisville

“Dr. Buddha provides a much needed integration of science, patient experience, and common sense to guide both professionals and lay people in this underappreciated influence on our productivity, health and happiness.” —Sean R. Muldoon, MD, MPH, MS, FCCP, FACPM, Chief Medical Officer at Kindred Healthcare Hospitals

“Concise, easy to read... All you ever cared to know about sleep is incorporated in this fascinating book by Dr. Buddharaju, a well accomplished sleep specialist. A must-read for all.” —Kizito Ojiako MD, FWACS, FRCS (Eng), FCCP, Vituity Medical Director, Critical Care Medicine, Amita Health Saints Mary and Elizabeth Medical Center, Chicago, IL, Assistant Professor of Medicine, Rosalind Franklin University of Medicine and Science, Chicago, IL

“Dr. Buddha gives readers exactly what they care about and need to hear--an easy-to-understand and practical outlook not only on how sleep impacts our physical health, but also how it strengthens our passions, mindset, and creativity.” —Shubha Vedula (Shuba) American Idol Semifinalist and Recording Artist

Author Bio:

Dr. Venkata Buddharaju (or Dr. Buddha, as his patients call him) is a fellowship-trained physician at the Albany Medical Center in Albany, New York. He is Board Certified in Internal Medicine, Pulmonary, Critical Care and Sleep Medicine from the American Board of Internal Medicine.

He now teaches and consults at hospital intensive care units and pulmonary units as well as sleep medical practices. He is a Clinical Assistant Professor of Medicine at the University of Illinois at Chicago (UIC) and teaches medical students from UIC, Chicago Medical School and Internal Medicine resident trainees at Weiss Memorial Hospital in Chicago.

He directs the Sleep Disorders Center and Clinic at Thorek Memorial Hospital in Chicago and serves as a Section Chief of Pulmonary & Critical Care at AMITA Health Saints Mary and Elizabeth Medical Center Chicago where he teaches Internal Medicine and Family Practice Residents while working in ICU as an Intensivist. Additionally, he is president of the medical staff at Kindred Chicago Lakeshore and Central hospitals. Dr. Buddharaju has numerous medical-device patents and is working to develop more patient friendly medical devices. Throughout his career, he has conducted clinical research, published his work in various medical journals, and worked to develop and implement high quality patient-care policies. He believes strongly that balancing natural healing practices with traditional medicine is important for the future of effective health care.

Book Excerpt:

Introduction

Over the decades, humans have gradually reduced the time they spend in quality sleep and are awake longer in a twenty-four-hour time cycle. According to a study by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) and other studies, about 35 percent of US adults are not getting the recommended seven to nine hours of sleep on a regular basis. Even teenagers, who need extra hours of sleep (eight to ten hours), are spending less time sleeping. According to a 2006 National Sleep Foundation poll, 87 percent of US high school students get far less than the recommended eight to ten hours of sleep.

Some of the consequences of poor sleep are anxiety, depression, suicidal thoughts, obesity, diabetes, hypertension, stroke, heart attack, excessive daytime sleepiness, poor concentration, and an increased risk for motor vehicle and other accidents. In addition to these worrisome health consequences and sleep deprivation’s impact on the body and mind, America’s lack of sleep is costing billions of healthcare dollars.

Humans live an average of sixty to eighty years, depending on where they live on the planet. People live much longer in some parts of the world than they do in others. The people of Okinawa, Japan, report one of the world’s highest life expectancies. In general, across the world, human life expectancy has steadily increased with advances in infection control, technology, and medicine. However, one thing that has not changed is the medical community’s recommendations for sleep time and duration.

We spend approximately 40 percent—a third of our lifetime—asleep, which we don’t remember, except for occasional dreams. At sunset, our brain releases a chemical substance called melatonin, which makes us sleepy and helps us get into sleep mode. Wake-promoting hormones decline at this time of day, and sleep-promoting substances increase

with the onset of sleep. Caffeine, alcohol, or other substances we consume can interfere with this balance and cause sleep difficulties such as insomnia and poor sleep quality.

Our brain clock, called the circadian rhythm, wakes us up at sunrise, bringing us to a conscious level so that we can function optimally throughout the day. The longer we are awake, the higher the concentration of adenosine, a sleep-promoting neurotransmitter that we need at the end of the day.

This sleep-wake cycle has evolved over thousands of years in various species, including humans. This cycle continues unabated unless interrupted intentionally by activity, diet, stress, or other health conditions.

A good night’s sleep prior to a major performance—such as a musical concert, athletic match, important academic test, or corporate presentation—is key for optimal performance. A well-rested brain and body feel more positive and perform much better. On the other hand, students who stay up too late and sleep only a few hours prior to a major exam, do poorly on the test due to their lack of ability to focus. That’s because the information that was learned during their awake state is stored in memory centers of the brain during sleep, particularly in deep Rapid Eye Movement (REM) sleep, which is when most dreams occur. They have not given their brain enough sleep time to process the information that they learned during the day. As a result, they do not retain the information they have learned.

The vicious cycle of sleepless nights and daytime worry due to less than optimal performance makes things worse. The two feed one another. But, by making small changes to your lifestyle and eliminating distractions, you can open up the door for more focused attention. This will lead to increased productivity at work and more success at both work and home. These changes should bring needed sleep and a chance to live a happier life. Lifestyle modification involves removing distractions. I hope you will find the information in this book valuable and helpful in bringing about the necessary yet simple changes to get better sleep and lead a happier life.

Chapter 1: Sleep Basics

Nature amazes me. As I sit writing this book, I wonder how the Earth is at a perfect distance from the sun, so that life here has just enough light and heat. I marvel at how the Earth has rotated around the sun for more than four billion years, creating our seasons, while continuing to spin on its axis, which causes day and night.

Nature plays a vital role in shaping sleep patterns for all creatures on Earth. Birds, butterflies, fish, mammals, and even plants respond to light-dark cycles. Humans can’t ignore nature’s long-established sleep patterns, either. Before digital technology, humans awoke with sunrise, spent most of their time in nature, and rested after sunset. They maintained natural circadian rhythms.

While other species have continued to follow natural patterns, human curiosity has caused us to seek improvements to our lives. We have invented comforts like artificial light, televisions, computers, and cell phones. But exposure to natural light at the right time of day is crucial to maintaining a proper circadian rhythm. Unfortunately, we are now constantly exposed to artificial light and technology inputs throughout the day and night, making it difficult for many of us to fall asleep.

What is Sleep?

Sleep is a need-based, reversible, unconscious state induced by changes in the brain. For sleep, people typically assume a supine or sitting posture, become immobile, close their eyes, and experience decreased response to external stimulation. Brain waves, eye movements, and muscle tone can be very different during the various sleep stages.

Sleep is as natural as drinking when thirsty. We can voluntarily postpone sleep in order to fulfill our daily obligations. We can yawn, move around, walk, talk, and even drink caffeinated beverages to fight our need for sleep. However, we can only do so much postponing before nature steps in to take over.

When we sleep well all night, we feel good the next morning and are happy and ready to handle life’s daily tasks. On the other hand, we can feel miserable, irritable, and not so happy after a night with fewer sleep hours or poor sleep quality. Ideally, people need a longer, uninterrupted, deep night’s sleep to achieve their best during their wake periods.

Without adequate sleep, life becomes miserable and we risk high blood pressure, stroke, and heart attack. We may also experience poor decision making and memory, feelings of stress, and be more prone to accidents. Studies have shown that the flu and pneumonia vaccines are more effective when someone sleeps well the night before the vaccination is given.

Sleep and the Brain

Interesting things happen in brain circulation during sleep, especially during deep sleep stages. Accumulated proteins, called amyloids, and other waste products and toxins are slowly washed away via a system of interconnected structures called the glymphatic system.

Sleep restores the mind and body so that we have the energy we need, can focus during the day, and are capable of cognition. While awake, the brain accumulates several waste products. Scientific studies have shown that sleep clears them. If not cleared, they may lead to neuronal damage and increase the risk of dementia.

A recent Boston University study that was published in Science Journal showed that water-like fluid surrounding the brain, called cerebrospinal fluid, pulses like waves during sleep and may help to flush out toxic, memory-impairing proteins from the brain. This study and others have shed light on how sleep disruption and lack of sleep can contribute to memory-impairing conditions like Alzheimer’s and age-related memory loss.

Bits and pieces of what we learn during our waking hours are stored in the brain in memory banks during sleep. This is called memory consolidation. It is one of the main reasons that learning happens primarily during deep sleep.

Sleep Stages

Sleep is divided into two main states: non-rapid eye movement sleep (NREM) and REM sleep. NREM is further divided into three stages. Normally, we enter into stage one of sleep 10 to 20 minutes after closing our eyes. It lasts a few minutes and then flows into stage two, which is another lighter sleep stage that lasts a little longer than stage one. Finally, the deeper sleep, also called slow wave sleep, of stage three arrives. This is when most of the body and mind restoration happens. NREM and REM cycles alternate every ninety to one hundred minutes with approximately four to six cycles during a seven-to-nine-hour adult sleep period.

NREM sleep comprises 75 to 80 percent of sleep time. It dominates the first third of the sleep period, with gradual progression from Stage 1 to 3 in slow wave sleep.

REM sleep, which accounts for 20 to 25 percent of sleep, occurs sixty to ninety minutes after sleep onset, and dominates the last third of the sleep period.

Sleep Duration

Most of the scientific community that studies sleep recommends 7-9 hours of sleep duration for young adults and adults (18-64 years of age) to maintain good health. Older adults (65 and above still need 7-8 hours of sleep, where as teenagers (14-17 years) need 8-10 hours of sleep, school age children (6-13 years) need 9-11 hours, Preschool age children (3-5 years) need 10-13 hours of sleep.

According to research, people who sleep six hours or less have significantly more lapses in psychomotor vigilance testing. Yet, according to the National Sleep Foundation (NSF),only 10 percent of American adults prioritize sleep over other aspects of life.

I once had a patient who was a cab driver. He worried about losing his driver’s license due to his declining health. He worked long hours, his blood pressure and blood sugar were elevated, and he had gained weight eating a high carb diet and not exercising or sleeping regularly. He drove a cab to pay for his son’s college tuition. Work up and evaluation found no sleep disorder. He simply wasn’t sleeping the required number of hours. After counseling on sleep, he was able to make changes to his priorities, able to sleep better and returned to a happy and healthy life.

"...a riveting fantasy about soul-searching and growth which will keep young adult readers engrossed to the end." —Diane Donovan, Senior Editor, Midwest Book Review

How did Albert Einstein come up with his wondrous theories of light and time? 

In Einstein's Compass: A YA Time Traveler Adventure, a young Albert is gifted a supernatural compass that allows him to travel through time and space. He finds wisdom in other dimensions, like the lost city of Atlantis, but evil forces seek the power of the compass, including a monstrous, shape-shifting dragon from a different age. 

Can the compass protect Albert from such villainy?

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2020 Texas Indie Best Book Award Winner – YA Fiction

2020 Royal Dragonfly Book Award 1st Place – Historical Fiction

2020 Royal Dragonfly Book Award 2nd Place – YA Fiction

2020 Royal Dragonfly Book Award Honorable Mention – Sci-Fi/Fantasy

2020 RONE Cover Award 1sr Runner-Up – Fantasy/Sci-Fi

2019 Readers’ Favorite Book Award Winner

2019 eLit Award Winner – Juvenile/YA Fiction

2019 National Indie Excellence Award Finalist – YA Fiction

2019 International Book Awards Finalist – YA Fiction

“5 Stars...an intriguing plot that…comes together with a fantastic swell of energy towards the end and builds to a startling and brilliant conclusion…Einstein’s Compass is a highly recommended story for those readers who enjoy an involved plot with plenty of amazing scenery, details and clever connections.” —K.C. Finn for Readers’ Favorite

“…there’s plenty of world-building and enough character intrigue to keep readers turning the pages. A fun fantasy adventure.” —Historical Novel Society  

“Einstein's Compass exhibits a solid writing style and dutifully hits Einstein's developmental and educational milestones while weaving in an imaginative backstory and unique antagonists' perspectives. The what if of Albert Einstein developing his landmark scientific theories through the aid of spiritualism and time travel, all the while battling an immortal dragon-person from Atlantis, is certainly a unique concept.” —BookLife Magazine, a division of Publisher's Weekly 

“…a glorious romp through a fantastical world of dragons and god-like light healers who are entrusted with protecting mankind from the realms of evil–wrapped around the historically-accurate adventures of the incomparable Albert Einstein…Although it is intended for a Young Adult audience, it is well suited to adults who enjoy fictionalized history with a wide-ranging epic theme and a Harry Potter-esque plot…This is highly recommended for those who enjoy a saga of good vs. evil that spans tens of thousands of years, for readers who devour novels that blend history and fantasy, and for anyone who is simply looking for a unique story that they will not want to put down.” —Jacqui Murray, Author, Ask a Tech Teacher

“The story is original and entertaining, not only as the Young Adult genre it is geared toward, but also for those adults who wonder about answers to so many questions on the spiritual and mystical plains… I found this story to be entertaining, enlightening, and a must read for those who believe that time travel has possibilities. It is a well-crafted novel with complexities and depth that many will find a fascinating read. I highly recommend this to any adult young or older. A fascinating perspective you won’t want to put down. I hope there is another book along the same lines in my future.” —Rox Burkey, Author, The Enigma Series

“This is an amazing story…I was impressed with how the authors managed to incorporate the known information on the lost continent of Atlantis, Light Workers, souls, reincarnation, time travel and the early years of Albert Einstein before he became famous, into a mesmerizing work of fiction readers will have difficulty putting down." —Doug Simpson, Author of We Lived In Atlantis

“A complex YA time-traveling adventure, Einstein’s Compass combines various mythologies, religions, and science in a good vs. evil battle that takes the famous scientist and gives him a greater calling. Featuring actual events from Einstein’s life, the plot steadily progresses and shows Albert’s growth and increased understanding, which is neatly intertwined with the supernatural light vs. evil plot line…the combination of science with the supernatural is a winner, and the good vs. evil fight is interesting, making this a good book for YA readers.” —Sarah E. Bradley, InD'Tale Magazine

“Einstein’s Compass has a real vibrancy…clearly this is a work of genuine passion from Blair and Bright and it shines in every drip of ink on the page.” —Sebastian J. Brook, Doctor Who Online Reviews

“A great book for the YA audience. I liked how the book shows us the world of good and evil through the magical compass. I enjoyed this book a lot. I liked the fact that time travel, history, and fantasy were combined to tell an interesting story. A well written book.” —Ben Franklin 2020 Awards Judge 

“…extremely unique and just downright entertaining! Such a fantastic tale! I highly recommend!” —★★★★★ NetGalley Review

“In [this] young adult fantasy novel Einstein’s Compass, a boy struggles with supernatural forces of light and darkness, hoping to find his place within it all…Both supernatural and scientific, Einstein’s Compass is a young adult adventure that focuses on spiritual enlightenment and cosmic destinies.” —Vivian Turnbull, Clarion ForeWord Reviews

Featured in BookLife’s First Lines: September 2019, a “roundup of some of the best opening lines from titles by BookLife authors.”

Author Bio:

Grace Blair is an award-winning self-help and motivational author, and podcast host, who has assisted thousands to find their spiritual wisdom to solve everyday challenges. Throughout her adult life, Grace became a serious student of the spiritual. She found that, often, psychological principles and practices were incomplete, but could be filled out by adding the missing spiritual component. Her approach was always to see practical applications for what she uncovered in the mystical. It was through immersing herself in this field of study and experience that she came up with her idea for her book, Einstein's Compass. She lives in Lubbock, Texas, with her husband, Dr. John Blair.

Book Excerpt:

Prologue

Circa 10,400 BCE – The Islands of Poseidon

The earth tremor stopped Raka in his tracks. The Atlantean healer priest raised his right hand over his violet eyes and searched the landscape for signs of disturbance. He shrugged when he discovered nothing amiss, then continued his way toward the council meeting. What Raka did not understand was that the jolt he felt was not an earthly shudder, but a spiritual one. He had started walking toward the darkness that was the Sons of Belial, and with his first step, the door of the inner Temple of Light had slammed shut to him. So, began his journey as a fallen Angel of Light.

***

A brisk summer afternoon sea breeze from the east puffed out Raka’s shoulder-length blond hair. At more than six feet tall, the bronzed man of twenty-five was handsome, and he knew it. He smiled as he swept a hand through his hair, then patted a hidden pocket in his cloak to check the vial of DNA he had stolen from the Temple of Healing. 

The feel of the vial triggered memories that he found less than pleasant. His hands curled into fists as he felt a strange rage build in the pit of his stomach. All I do is run around as an errand boy for Uncle Thoth and my brother Arka, he thought angrily. Why won’t Uncle Thoth show me how the fire crystal works? He never includes me in the critical discussions. Until I can control my “impulses,” they won’t let me be privy to the more buried secrets of Light.

His lips curled into a snarl at the thought. My grandfather was the mighty god Atlas! Admittedly, I am meant for greatness, like him.

Raka had been entertaining thoughts like these for months until they had finally consumed him. His Consciousness of Light had constricted as the negativity grew. Eventually, his anger and frustration had built to the point that they overshadowed his judgment and propelled him to action. Thus, the dispirited Prince of Light was on the island of Aryan to meet with the Council of the Sons of Belial. He hoped to be placed in an elevated position in their council in exchange for betraying his Atlantean brethren. But if he wasn’t received in the way he deserved, he had a plan B.

Aryan was a military complex and the promised land of power, pomp, and ceremony. The Temple of Darkness was established by former Angels of Light who, like Raka, had become jealous of the energy in the Temple of Light that they could not access. They had rejected the discipline of the Light of God. The veils of Light that once surrounded the Angels of Light dimmed and the angels became as asleep to the Spirit within. The gross heaviness of fear descended around their bodies. 

Throughout years, those attracted to the Temple of Darkness increased in number. Their separation from the Light created trepidation among the people of the world. As their following grew, the Council of the Sons of Belial and its army sought to insulate the five islands of Poseidon from outside invaders. The Atlanteans, following the inner spiritual Light, left the struggles for worldly power to the Council of the Sons of Belial and its warriors. 

Atlantis, with The Temple of Light, was a garden of God’s loving and a sanctuary from worldly stresses, a flourishing place of divine innocence and healing. People from the surrounding islands and the world at large came to refresh and restore themselves in body, mind, and spirit. The Sons of Belial knew the real driving force was the Spirit of life that lay on Atlantis. The invisible emanation of the Firestone crystal was the energy source of the planet. Thanks to it, the circling satellites in space recharged the temples and cities around the world. The Council of Five of the Sons of Belial had their own ideas about what could be done with the planet’s most potent energy source and lusted after the fire crystal. 

General Tora-Fuliar was the leader of Aryan Island. Seven feet tall, blond and blue-eyed, the fortyish man was typical of his race. He and his cohort of four colonels had agreed to meet with the priest-scientist cum spy Raka, ostensibly to discuss his joining them. But their real purpose was to use his knowledge to wrest control of the Firestone crystal from the Atlanteans, whom they considered weak and inferior. The secret meeting would take place in Belial, the cliff fortress with towering walls that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. 

Arriving at the fortress, Raka was met at its massive twin gates by four Aryan soldiers who had been told to expect him. As they beckoned him inside, the priest of Light saw carcasses of wild boar strewn across an enormous marble altar and recognized what they meant. He held his breath as the stink of foul, stale blood and dark purpose filled the air. The blond, blue-eyed warriors checked Raka for weapons, and he smirked as his precious vial eluded their search. The guards escorted Raka through a second gate inside the fortress to the southern tower. He was led into a vast, foreboding, windowless chamber that had been carved out of the island’s living rock. His eyes narrowed at the pentagram painted in blood in the middle of the torch-lit room. The dark energy of the animal sacrifice held during the full moon of the previous night lingered in it. 

At the far end of the war room, the symbol of the Black Sun hung behind the general’s massive desk, which was hewn from dark obsidian that had been formed in a volcanic cataclysm eons ago. Covering the fifteen-foot-high walls to the right of the writing table hung maps of the world. The general and his colonels were seated on severe, straight-backed ebony chairs around a polished black marble table. Dressed in black linen trousers and tan shirts with the Black Sun symbol on each collar and black alligator boots, the five somehow managed to appear casual despite their rigidity.

Raka strode up to the black table to greet the ruling council of the Sons of Belial. Taking in the scene, he thought to himself that while the five appeared relaxed, there was a tension in the room. To Raka, they resembled nothing more than a pack of wolves ready to leap. He straightened his golden silk garment and smiled, nodding to the general. “I am honored that you agreed to meet with me, General.”

As the general stood, he sniffed as if taking in Raka’s scent, then inclined his head. “Welcome. We have been looking forward to this meeting.” He motioned to Raka to sit down across from them. Raka’s eyes scanned the room as he settled warily into his chair. The dark and barbarous energy of the council made him uncomfortable. The general forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and began. “We understand you want to help us.”

Raka inhaled profoundly and adjusted his energy field to withstand the negative force emanating from those present. Nodding, he replied, “If you recall, at the Temple of Healing I used energy healing stones to alleviate your pain a few months ago. You had sustained a back injury in a rather unfortunate incident.”

The general frowned but grunted in agreement.

“You stayed with us on Atlantis for several days to recuperate, and each time I came to treat you, you questioned me about the Firestone energy crystal.”

The general nodded. “I did.”

“Its value is obvious, but tell me what your interest in it is.” 

The general was not about to reveal his real intention to an untested outsider, so he said, “The firestone crystal is possibly one of the most important artifacts on the planet. You Atlanteans are focused on research and your sciences and arts. You are ill-prepared to defend the Firestone from those who would use it for their own gain.”

Raka nodded in understanding as the general continued. “We Aryans are strong. The Firestone should be guarded by our soldiers. After all, it is the energy source for all of the planet.” The general leaned in as if to thrust his argument forward. “The council and the Sons of Belial are best suited to protect the crystal and you healers of Atlantis. We know that unless we are taught the mysteries of the crystal, disaster could be imminent.”

Raka saw the energy around the general’s body turn dark with flares of red, and he recognized the lust for power. He was also aware the general was not telling him everything. No surprise there. The healer was not some ignorant novice; he knew the warrior wanted to use the firestone crystal to enhance the Aryan’s military might—and his own power. He was aware that with the Firestone, they could be invincible. And that they could and most likely would use this power to attempt to control the Atlanteans and take dominance over the entire planet. Despite his hopes for forming an alliance with the Sons of Belial, Raka now accepted that it would be a long time before these people trusted him—if they ever would. He wondered if he would even survive after he delivered what they wanted. He sighed inwardly, conceding to himself that this was not going to go the way he had hoped.

Still, he would play along for a while. Looking the general in the eye, he said, “General, I believe I could assist you in gaining access to the firestone crystal.”

The general and his colonels nodded with interest as Raka continued. “But there are other things I might do for you. I noticed the beasts you have sacrificed to absorb their power. What if you could have even greater physical power than that you leech from the boars you kill?”

The colonels murmured, and the general’s eyes narrowed. He glanced at his minions, who could barely conceal their grins as each entertained his own twisted fantasy of power.

Raka continued with a sly smile, “Yes, I assumed you would be interested.” He leaned back, appearing casual and said, “Of course, if I were to assist you, then I would want something in return.”

The general leaned forward. “Of course. What do you want?”

Raka pulled the vial from his pocket and held it up as he said with a sneer, “I wanted to be a part of you. But how can I trust any of you when you lie to my face? I am not about to turn over the power of the crystal to someone who would deceive me.”

The general’s face darkened, but before he or the council could react, Raka pulled off the vial’s stopper and downed the contents in one gulp.

In truth, Raka was not sure what to expect. The vial had been received from a planet in the Draconian constellation with which Atlantis had become allied. As part of their treaty, the Draconian had been supplying the healers of Atlantis with a solution of their DNA. Mere drops mixed with herbs could regenerate a limb or restore the nearly depleted life force of an injured or sick patient. The amount Raka had just swallowed had never been tried before.

The instant the liquid touched his tongue, Raka’s body began to change. The five Sons of Belial were frozen in place as Raka’s body began writhing and twisting.

A scream tore from deep within Raka’s throat, and with a shudder, the healer of Light’s form began to shift. His soft human feet started to swell and extrude wicked-looking claws. His skin became rough and toughened. The thick leather straps of his sandals burst with a snap. His legs contracted and bent into a reptilian shape, even as his torso elongated and a tail sinuously extended from the base of his spine. His pink flesh turned a greyish green, then scales emerged from his chest, arms, and neck. His supple lips thinned, and a long serpentine tongue darted out from between them. He tasted the air with his new senses. As he transformed, his airways and throat opened wide. Raka collapsed to the ground, shuddering in ecstatic agony as the pain of bone, sinew, and flesh reconfiguring itself consumed him.

Finally breaking free of their horrific fascination, the council reacted, and the war room erupted into pandemonium. Drawn by the shouts, a score of soldiers bearing spear and shields rushed into the chamber. It was a credit to their intensive training that the scene that greeted their eyes caused them but a moment’s pause. With crisp precision the soldiers spaced themselves around the writhing reptile and thrust their spears forward, their points forming a 360-degree-barrier.

But they were already too late; Raka’s vulnerability had passed. His transformation into a twelve-foot dragon was complete. He was fully awake and ready to take control. The former Healer of Light felt intoxicated with raw power and luxuriated in it. Almost casually, he stretched out the reptilian claws at the end of his fingers and with a flick of his arm sliced open one of the warriors from chin to belt. His long, slithery tongue sensed the blood and offal much more thoroughly than before. With his reptile vision, the dim light in the room became bright. Awed beyond belief, Raka began to realize what his quest for power had wrought. He threw his head back and laughed as the guards’ spears bounced harmlessly off his thick, scaly hide.

The air was electric with his power. He glanced disdainfully at his attackers. Sneering at their puniness, he walked toward the warriors. With a swipe of his tail, he knocked the legs out from under several of them, sending them crashing to the floor. As the others slowed to avoid tripping over their fallen comrades, Raka inhaled, then spewed a blast of fire that blackened and crisped the skin of the soldiers remaining at the front of the charge. 

Despite his momentary victory, Raka knew more troops would soon descend upon the chamber. Enough of them, and he might be subdued. With bursts of fire blazing from his mouth, he cleared a path for himself. His eye sought the general and his colonels and found them huddled behind the stone table, which they had upended. “Now you see the power of Raka!” he exulted. “I will be back to claim my seat at the head of the council once you realize you have no choice but to kneel at my feet.” Letting loose a final blast of fire that was absorbed by the thick marble tabletop, Raka ran from the room.

Raka fled through the rock hallways of the fortress until he came to the far wall that rose out of the eastern edge of the island. He gazed over the edge and found himself looking into the angry breakers crashing into the jagged rocks more than a hundred feet below. There was nowhere else to go. Cursing himself for not studying the island better, he prepared to defend himself. As the soldiers started pounding toward the parapet where he stood, Raka saw he had no choice. Exhaling a last massive blast of flame to buy another few seconds, Raka jumped up on the low wall and flung himself off into the air. He appeared to hover there for a moment before plummeting down and out of sight.

A cheer broke from the soldiers’ throats but was quickly stifled as the irate general stormed out among them. “Where is he?” The soldiers feared the general’s reaction, but one finally pointed to the far ledge.

Shaking his head in disapproval at the soldiers’ incompetence, he strode to the parapet and stared down at the rocks below, hoping to see the ruined remains of the dragon’s body. But he saw no trace of Raka’s remains. He turned and screamed for the soldiers to get down to the rocks and find the dragon’s body.

Sometime later, an exhausted captain of the guard hesitantly approached the general. “We’ve searched every nook and cranny below the cliffs, sir.” The general raised his eyebrows in question. The guard captain shook his head and looked at his feet. “Nothing.”

The general snorted but did not appear too surprised. Heartened by the lack of response, the captain frowned and said, “I thought we brought a priest in to see you, sir. Where did the dragon come from?”

The general’s eyes narrowed. “That’s not the question, Captain. What you should be asking is, where did it go?”

***

Swimming furiously under the water, Raka tried to process what had taken place. His jump from the cliff had been a risk, but it had paid off. After just a moment of unconsciousness after the impact, his body had quickly restored itself enough for him to escape into the sea. Now he found himself barely bruised. He was shaken from his meeting with the Sons of Belial and wanted nothing more than to sequester himself for a while and consider his new body. He also needed to plan his next moves. The remote caves of Aryan Island would suit that purpose, he decided.

With his new strength and supernatural speed, he quickly arrived at his destination; an underground cavern near the shore where he and his brother, Arka, had camped when they were children hunting for crystals. Dragging himself to a pool of water fed by a natural spring, Raka stared at his image. The once handsome, blue-eyed priest/scientist with shoulder-length golden hair was now a twelve-foot-long, flesh-eating changeling. His beady red eyes widened as he shook his head in disbelief. He snorted at his grotesque body. Unsure of what to expect, he gently touched the black four-inch horns on the top of his head. Spongy, he thought. He gazed with some approval, though, at his massive arms.  

He turned to find short, black, spiny wings on his back and a long tail protruding from the base of his spine. With his razor-sharp alligator talons, he jabbed and pinched his armored dark-greenish skin. No tenderness, no marks or blood surfaced. He opened his mouth to examine his long, rough, but slimy reptilian tongue and the wickedly sharp bony ridge behind his lips, more like a raptor’s beak than anything else. 

His quick self-inspection complete, Raka found himself both horrified and fascinated. He now had so much raw physical power, but... At what cost? His mind reeling, the dragon paced. “Can I fix this and return to normal?” He considered everything he knew about the Draconian DNA, which had been used for healing and even regeneration of organs and limbs. In every case he had studied or been involved with, there had never been a report of reversal of the effects it produced. As the consequences of his rash actions finally dawned on him, Raka collapsed onto the cavern’s sandy floor and sobbed. When his frustration and grief finally dissipated late into the night, he succumbed to his exhaustion and fell asleep.

***

Raka sat in his grotto on a battered wooden armchair that had washed up on the shore of his hideaway cove. For the last day or so he had done little but experiment with his new form and new powers. He had begun to develop a healthy respect for his strength and the seeming indestructibility of his body. He had come to grips with the realization that there was no going back. 

Truth be told, he was beginning to think he wouldn’t have wanted to go back even if it were possible. He had not been appreciated. Neither his uncle Thoth nor his twin, Arka, had ever recognized his promise. “If only Arka had let me practice the mystical arts with him, I would have shown him what I could do. Fool! It’s his fault I am here,” Raka muttered to himself.

The day before his meeting with the Council, reflecting further, Raka remembered his quarrel with Arka. 

Arka pointed to the container on the counter. “Where were you today? You were supposed to take the ruby crystals to the Temple of Healing. We had to cancel the treatments when they did not arrive.”

Raka petulantly stared at the ground. “Something important came up.” Then he looked up at Arka defiantly. “But I told Prensa to take the crystals to the temple. It’s his fault the treatments were canceled, not mine.”

Arka frowned. “Prensa? He is our cook, not your servant.”

Arka shook his head as if to disperse Raka’s weak excuse, then changed course. “The temple guard said he saw you walking with a female member of the Belial Brotherhood near the gardens. What were you doing there with her?”

“She wanted to know what we did in the Temple of Healing,” Raka lied. “I showed her around the temple grounds.” That wasn’t all I showed her, Raka thought to himself with a lascivious smirk.

Arka could only shake his head in resignation.

The memory aroused Raka’s anger, which brought him crashing back to the present. “I am meant to do important things, not just be an errand boy!” he shouted at the rock walls of the cavern.

With thoughts of revenge seething in his mind, he snatched at a rat that had the misfortune to scurry past. It was the first sustenance he’d had since the transformation—he hadn’t really been hungry. He angrily tore a leg off and took a bite, the first food he’d had since changing form. As he swallowed, he felt something a transformation begins—short, gray hairs started to replace the scales on his arm. Raka stopped chewing and watched the shift. He was a changeling, he realized, but the transformation didn’t end with his dragon form. Tossing the still squirming rat aside, he plucked a beetle off the cave wall and bit down on it with a sickening crunch. A moment later, his skin began hardening into a chitinous shell. Concentrating, he found he was able to control, or even halt, the changes to his structure.

The thought of changing into other forms intrigued him. His mind flooded with information he had learned in his healing energy classes. Raka felt something else as he sorted through what was happening. It was a sort of knowing, an intuition. Could this be from the dragon DNA he had ingested? He thought back over his transformation.

He discovered that his eyes were now acutely sensitive. He could see in total darkness and normal light. His memory, too, had sharpened. He could repeat his entire meeting with the council verbatim. His memories were much more vivid. He recalled his rage at his uncle and brother and felt it with new intensity. In fact, he could muster no feelings of compassion or love at all. Glancing at the writhing rat whose leg he had bitten off, he studied its suffering. This excited his killing instinct. It took an effort not to inflict further pain on the creature. He craved more of the rat’s blood, and he speculated that human blood and organs would be a delicacy. A burst of intuition revealed that eating an entire human body and drinking its blood would transform him into a doppelganger of that person. He would have to test out how long this would last, but he suspected it would hold until he decided to take on another form. 

As he discovered more of the strengths his new form provided, Raka reveled in the thought that he had nothing to fear. Then, an ancestral memory—perhaps connected to his dragon DNA—flared in his mind. He saw many of his fellow reptiles trapped in a burning structure, writhing in agony. Fear welled up in him at this vivid memory. He had at least one vulnerability: fire. Raka tore himself away from the vision and shakily drew in a deep breath to calm his trembling body. “Enough wasting time on what I fear. Now it’s time to plan for the future and my revenge on Arka and his ilk.” That is the task worthy of my new, transformed self, he thought.

"With a gripping plot, mind-blowing storytelling, and unpredictable twists, Amulet's Rapture is going to be among my top three favorites of this year." —Readers' Favorite

"One of the novel's most ambitious gambits is its richly atmospheric blending of supernatural elements into the broader story. The tale features ghosts, animal familiars, shapeshifters, and all kinds of spiritual communications, and Tanner's skill at interweaving these elements is shown by how seamless the whole process feels...This is a strong entry in Tanner's enjoyable series." —Kirkus Reviews 

Blood stains her Celtic home and kingdom. The warrior Druid princess will do anything to retake her kingdom. 

Although Catrin is the rightful heir to the Celtic throne in Britannia, she is lucky to be alive. After witnessing the slaughter of her family at the hands of her half-brother, who was aided by the Romans, she is enslaved by a Roman commander. He disguises her as a boy in the Roman Legion with the belief that she is an oracle of Apollo and can foretell his future. The sole bright spot in her miserable new life is her forbidden lover Marcellus, the great-grandson of the famed Roman General Mark Antony.

But Marcellus has been wounded and his memories of Catrin and their secret marriage were erased by a dark Druidess. Though Marcellus reunites with Catrin in Gaul and becomes her ally as she struggles to survive the brutality of her Roman master, he questions the legitimacy of their marriage and hesitates to help her escape and retake her kingdom. If their forbidden love and alliance are discovered, her dreams of returning to her Celtic home with Marcellus will be shattered.

More Reviews:

2020 The Coffee Pot Book Club Award, 5 Stars

"Tanner pens a compelling narrative, and she writes with imagination and a great deal of energy. This is a book that is triumphant in all ways. If you are looking for your next great historical fantasy series set within a realistic Roman backdrop, then look no further than Amulet's Rapture...Fans of Jez Butterworth's Britannia will fall in love with this book. I highly recommend." —Mary Ann Yarde for The Coffee Pot Book Club

"…readers who seek a strong romantic feel to their fantasies will appreciate Tanner's writing. She peppers her plot with just enough of these steamy scenes to keep romance fans invested." —Literary Titan (Gold Book Award) 

"The author, Linnea Tanner has done extensive research into Roman history, mysticism, anthropology, and religions. For those that had not read books 1 and 2, the author brings the story-line forward smoothly. I had read the previous two books, but it was good to have a little refresher. This trilogy is one of my favorite books of the year." —★★★★★ Reader Review

Author Bio:

Award-winning Author Linnea Tanner weaves Celtic tales of love, magical adventure, and political intrigue into the backdrop of Ancient Rome and Britannia. Since childhood, she has passionately read about ancient civilizations and mythology which held women in higher esteem. Of particular interest are the enigmatic Celts who were reputed as fierce warriors and mystical Druids. 

Depending on the time of day and season of the year, you will find her exploring and researching ancient and medieval history, mythology and archaeology to support her writing. As the author of the Curse of Clansman and Kings series, she has extensively researched and traveled to sites described within each book. 

A native of Colorado, Linnea attended the University of Colorado and earned both her bachelor's and master's degrees in chemistry. She lives in Windsor with her husband and has two children and six grandchildren.

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"I highly recommend Dagger’s Destiny. For anybody with an interest in historical fiction, there is plenty to love in the setting Linnea Tanner has created. For those with an interest in epic fantasy...Dagger’s Destiny is a book sure to keep your interest. Both genres are blended together into a seamless whole with outstanding results." —Readers' Favorite

A Celtic warrior princess accused of treason for aiding her enemy lover must win back her father's love and trust. In the rich and vibrant tale, Author Linnea Tanner continues the story of Catrin and Marcellus that began with the awarding-winning novel Apollo's Raven in the Curse of Clansmen and Kings Series. Book 2, Dagger's Destiny sweeps you into an epic tale of forbidden love, mythological adventure, and political intrigue in Ancient Rome and Britannia.

War looms over 24 AD Britannia where rival tribal rulers fight each other for power and the Romans threaten to invade to settle their political differences. King Amren accuses his daughter, Catrin, of treason for aiding the Roman enemy and her lover, Marcellus. The ultimate punishment is death unless she can redeem herself. She must prove loyalty to her father by forsaking Marcellus and defending their kingdom--even to the death. Forged into a warrior, she must overcome tribulations and make the right decisions on her quest to break the curse that foretells her banished half-brother and the Roman Empire will destroy their kingdom.

Yet, when Catrin again reunites with Marcellus, she is torn between her love for him and duty to King Amren. She must ultimately face her greatest challenger who could destroy her life, freedom, and humanity.

Will Catrin finally break the ancient prophecy that looms over her kingdom? Will she abandon her forbidden love for Marcellus to win back her father's trust and love? Can King Amren balance his brutality to maintain power with the love he feels for Catrin?

More Reviews:

2019 Readers' Favorite GOLD MEDAL Fiction Magic/Wizardry

2019 Global Ebook Award GOLD MEDAL Fantasy/Historical

"Imbued with both Roman and Celtic traditions, myths and legends, the story draws a contrastive parallel between the two cultures and civilizations. There are memorable scenes such as the brilliant description of the fertility rite meant to validate Marcellus's claim to kinship and to symbolize his union with the Earth Goddess who bestows rich crops and large livestock. If the realism of the story is ensured by the constantly changing network of political alliances and backstabbing, its beauty springs from the wonderfully interwoven mythological references and enlightening mystical experiences." —OnlineBookClub.org

"...a wonderful tale of romance, intrigue, mystery, and legend to create an entertaining and complex story...the magic of the druids was woven into the story, complementing the drama being created between Catrin's desire to prove her loyalty to her father, and the machinations of Rhan and Marrock. Everything meshes together to give the reader a truly entertaining story of love, magic, and betrayal." —The International Review of Books

"There is never a dull moment in this book...If you are looking for an exciting adventure that leaves you wanting more, do not pass up Dagger's Destiny. Boasting fully developed characters and a well-defined setting, this book caters to all readers. The romance, fantasy, action and subterfuge are sure to win over readers from several genres." —Literary Titan (Gold Book Award) 

“Ancient Rome and Britain are the background settings for this epic tale of love, betrayal and political intrigue. The Roman era and the ensuing battles between the clan leaders in Britain during the first century AD do not often appear as the setting for fantasy novels—a pity, since this era is very intriguing. Dagger’s Destiny is historical fantasy at its finest, and a must read for anyone who enjoys history involving ancient Rome.” —Majanka Verstraete for InD’Tale Magazine

“Author Linnea Tanner is a master storyteller of historical fantasy. Set in first century Britannia, a fantastical isle, the theme of balancing duty with illicit love, the consuming lust for power, intrigue and Celtic magic provides conflict and twists in this spell-binding story.” —AuthorsReading

“Dark magic, familial revenge and an illicit romance. This story packs a punch and the author doesn’t hold back on the intrigue or the mystical power of the druids. You may have heard the phrase ‘absolute power corrupts absolutely’, then this story has it in spades.” —Author Luciana Cavallaro

Author Bio:

Award-winning Author Linnea Tanner weaves Celtic tales of love, magical adventure, and political intrigue into the backdrop of Ancient Rome and Britannia. Since childhood, she has passionately read about ancient civilizations and mythology which held women in higher esteem. Of particular interest are the enigmatic Celts who were reputed as fierce warriors and mystical Druids. 

Depending on the time of day and season of the year, you will find her exploring and researching ancient and medieval history, mythology and archaeology to support her writing. As the author of the Curse of Clansman and Kings series, she has extensively researched and traveled to sites described within each book. 

A native of Colorado, Linnea attended the University of Colorado and earned both her bachelor's and master's degrees in chemistry. She lives in Windsor with her husband and has two children and six grandchildren.

Shop the Curse of Clansmen and Kings Series

“Haint Blue is a highly engaging paranormal mystery filled with frolic, fun, and genuine nail-biting moments as we race to its conclusion. The book is filled with charming and likable characters that will keep you invested throughout.… Stephanie Alexander gives us a really fresh take on the paranormal genre, setting this novel apart from others within the genre.” —Readers' Favorite, 2021 Gold Medalist for Paranormal Fiction

"Charleston's favorite ghost-talking divorcée returns in Alexander's latest supernatural mystery.… A well-told, deeply felt addition to a ghostly mystery series." —Kirkus 

Clairvoyant single mom Tipsy Collins is easing into a post-divorce new normal. She's solved a century-old murder mystery and brought peace to her house. She's rebuilding her artistic career and co-parenting with her ornery ex-husband. She's hopeful that her boyfriend is Mr. Right. Mercurial phantom Henry Mott still haunts her house, but he's become a dear friend. Tipsy plans to return to her lifelong habit of ignoring restless spirits.

A series of sudden financial and personal setbacks leave her feeling like she's back to square one, until a new friendship offers unexpected financial salvation. Ivy More has been haunting a Sullivan's Island cottage since the 1940s. Ivy's eccentric granddaughter, Pamella Brewton, will pay big bucks if Tipsy can figure out how to free her moody, volatile Meemaw. It turns out there was more to Ivy's death than a simple swan dive off the dock at low tide. To complicate matters, Ivy had a secret lover. Shockingly, he's someone Tipsy has seen before.

As Tipsy struggles with heartbreak, her ex-husband's shenanigans, and a growing sense of frustration with life, she turns to Henry for help solving Ivy's mystery. She finds herself learning from her brooding housemate, but also from Ivy, who has far more in common with Tipsy than either of them expect.

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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

Almost two years after her ex-husband moved out, Tipsy Collins was still trying to figure out her life. She’d learned some handy lessons, for sure. When it comes to personal revelations, divorce is the gift that keeps on giving. For example, as her dating life collapsed around her like a house of unpleasantly prophetic tarot cards, she reached the liberating yet disheartening conclusion that she would never understand men, living or dead.

Like most women in their thirties, Tipsy had plenty of experience with the behavior of living men, but she only understood that dead men were just as flummoxing because she lived with one. After a lifetime of avoiding spirits, she’d inherited ghostly roommates when she had the good fortune to move into Miss Callie’s house in the Old Village of Mount Pleasant, across the Ravenel Bridge from Charleston. Thanks to her former brother-in-law’s generosity with his late mother’s home, she didn’t pay rent, but she had to share space with two cantankerous, kooky phantoms. Jane and Henry Mott hadn’t escaped their miserable marriage with ‘til death do us part, but with Tipsy’s help and the mystery of their century-old murder solved, Jane had done the sensible thing. She moved on. A year later, Henry still lingered in Ms. Callie’s house, as confounding as ever.

On this morning a few days after the Fourth of July, Tipsy brushed past him as she hustled her three children—Ayers, Mary Pratt, and Olivia Grace—out the door for camp. “Morning, Henry,” she said under her breath.

Henry sat at the dining room table. He whispered to himself as he wrote in the air with one pale finger. His dark blue eyes followed his imaginary penmanship. Bright red, tousled hair hung in his face. He smiled, as if he’d just noticed Tipsy wrestling her three boisterous kids into submission in the foyer. “Good morning, Miss Tipsy,” he said, “Where are y’all off to today?”

Dropping them at summer camp. Tipsy spoke in her mind. Henry would hear her as clearly as if she hollered through a bullhorn.

“Of course! How could I forget? I apologize, but this chapter of THE GREAT STORY is terribly demanding of my attention.” Even when he was grinning like a fox in the early stages of rabies, Henry cut a dashing figure at Ms. Callie’s antique mahogany table. In the age of kitchen islands, such edifices of formal meals were going the way of the flip phone. Meanwhile, neither Henry nor the furnishings had changed much since he died in 1923.

Which chapter now? Tipsy asked, although she pretty much knew the answer. Henry was compiling his mysterious magnum opus at a speed approximating that of a drunk slug crawling up a slippery wall.

“I’m nearly finished with chapter two!”

Another voice rose in Tipsy’s mind. Her Granna, who had died years ago but shared her talent for seeing the dead and hence some of her headspace, spoke up with her usual country forthrightness. It’s taken him a year to finish two chapters, said Granna. He wants you to transcribe for him, but you’ll have joined me in the afterlife before he’s finished. Why doesn’t he move on now that he can?

I don’t know, Granna, but if he wants to hang around haunting this place, that’s his choice. She looked at the eccentric ghost like her own errant offspring. Besides, I’m used to him at this point, bless his crazy ass heart.

“Y’all have a nice day now,” said Henry. “I’ll take the basket of clean clothes to your room.”

Tipsy gave him a subtle thumbs up. Henry’s telekinetic powers definitely came in handy around the house.

He’s more helpful than Big Ayers was, said Granna, in reference to Tipsy’s famously self-centered ex-husband.

If I have to live with a man, I think I prefer a dead one. Living men drive me to drink.

Still getting the heebie-jeebies from Will?

That’s as good a way as any to describe his vibes lately.

The kids’ arguing recaptured her attention. Little Ayers had typical nine-year-old boy morning energy. He was singing a borderline inappropriate rap song he’d heard on YouTube at his father’s house. He tugged one of Olivia Grace’s curly brown pigtails while bouncing his soccer ball on his knee.

“Stop it,” said O-liv.

“Ayers, stop it. Hold onto the ball. What’s that song? I don’t like the sound of it.”

“It’s the clean version, Mom.”

He’d lately switched from Mama to Mom, reminding her that there was a lot more YouTube in her future.

Tipsy helped Mary Pratt sling her camp backpack over her shoulders. “Your bathing suit and towel are in—”

“Where’s my lunchbox, Mama?” asked Mary Pratt. “Did you put fruit snacks in there?”

“Ayers, staaaaap!” Olivia Grace was about to lose it. While she was often the most compliant member of the Collins Kids Triad, she’d been known to clobber her siblings when they pushed her.

“Ayers Lee! You’re almost ten years old, for heaven’s sake. Leave your sister alone!”

“She started it! She called me a poophead!”

“Oh lord, are we revisiting poophead? O-liv, no more poophead.” Tipsy reached for M.P.’s lunchbox. She planned to head straight to Sullivan’s Island to discuss a new painting commission after drop off, so she wore wedges and a long sundress. As a freelance artist, commissions were her most important source of income. She always dressed up to meet a potential client, but her outfit was not kid-friendly. As she handed over the pink rectangle, she stumbled on her hem and stepped on her own toe.

“Damnit!” she yelled. “Shit!”

The kids shut up mid-complaint.

“You okay, Mom?” Ayers flipped his shaggy blond hair out of his eyes.

“She cussed,” Mary Pratt whispered to Olivia Grace. Olivia Grace grimaced in acknowledgement. The two girls, as identical at seven-years old as they had been as newborns, didn’t need to talk to communicate any more than Tipsy had to speak to talk to Henry or Granna.

Tipsy looked in the hallway mirror and straightened her dress. A tall, slim woman with wavy brown hair and gray eyes stared back at her. She appeared only mildly frazzled. No parenting induced eye tick yet, but hell, it wasn’t even eight in the morning. Still plenty of time for her hair to stand on end and her mascara to run. She smiled at her reflection as if practicing for a television interview. Money was always tight in her post-divorce life, and she needed this commission.

Her phone dinged insistently as she gave Little A his water bottle. “Yes, buddies. I’m fine. I’m sorry I cursed, but y’all are driving me batty. Let’s all try to chill out, okay?”

“Sorry,” said Ayers. “Sorry, O-liv.”

“S’okay,” said Olivia Grace.

“I don’t need fruit snacks,” said Mary Pratt.

“All good, y’all. Please get in the car.”

They meandered out the front door, chatting and laughing with the abrupt conviviality of children, while Tipsy grabbed her purse. She looked at her phone.

Will Garrison Text Message (2)

It’s about time, she thought. He’d been distant the past week and hadn’t texted a good morning. She swiped across the text.

Will: Did you go to Pamella’s about the commission yet?

Tipsy: No, I told you, I have to drop off the kids first. Driving to Sullivan’s after.

The question irritated her. Will had connected her with Pamella Brewton, as he’d done carpentry work on her house. His sporadic communication of late harped on this meeting.

Tipsy: Why do you keep asking?

She stuck the phone in her purse and walked down Ms. Callie’s front steps with the July sun baking her shoulders. She checked the kids’ seatbelts and got into her old faithful Tahoe. Her phone dinged again as she buckled her belt. She tried and failed to ignore it. She couldn’t stop herself. Her arm might as well have belonged to someone else.

She swiped across Will’s next text.

Just let me know how it goes. And can I come over tonight to talk?

Tipsy’s heart sank. Will Garrison was no chatterbox. If he wanted to talk, it couldn’t be good.

Tipsy dropped off the kids—the girls to swim camp and Little Ayers to soccer camp—without sending Will any messages demanding clarification. So frustrating of him to drop a “talk” on her with no context, but she refused to question him and then wait for another vague text that would likely increase her anxiety. She drove over the Ben Sawyer Bridge, but she didn’t slow down to admire the stretch of picturesque marsh between Sullivan’s Island and Mount Pleasant. Her mind raced over the past year as she crept through Sullivan’s quaint business district, with its coffee-wielding pedestrians and stop-and-go golf cart traffic.

Will initially started acting weird around Thanksgiving. He’d cited his frustration at having a girlfriend to answer to during deer season, and she thought he was breaking up with her. She was crushed, until she realized he wasn’t really going anywhere. She gave him space and he slowly came back around. By February, with deer season over and Will not much of a duck hunter, things almost returned to normal. Tipsy understandably felt more insecure about their relationship, however, and not only because of the break up scare. As their first bucolic summer together faded behind them, frustrating trends emerged that neither Tipsy nor Will seemed able to resolve.

When she was brutally honest with herself, she knew she’d always struggle to give Will the long leash he wanted. His idea of an appropriate leash was more like an invisible fence. She never understood where the boundaries were. Tipsy didn’t think of herself as high-maintenance, but she did have expectations. She was happy for Will to spend time on the weekends hunting or fishing, as long as their relationship remained a priority. After all, she’d already been a deer stand widow in her marriage.

As for herself, she continued to wish Will would be more expressive. She thought with time and patient encouragement, he’d open up more, but she’d accepted that Will would never be one for effusive declarations of love or long, deep conversations about feelings. Tipsy had gone so long without any of that, she found herself craving it.

Maybe we’ll never be able to make each other happy, she thought.

Her emotions did an about face, as they always did. She loved so many things about Will. He was as steady as a summer day was long. He was always there to help when she needed him, whether it be connecting her with new painting clients through his work as a residential contractor or fixing her garbage disposal. Most complicating of all, their lives were as entwined as the invasive vines that crept up the walls of Ms. Callie’s house. The twins regularly had sleepovers with his two younger daughters. Her two best friends, Lindsey and Shelby, were married to his closest old friend (P.D.) and dating his closest new friend (Brian), respectively.

Lastly, and not unimportantly, they never lacked for physical chemistry. She still got the tingles when he ran his hand up her arm. Given the big messy picture, she’d decided the good outweighed the bad. She’d made the conscious decision to stick it out.

Am I settling or expecting too much? She’d never figured out the answer to that question. Granna, who married the first boy she ever kissed and lost him to bladder cancer twenty-some years later, didn’t know either.

She missed Jane, Henry’s wife. If she still haunted the house, Tipsy could talk to her about Will. Jane had always listened while offering snippets of practical advice. She was compassionate without being judgmental. Tipsy knew what Lindsey would say (“Just give him some time!”) and what Shelby would say (“I love Will but if he’s back on his bullshit, then screw him!”).

I tend to agree with Shelby, said Granna.

Tipsy pondered as she drove past Sullivan’s Island Baptist Church into the historic district known as Moultrieville. Isn’t there something in between? Between a mile long leash and screw you? Between settling for less and expecting perfection? And why am I still asking these questions?  Frustration roiled in her midsection. I’ve been divorced for going on two years. Shouldn’t my life be sorted out by now?

Granna didn’t provide an answer, which meant she didn’t have a good one for those questions, either. Tipsy followed her phone’s directions down Middle Street toward the south end of Sullivan’s. While the northern Breach Inlet side of the island had a sparse, grassy beach town feel, the southern end had a small town Steel Magnolias vibe; that is, if Chinquapin Parish had included Revolutionary War fortifications. The oldest remaining homes were mostly tiny bungalows, but a few pseudoplantation houses with traditional double-decker piazzas lingered on Officer’s Row, a section of historic military housing on I’On Avenue. Ancient live oaks had observed the island’s long, dark history, including a tragic stint as a quarantine station for enslaved Africans. Post-Civil War, an African American farming community had slowly transitioned to an exclusive seaside enclave. Brick ranchers from the 1960s with hodgepodge additions huddled beside towering contemporary board and baton mansions. As always, Sullivan’s was proudly disorganized and eccentric. The architectural version of an academic convention; an eclectic mix of sleepy tenured professors and arrogant doctoral students.

She took a few sharp turns onto Thompson Avenue near Station 14, on the Intracoastal side of the island along the marsh. She looked up as her phone announced that she had arrived at her destination.

Will had told her that Pamella Brewton— Pam-ella, with two l’s, don’t forget— was a little eccentric.

From the looks of this place, said Granna, he wasn’t telling tales.

The house was one of the island’s clapboard senior citizens. Butterflies, moths, and fat bumble bees flittered over a front yard covered in white daisies and yellow brown-eyed susans. Purple wisteria blossoms and Confederate jasmine swarmed over the trellis above the front gate. The archway looked as if it were made of flowers instead of the same rotting wood that made up the fence. A cracked flagstone path led to a two-story house on raised pilings. Five crooked steps ended in a wide, slightly lopsided porch furnished with four red rocking chairs and a Charleston green joggling board. The strangest thing about the whole place, however, was the color.

Everything from the siding to the shutters to the fence itself was painted in shades of pale blue. Given the peeling state of it all, it was an old paint job, and a stubborn one. A bit of fading here and there, but otherwise that blue paint clung to the wood like a bad case of frostbite.

Haint blue? Tipsy asked Granna.

Looks like it, but my word, someone got a mite carried away.

Tipsy nodded her agreement. Normally haint blue—the shade of pale blue common to South Carolina porch ceilings—was one of her favorite colors. This house’s color scheme reminded her of diluted toilet bowl cleaner, or mouthwash spit in a sink.

It took a moment to make sense of the darker blues and sea greens that interrupted all that used Listerine. At least ten bottle trees dotted the yard. They rose out of the flowers, iron crab legs capped with cobalt claws. A few were crafted from driftwood. Those upright arboreal skeletons reminded Tipsy of morbid Christmas trees decorated with spacy blue lights.

As she shut off the ignition, she read Will’s text again. She swallowed the lump in her throat like an egret trying to gulp down a particularly large fish. She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and got out of the truck.

Good decision. He threw the ingredients in the pot, said Granna. Let him stew a while.

She pulled the jasmine away from the weathered gray sign on the trellis. True Blue Cottage.

The bottle trees couldn’t possibly be waving at her; they were made of metal or stiff dead wood. Still, something about the sunlight glinting off the blue glass made the whole yard seem topsy-turvy. If I didn’t know how such things worked, I’d think there were spirits moving around in there.

So silly! said Granna. Imagine trying to cram Henry Mott’s lanky behind into one of those itty bitty bottles.

Tipsy walked under the trellis and down the path. The browneyed susans bent toward one another as if they were gossiping about an unwelcome visitor. She climbed the creaky stairs, but when she got to the porch, she turned back to the yard. Sunshine on the pale blue fence created an unpleasant glare. She closed her eyes, but the shape of the bottles remained in splotchy blue streaks in the blackness. She rubbed her face.

The door swung open behind her. It banged against the exterior wall. “You must be Tipsy!”

Tipsy spun around. “Yes. Hey!” The woman before her was probably around fifty, even taller and thinner than Tipsy, with dark curly hair and bright green eyes. She wore a neon pink Bohemian tunic, green and yellow striped cropped jeans with fringe at the bottom, and a pair of sandals that wrapped halfway up her calf. Somehow, it all worked. “Pamella?”

“That’s me, honey! Pam-el-la, with two l’s!” Pamella grabbed her hand and squeezed, hard. Tipsy winced. Still, she couldn’t help but smile back at this pretty woman who dripped enthusiasm like a leaky bucket of happiness.

“Come on in. I am so beyond happy to meet you! When we spoke on the phone, I knew you were the perfect artist for this project. Will Garrison had so many nice things to say about you. So did May Penny!”

“May Penny Collins?” asked Tipsy, surprised at the mention of her former mother-in-law.

“Yes! She and Tripp were friends of my late father.” She peered over Tipsy’s shoulder. Her voice dropped to a whisper, as if the spirits in the bottles might hear her. “It’s pretty impressive to get a glowing reference from your ex-husband’s mother.”

“Yeah, well, we’ve had our moments.”

Pamella tugged her toward the threshold and then abruptly stopped. Tipsy bumped into her.

“Oh, wait. Listen, I inherited True Blue from my daddy a couple years ago. I just moved back to town from Atlanta. So good to be back in the real South.” She wiggled her shoulders. While she didn’t blink for emphasis the way Jane had, she added pizazz to words of import. Mostly in flailing hands, wagging eyebrows, and those shoulders that bounced like she danced to music only she could hear. Pamella talked as fast as a New Yorker, yet her husky voice retained its Southern twang. Like a taxicab horn crossed with a baying hound dog. “I know it looks like a fricked up version of the witch’s house from Hansel and Gretel.”

“It’s truly blue, that’s for sure.”

“Hopefully I’ll be able to change it soon, if this works out.”

“Oh, jeez. I don’t do exterior painting. Is that what—”

“Of course you don’t! You’re an artiste extraordinaire!” She dragged Tipsy into the house. True Blue had no foyer. Upon crossing the threshold, they were in the living room. A brown leather sofa and matching club chair sat around a hideous coffee table with a glass top and a base made from an old boat propeller. No carpets on the old hardwood floors. Faded beachy prints on the walls and a faint musty smell.

Pamella led her toward the kitchen in the back of the house. It was as fresh as the rest of the house was dated. White cabinets, white quartz countertops, and light wide plank wood floors courtesy of Will. An oyster shell chandelier hung over the island. All perfectly orderly, with the exception of two empty sauvignon blanc bottles and a wine glass in the sink. Pamella pointed at a bare expanse of wall behind the rustic kitchen table. “I’d like to hang it here.”

“Perfect.” Tipsy sized up the wall. “You want a painting of the front of the house with you and your father sitting on the stoop?”

“Yes. Or maybe the back. To get the marsh view? I’m not sure yet.”

“I’ll do a bunch of sketches to give you some ideas.”

“Great. I want the figures to be me as a child and him as a younger man. I never knew my mother, so it was just me and Daddy.”

“I’m sorry—”

“She ran out on us when I was a baby. No biggie.”

Tipsy’s own mother had left her, albeit as a teenager and not an infant. Even before her mother had really peaced out, Granna had basically raised Tipsy in her tiny, threadbare house in the rural upstate. Tipsy knew firsthand that maternal abandonment was kind of a biggie, but she didn’t know Pamella from Adam so she kept her mouth shut.

“I can’t believe I don’t have a photo of me and Daddy outside!” said Pamella.

“It’s okay. If you show me a couple pictures of the two of you from back then, it won’t be a problem. I’ll work y’all in however you want. Position, facial expression, whatever.”

“That’s pretty cool. Will said you could paint anything, but I didn’t know he meant, like, anything.” Cue shoulder wiggle.

Tipsy shrugged. She had no way to explain her supernaturally inspired ability to replicate life with paint.

Pamella gestured to the table. “Let’s sit. Can I get you anything to drink?” The lady herself had a large Yeti tumbler. Tipsy shook her head as she joined her.

“I hope I’ll be able to display the painting here.” Pamella sipped from her Yeti. “But if I have to sell the house at least I can take something of it with me.”

“You’re thinking of selling? The market on the island is sure hot.”

“I don’t need to sell it for the money. I need to sell it… because… you know. The you know what.”

“I do?”

“Will didn’t tell you?”

“He told me I was coming out here to talk about a painting commission.”

“You are… and we did talk about the painting. Of course I want the painting. But he didn’t mention anything about my grandmother?”

“I’m sorry?”

Pamella leaned back in her chair. “My grandmother haunts this house. Will told me you have some experience with such things.”

Tipsy about fainted. Her eyes bugged from her head like she was dead herself and someone needed to close them. No living person had ever frankly called out her talent for seeing the dead. She’d confided in exactly two people about it: Granna and Will. Yet Pamella was stating she had some experience with the paranormal in the same way she might ask to look at Tipsy’s paintings on her Instagram feed.

She tried to eke moisture out of her suddenly parched mouth. Maybe she’d misinterpreted Pamella. “Will told you I have experience with what now?”

“Ghosts, lady. He told me you had a similar problem in your own house and you dealt with it.” Pamella snapped her fingers.

“What else did he tell you?”

“Not much. Just that you’d found out why the ghosts in your house were stuck there, and then they moved on.”

“Can I have some water?” Tipsy stood and walked past the kitchen island. She opened a few cabinets, and removed a tumbler. She ran lukewarm water from the tap. She needed to guzzle this water and the cold might make her head explode. How dare Will casually tell this woman about her lifelong secret?

Pamella started chattering behind her. “So. Right! My grandmother haunts the house—my father’s mother. Ivy More Brewton. She died in 1944. Fell off the dock out back, bless her heart, when my father was only twelve. She—”

“Ma’am. Pamella. I need a minute. I came out here thinking this was a painting commission, not an invitation to conduct a s.ance.”

“I really, truly do want the painting. But if you can help me with this other problem—”

“How do you even know the house is haunted? Can you see ghosts?”

“No, but I know she’s here. Things happen in this house. Objects move. Doors open and shut. Sometimes, when she’s angry—”

“She gets angry?”

“I think so. When I was a teenager Daddy and I got in an argument about my curfew one night. He was so strict. I was kind of, like, a rebel, but like in an eighties punk rock way that wasn’t that rebellious. Like I wore leather jackets and once I dyed my hair jet black. I wanted to go to a party at— wait. Where was I? Oh, right. We were yellin’ at each other and the coffee table flipped over. Magazines went everywhere. Daddy’s bourbon all over the floor. Then the windows flat out exploded. I still have a scar, where glass hit me.” She showed Tipsy a thin line on the side of her cheek. “It was a loud argument. I suppose we were disturbing her peace.”

“How do you know it’s your grandmother?”

“Daddy couldn’t see ghosts, so he never actually laid eyes on her either. His grandmother, Ivy’s mother Alma More, somehow knew it was Ivy. Maybe she saw ghosts.”

Despite Tipsy’s hesitation, the discovery of a kindred family caught her interest. “It does run in families, but not always in a straight line. My mother has no supernatural talent, but her mother, my Granna, she did.”

“I didn’t inherit anything from Ivy besides my face, from what photos tell me.” She patted her cheek. “Anyway, after Ivy died, Alma warned Daddy about her haunting this place. Alma died long before I was born, so I never got to ask her any questions.”

“So your grandmother—”

“Meemaw. I always wanted a grandmother to like, teach me to bake and sew and stuff. Ivy was as close as I could get. So I call her Meemaw.”

“Meemaw. Okay. Pamella, listen. I’m sorry you’re dealing with this. I’m sure it must be annoying—”

“It’s gone beyond annoying. It’s gotten worse over the years. When I was a child, Meemaw rarely got angry. By my thirties, it got bad. She’d go quiet for a few days and then she’d rage around like our family hurricane. Daddy loved this place, but we couldn’t stay here as often as he would have liked. That’s why Daddy painted the whole damn place haint blue and set up all those frickin’ bottle trees. You know the old stories. Keep the spirits at bay. Trap them in bottles. Yada-yada-yada.”

Tipsy glowered, her sense of justice offended. “He wanted to trap his own mother in a bottle?”

“Is she still his mother? I don’t know anything about this stuff. I’ve tried to do research, but there are a lot of charlatans out there. I mentioned to Will that the house is haunted. He’s the first person that ever gave me any real hope something could be done about it.”

“It seems pretty quiet here now.”

“I’ve only been back for two months. I rented a townhouse downtown. I paid the kitchen contractors bonuses to get things done faster. But she’s starting to get annoyed. I can tell. Two days ago, when I arrived, all the potted plants I’d set up on the porch were turned upside down. Dirt everywhere. Yesterday, I opened the back door, and even though it’s a hundred degrees out, I felt a chill like I’d been plunked down in Antarctica.”

Tipsy filled her water glass again and sat down. “If she’s throwing things around and stuff like that, then she was a seer herself.”

“What do you mean?”

“Only ghosts who were able to see ghosts as living beings have that  kind of telekinetic power.” Tipsy thought of Henry knocking over the bookshelf in her kitchen a few days after she moved to Miss Callie’s. How afraid she’d been of his power. It sounded like this woman Ivy was just as volatile, if not more.

It’s one thing dealing with your own restless spirits, said Granna. But someone else’s…

That was enough for Tipsy. “I’m sorry. I hate that you’re having these problems, but I don’t think I can get involved.”

“Please,” said Pamella. “I seriously don’t know what else to do. My father had three houses during my childhood. His family home downtown near the Battery, a new house in Atlanta where he did business, and this cottage. The house downtown was lovely, but I never missed it when he sold it. Atlanta? Not a second thought. Sold it myself when he passed. This place, though—it’s so special. I want to make it happy and cozy again, like when I was little. I’d seriously like to live here, but I can’t if Meemaw can’t find peace. Poor woman, stuck here like a fly between a screen and glass. It’s seriously so sad.”

As much as instinct yelled at her to run out of this house, Tipsy felt the familiar burn of compassion for Pamella and her late grandmother. “I agree. The lingering dead are always sad, believe me. Maybe there’s another way to get some peace around here.” Even as she said it, Tipsy couldn’t think of any other reasonable solution.

“I don’t even know if I could sell the house. In my research I found a legal case from New York or somewhere, where someone got sued for not disclosing a haunted house! How can I sell a place and say, yeah, it needs a new roof, and my dead grandmother might hit you upside the head with a broom? So tacky. And potentially litigious.”

“I get it. But I didn’t give Will permission to tell anyone about my ghosts. It’s a private matter—”

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“It’s not that—”

“Fifty thousand.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

Tipsy about fell out. “Are you serious?”

“Let’s say three thousand for the painting. Forty-seven for the exorcism!”

Tipsy sat back in her chair. Fifty thousand dollars would be life changing for her. She no longer suffered from painter’s block and she’d been making decent money from her paintings, but she always watched her bank account like a hawk flying above a sneaky fish. Unlike other business endeavors, as an artist she was one person and she only produced so much. She refused to let the quality of her work suffer. That kind of money would finally give her a cushion. She could pay off her credit cards and start saving.

“If you’re sure, and you really have fifty thousand dollars you can just hand over—”

Pamella grinned. “Don’t you worry about that, lady. My daddy left me a lot more than a haunted cottage and a shed full of haint blue paint.”

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"Masterfully written, intriguing, mystifying, and spooky...an entertaining work that will keep the reader hooked until the end." —Readers' Favorite

Perfect for fans of Liane Moriarty's The Husband's Secret and Linda Holmes's Evvie Drake Starts Over.

When Annie Parker discovers her husband’s infidelity, she doesn’t let it destroy her. She packs her bags and heads to Lake Arrowhead, California, the mountainside town where her family used to summer. Immersing herself in the restoration of seven 1920s-era cabins, Annie begins to put the pieces of her life back together. But starting over is never easy.

Alyce Murphy needs closure. When she discovers her father did not die from a heart attack, as she’s been led to believe for the last 30 years, but in a murder/suicide, she is determined to uncover the truth of his death. But when she visits the cabin where her father ended his life, Alyce has to accept she may never know the true story.

Annie is looking toward her future while Alyce needs to put the past to rest. In parallel stories, both women are drawn to the rustic mountainside cabins as they search for the missing pieces—but they soon discover that the cabins have their own stories to tell.

More Reviews:

"Chrysteen Braun creates a masterpiece with smooth storytelling that juxtaposes the serenity of the mountains with the eruptive chaos of dangerous secrets and ends with a bang. What a terrific story! What a talented writer!" —San Francisco Book Review

"A touching novel charting two women’s parallel lives, tied together by mysteries, transformation, and a cabin." —BookLife

"For those looking for a complex, engaging novel you won't be able to put down, this book is for you." —Book Excellence Awards

"...Engrossing, poignant.... An engaging drama with a strong cast and a final surprise." —Kirkus

"In an intriguing set of stories, each cabin on the mountain serves as the setting for a compelling tale of loss, betrayal—and love. Chrysteen Braun’s clever premise gives us a satisfying glimpse into the lives of others—both past and present." —Anne Cleeland, author of the Doyle & Acton Mystery Series

"Annie and Alyce are two women without much in common, but whose lives intersect in a place that has surprises for both of them. In telling their stories, Chrysteen Braun blends memoir and mystery in an entertaining page-turner." —Susan Denley, former Associate Features Editor, Los Angeles Times

Author Bio:

When it comes to California, mountain retreats, and home renovation, Chrysteen Braun doesn’t just write about it, she’s lived it. The California-native grew up in Long Beach where she recalls writing her first novel at the young age of 12. Moving to Hollywood, she worked at Capital Records where, at just 18, was tasked with ordering all the Beatles’s Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album covers. Shortly thereafter, she joined her family’s home remodeling and design business, which she subsequently owned and operated with her husband, Larry. Fast forward almost fifty years and today that business has passed on to her daughter to continue the family tradition. Meanwhile, Chrysteen has returned to her roots of writing, finding adventure in her characters’ tangle of relationships, mystery and intrigue. The mountains, where she and her husband have a second home, are the inspiration for much of her writing, including The Guestbook Trilogy book series.

Today, Chrysteen lives in Coto de Caza, with her husband and two Siamese cats and divides her time between writing articles on home decor and design, writing fiction and operating a decor boutique in Lake Arrowhead, California, aptly named, At the Cabin.

Shop The Guest Book Trilogy

"...a book that readers will not be able to put down. With themes of love, family, friendship, new beginnings, and the complexity of life, readers will get hooked from the very beginning."  —San Francisco Book Review

In book two of the Guest Book Trilogy, eighty-one-year-old Annie Parker recounts taking on, against the wishes of her new love Noah, an out-of-town design project that leads her down a path that is more than she bargained for.

Back in Lake Arrowhead, California, a long-awaited mystery is buried in Cabin Number Three. Annie meets Carrie Davis who wants to update her childhood home on the lake and feels a tie to Annie's cabins. Apparently, Carrie's parents stayed here during the Roaring '20s when Bugsy Siegel ran an underground speakeasy and distillery. Unconvinced, Annie decides to investigate and finds their names in the old guest books-Elizabeth Davis and Thomas Meyer. As exciting as that sounds, it's only the start of a winding tale that Carrie and the new man in her life uncover. The pair unravel a family history filled with gangsters, working girls, and a surprising twist to a family tree.

The Girls in Cabin Number Three combines women's fiction with romance, cozy noir mystery, and suspense-all wrapped up in the majestic environs of this lovely lakeside haven.

More Reviews:

"...rife with charming characters, a gorgeous mountain setting, and meticulous research..." —IndieReader

"[The Girls in Cabin Number Three]'s complex, interesting characters, and engrossing historical and geographical settings make it a must-read."  —Readers' Favorite

"Personal drama and historical tidbits combine nicely for a quick and entertaining read." —Kirkus

"Braun's a top-notch storyteller; The Girls in Cabin Number Three is well plotted with clearly defined and relatable characters. Her research is exemplary." —Kate Osborn, formerly with the Mountain News, Lake Arrowhead

"Annie meets Carrie Davis, a new guest who slowly begins to unravel secrets from her own family's past in the second part of The Guestbook Trilogy: The Girls in Cabin Number Three...with plenty of intrigue in an idyllic mountain locale." —Susan Denley, former Associate Features Editor, Los Angeles Times

Author Bio:

When it comes to California, mountain retreats, and home renovation, Chrysteen Braun doesn’t just write about it, she’s lived it. The California-native grew up in Long Beach where she recalls writing her first novel at the young age of 12. Moving to Hollywood, she worked at Capital Records where, at just 18, was tasked with ordering all the Beatles’s Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album covers. Shortly thereafter, she joined her family’s home remodeling and design business, which she subsequently owned and operated with her husband, Larry. Fast forward almost fifty years and today that business has passed on to her daughter to continue the family tradition. Meanwhile, Chrysteen has returned to her roots of writing, finding adventure in her characters’ tangle of relationships, mystery and intrigue. The mountains, where she and her husband have a second home, are the inspiration for much of her writing, including The Guestbook Trilogy book series.

Today, Chrysteen lives in Coto de Caza, with her husband and two Siamese cats and divides her time between writing articles on home decor and design, writing fiction and operating a decor boutique in Lake Arrowhead, California, aptly named, At the Cabin.

Shop The Guest Book Trilogy

"...delightful and engaging...readers will want to finish the mystery in a single sitting." —BookLife

Finley Blake thought a plum assignment in Tangier would be the perfect chance to grab some girl time with her sister, Whitt. But when a crew member from an action movie being filmed locally falls to his death, Whitt and Finley must put their heads together to figure out whether it was an accident—or murder.

During an assignment in Morocco, Finley Blake, a young travel writer still reeling from a painful breakup, and her sister, Whitt, are caught in a web of human trafficking and murder. They must decide whether to play it safe or help a handsome Interpol agent uncover the pieces of the puzzling mystery that will put the murderer behind bars.

Travel through the streets of Rabat, the alleyways of Tangier and the medina of Casablanca with these intrepid sleuths. This first in the series of Blake Sisters Travel Mysteries follows Whitt and Finley into the Kasbah for their meeting with death and a Tangier take-out.

Author Bio:

New author Carter Fielding is a millennial with an old soul. She likes old maps, old photographs, vintage records, and vintage champagnes. A Southerner, with roots in Anderson, S.C., she also likes a good mellow bourbon, a day that calls for wearing a barn jacket and wellies, and the smell of wet earth after a good rain. She started writing the Blake Sisters series during lockdown to tame a wanderlust that couldn't be satisfied by a trip to Harris Teeter and ended up building a relationship with the whole cast of characters that has taken on a life of its own.

She lives in Northern Virginia with her Boykin spaniel, Trucker, and uses her passion for books and travel to create characters she hopes readers will come to love.

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