In A Beautiful Ferocity, the second instalment of the Cullen's Celtic Cabaret Series, we're taken on a thrilling ride through the Roaring Twenties as Ireland fights for her freedom. Peter Cullen leads his troupe of eclectic performers through the troubled country, in a daring new direction, entertaining audiences who've had enough of the old ways. When their cabaret is threatened, the performers must fight to keep their dream alive, treading the dangerous line between propriety and entertainment.

When outside forces intervene, and put not just their livelihoods in danger, but their lives, loyalty, friendship and even the bonds of love are tested to the edge of endurance.

Shortlisted for the 2020 US Selfies Book Award

Shelf Unbound's Shelf Unbound's #2 Top 100 Notable Indie Award - 2019

"Irish twins navigate late-1940s Minnesota and their turbulent relationship in debut author Welch’s genuine story of family loyalty, misfortune, and potential. Welch steadily traces the two young women’s desire to forge their own lives, often hindered by shame, silence, guilt, and the stifling confines of societal expectations. Readers will be inspired by Shannon and Eliza’s persistence and heart." —Publishers Weekly

"In A Thread So Fine, Susan Welch has written a beautiful story of sisters, history and love." —Tara Conklin, NYT Bestselling author of The Last Romantics

St. Paul, Minnesota, 1946: Introspective Shannon Malone and her more popular sister Eliza are Irish twins and best friends. As little girls, they relied on each other for companionship and affection as their mother remained distant, beating back the demons of her own mysterious childhood. As womanhood approaches, both look forward to promising--though different--futures. But when tragedy rocks the Malone family, secrets bloom and one sister leaves, possibly forever. The other, physically and emotionally scarred, vows to hold the invisible thread that runs deeply between them. In the course of her journey, she discovers a child with a hidden past, the love of a good man, and the true meaning of family. But is it enough to bring her sister home?

“Charming, heartwarming...whimsical and pleasingly old-fashioned throughout.” —Kirkus 

Christmastime 1939 introduces the reader to the Christmastime series. Set in Brooklyn, we meet the young widow Lillian Hapsey and her two sons, Tommy and Gabriel. Even though the Christmas season is just around the corner, Lillian has no Christmas spirit. Alone, unhappy with her job, and plagued by financial concerns, Christmas has become a burden to her.

Overshadowing everything is the war in Europe. Despite the setbacks, Lillian is determined to give her sons a happy Christmas. Can she rekindle her girlhood love for the holiday season? Rediscovering her touchstone just might be the key to unlocking the excitement and magic of Christmas.  

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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:

Home. Almost a week since Lillian Hapsey returned from her sister’s house upstate, and things were exactly the same. The inspiration or revelation or solution she had hoped for hadn’t happened. She hadn’t thought her plans through. Instead, she had trusted that everything would fall into place, and now here it was—Christmas was almost upon her, and she had no Christmas spirit at all.

She let Tommy and Gabriel splash in the bathtub a little longer than usual. It gave her a chance to sort her thoughts, and to enjoy the hot water bottle on her lower back without the boys asking too many questions. She rested her feet on the small embroidered footstool and rubbed her legs.

A pile of clothing to be mended sat next to her, but she had no desire to get started on it. She frowned at her fatigue—it can’t have anything to do with age, surely, she told herself. Thirty-four isn’t exactly old. It must be the extra hours I’ve been putting in at work.

The small sketchbook she carried with her everywhere lay open on her lap. She paged through the drawings she had made from the visit to her sister’s—rows of trees in the orchard with a few old apples and leaves clinging to the branches, her sister Annette knitting by the fireplace, a swing that hung from an old oak tree, another of Annette kissing her sleeping baby. Lillian’s face softened at the memories. It had been a good trip.

She moved the hot water bottle to her lap and savored the stillness of the moment—a contrast to the busy week. It had begun with the train ride home from upstate, then back to her routine of scheduling babysitters for Tommy and Gabriel, and keeping up with her work at the department store. Now that Thanksgiving was behind them, the Christmas season had begun in earnest.

She leaned her head back against the couch and closed her eyes, wondering how she would muster up the energy and enthusiasm to get her through the season. The radiator rattled and whistled with coming steam. A soothing warmth began to fill the living room, chasing the cold away. She sank deeper into the couch, giving in to her weariness. The hissing and shshing of the radiator grew louder and louder, accompanied by the gurgling in the pipes. A peaceful oblivion overtook her.

After several minutes, the radiator sounds lowered to a sputter. Then a whisper. Then a soft, warm silence filled the small room. Broken by sounds of laughter and splashing from the boys.

Lillian opened her eyes and realized that she had dozed off. That won’t do, she thought.

She sat up straight and looked about her. She couldn’t help but compare her tiny Brooklyn apartment to her sister’s rambling old house on the orchard with a lovely view out of every window—the flower beds and vegetable garden in the back that still showed a bit of color, the charming old cider house, the country road leading into town. From the upstairs bedroom window, the view was like stepping into a painting—softly undulating farmland dotted with red barns and white farmhouses, the orchard stretching out to the west, and in the distance, patches of woods and a small stream that sparkled in the sunlight.

And the sunsets! The golden light over the orchard swelled her heart each time she saw it. She often ran upstairs as the day was fading in order to catch it, making excuses as she suddenly left the room. “Just getting something from upstairs,” or “I think I’ll fetch my sweater.” Not that she had to hide anything, she simply wanted those few minutes all to herself, to better take in the powerful stirring of beauty and longing. It was a reminder of girlhood dreams and all the things she was going to do with her life. She and Annette were raised in a town not far from the orchard and being upstate always plunged her into the past when she was young and full of dreams, before she and Annette had married and moved away.

Lillian shook away her thoughts and lifted a few items from the pile of clothes—three pairs of trousers, a few dresses, and a skirt.

“Tommy, Gabriel! Time to finish up!” 

She threaded a needle and draped the first pair of trousers over her lap. Mrs. Harrison from the dry cleaner down the street was kind enough to throw a little business her way. It wasn’t much, but it helped to supplement her earnings from the department store.

She pushed the needle through the woolen hem, trying to recapture the glimmer of Christmas excitement she had felt up at her sister’s. A few days after Thanksgiving, Annette had begun to unpack some of her decorations. The children had caught her enthusiasm as they pulled out garlands and the crèche set and red ribbons.

Lillian smiled in memory of the afternoon they sat at the kitchen table with the children and prepared sliced oranges to dry for ornaments, and made clove and orange pomander balls. The scent of fresh citrus and cloves filled the kitchen while the kids sang Christmas songs and laughed when they made up the words they couldn’t remember. And the evening when they sat in front of the fire, the kids sprawled on the floor, cutting pictures out of the catalogs—until Annette’s husband, Bernie, sent them all running and squealing when he crawled into the room growling and pawing like a bear.

Her smile deepened at the memory of rocking Annette’s youngest, five-month-old Abigail. Was there any greater sweetness than holding a baby as it smiled up at you and kicked its legs and shook its tiny fists in joy?

She set her sewing down. Is that what was making her sad? Knowing that she would never have another child? Or was it the nostalgia of being at Annette’s? Or was she just tired?

Spending Thanksgiving this year with Annette and Bernie, rather than Christmas as she usually did, had seemed like a good idea at the time. But now Lillian felt a stab of dread at the mere thought of facing the Christmas holiday alone.

No need to fear Christmas, she thought, picking up her sewing again. She would simply follow Annette’s advice, and start with their mother’s Christmas recipes. That would put her in the holiday spirit. And then hang the stockings, and get a tree, and…

She glanced over at the time.

“Hurry up boys! Your show will be on soon.”

The bathtub was soon gurgling as the plug was pulled and the water drained. She heard Tommy and Gabriel opening and shutting drawers as they pulled out their pajamas.

“Don’t forget to brush your teeth!”

Lillian cast another glance at the living room. There wasn’t a single sign of Christmas. She would have to get started.

Oddly enough, it would be their first Christmas together in Brooklyn. They had always celebrated the holiday upstate. Especially after Tom died, Annette had insisted that Lillian and the boys spend Christmas with her and Bernie and their growing family. With Tommy eight years old now, and Gabriel five, all their Christmas memories were from the orchard.

Lillian set her sewing down and brought the hot water bottle to the kitchen. This would be an important Christmas, and instead of preparing for it, she had spent these past few days filled with worry—missing Annette, hoping the landlord wouldn’t raise the rent, and fretting about the new manager at work, Mr. Hinkley. He had never liked her, and when Mrs. Klein finally retired and he was promoted, he made his feelings abundantly clear. He still resented the older manager’s preference for Lillian.

No need to ruin her evening thinking about him, she thought, sitting back down. The trip to Annette’s was supposed to be a prelude to Christmas. But Lillian felt no surge of excitement. She wasn’t in the mood for Christmas and would be glad when it was over. Everything felt wrong.

And of course, underlying everything, was the dark shadow cast by the war in Europe. The news reports grew more frightening with each passing day. She had believed that war would be averted. That Hitler would be appeased. But when he invaded Poland in the fall, England and France had declared war. Where would it all end?

She stared out and worried about a world controlled by Nazis and Fascists. Worried that the U.S. would be pulled into the war—or worse, that they would be attacked by Nazis. First bombed, then invaded, then…

"A charming, heartwarming tale of two people looking for a second chance at love and family. [Mahkovec] remarkably conveys Droom's transformation, [and] readers will enjoy the novel's detailed imagery, which has a whimsical and pleasingly old-fashioned quality throughout." —Kirkus Reviews

Set in New York City against the backdrop of impending war, Christmastime 1940 tells the story of an unlikely romance between a struggling young mother trying to make a fresh start and a man who has lost his connection to humanity.

The curmudgeonly Charles Drooms is perfectly content with his life as the owner of a successful accounting firm. However, when the beautiful widow, Lillian Hapsey, and her two young sons move down the hall from him, his narrow world is shaken. Three forces—Lillian, the Christmas season, and a mysterious little boy—converge to stir up powerful memories, pushing Drooms to make some life-altering decisions.

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.

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Shop all Linda Mahkovec books

Christmastime 1941 opens two days after Pearl Harbor has been attacked. War has just been declared, and New York City is in a state of chaos and panic as it tries to prepare for possible attacks. Following the same characters established in Christmastime 1941, and introducing a few new ones, it tells the power of old loves, new loves, and friendship.

It continues the love story of Lillian and Charles, the adventures of Tommy and Gabriel, and depicts two bittersweet romances: that of Izzy and her fiancé Red, and that of the office manager at Drooms Accounting, sixty-year old Mrs. Murphy, and her Brendan.
 
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.

Shop the Christmastime series

Shop all Linda Mahkovec books

In Christmastime 1942 the Axis forces are winning, and America struggles to find its footing in the war. Men leave to fight and women join the workforce. New York City vibrates with energy, romance, tension, and urgency. Yet love burns brighter than ever, bringing people together and giving them hope for the future. The famous Stage Door Canteen in Times Square provides the background for one of these romances—between the proud, but wounded, Edith Mason and the Shakespearean actor, Desmond Burke.

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.

Shop the Christmastime series

Shop all Linda Mahkovec books

In Christmastime 1943 the war intensifies, the Christmas season arrives, and love is kept alive on the home front. In New York City, Lillian Drooms struggles on her own while her husband, Charles, is away at sea. She volunteers with “Artists for Victory” at a hospital for wounded soldiers, but soon begins to doubt her ability.

Meanwhile, on a farm in Illinois, the beautiful seventeen-year-old Ursula is torn between her sense of duty and the power of love. The source of her deepest yearning and her deepest hatred lies in Friedrich, one of the German POWs recently hired to work on the family farm. The Christmas season brings its charm and warmth—but can love survive in these turbulent, fragmented times?

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.

Years of relentless fighting have strained the country, and the December news of the Battle of the Bulge crushes the hope that war in Europe will soon be over. Lillian Drooms pushes ahead with her career as an artist while she anxiously awaits the arrival of her husband, Charles, for Christmas, and her friend Izzy finally gives Mr. Rockwell the old heave-ho—or does she?

And on the farm in Illinois, Ursula’s troubling situation reaches a climax and is intensified by the arrival of her brother Jimmy, home on furlough from the Pacific. Among pervasive loss and disappointment, is there room for Christmas hope and happiness?

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.

Shop the Christmastime series

Shop all Linda Mahkovec books

“I stayed up the entire night reading Duet for Three Hands…[it] was the epitome of unputdownable.” —The Bookish Owl

A standalone historical romance from USA Today bestselling author Tess Thompson that teaches a valuable lesson about life's most important choice: embracing the power of love or being consumed by the power of hate.

Nathaniel Fye's marriage into the wealthy Bellmont family is one of convenience, and the brilliant concert pianist soon discovers he has no idea who his wife really is. Then tragedy leaves Nathaniel with nothing more than memories of his fame and fortune, and a single protege—the widow Lydia Tyler—to continue teaching.

Jeselle Thorton's heart has always belonged to one man, who, fortunately for Jeselle, has always reciprocated her love. But because of the color of their skin, the couple can never have more than their dreams of a future together.

Four lives brought together by circumstance will be forced to combat prejudice and risk everything in this deep and complex family saga of forbidden love and flawed humanity in America's Depression-era South.

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Author Bio:
Tess Thompson is the USA Today Bestselling and award-winning author of contemporary and historical Romantic Women’s Fiction with nearly forty published titles. When asked to describe her books, she could never figure out what to say that would perfectly sum them up until she landed on Hometowns and Heartstrings.

Book Excerpt:

Part 1

From Jeselle Thorton’s journal.

June 10, 1928

When I came into the kitchen this morning, Mrs. Bellmont handed me a package wrapped in shiny gold paper, a gift for my thirteenth birthday. A book, I thought, happy. But it wasn’t a book to read. It was a book to write in: a leather-bound journal. Inches of blank pages, waiting for my words.

Mrs. Bellmont beamed at me, seemingly pleased with my delight over the journal. “You write whatever ideas and observations come to you, Jeselle. Don’t censor yourself. Women, especially, can only learn to write by telling the truth about themselves and those around them.”

I put my nose in the middle of all those empty pages and took a deep breath, filling my lungs with the clean smell of new paper. Behind us Mama poured hotcake batter into a frying pan. The room filled with the aroma of those sweet cakes and sizzling oil. Whitmore came in holding a string of fish he’d caught in the lake, the screen door slamming behind him.

“Tell me why it matters that you write?” asked Mrs. Bellmont in her soft teacher voice.

“I cannot say exactly, Mrs. Bellmont.” Too shy to say the words out loud, I shrugged to hide my feelings. But I know exactly. I write to know I exist, to know there is more to me than flesh and muscle being primed for a life of humility, servitude, obedience. I write, seeking clarity. I write because I love. I write, searching for the light.

Mrs. Bellmont understood. This is the way between us. She squeezed my hand, her skin cream over my coffee.

Tonight, for my birthday present, Whit captured lightning bugs in a glass jar, knowing how I love them. We set the jar on the veranda, astonished at the immensity of their combined glow. “Enough light in there to write by,” I said, thinking of my journal now tucked in my apron pocket.

“They spark to attract a mate,” he said, almost mournfully.

“They light up to find love?” I asked, astonished.

He nodded. “Isn’t it something?”

We watched those bugs for a good while until Whit pushed his blond curls back from his forehead like he does when he worries.

“What is it?” I asked him.

“They shouldn’t be trapped in this jar when they’re meant to fly free, to look for love.”

He unscrewed the lid, and those flickers of life drifted out into the sultry air until they intermingled with other fireflies, liberated to attract the love they so desperately sought. I moved closer to him. He took my hand as we watched and watched, not wanting the moment to end but knowing it must, as all moments do, both good and bad, light and dark, leaving only love behind to be savored in our memories.

Chapter 1: Nathaniel

On a hot and humid day in the middle of June, Nathaniel Fye rehearsed for a concert he was to give that night at the Howard Theatre with the Atlanta Orchestra. It was late afternoon when he emerged from the cool darkness of the theatre into the glaring afternoon heat and noise of Peachtree Street. He walked toward the large W that hung over the Hotel Winecoff, where he planned to eat a late afternoon meal and then head up to his room for a rest and a bath before dressing for the evening concert. Thick, humid air and gasoline fumes from passing automobiles made him hot even in his white linen summer suit. Across to Singapore, starring Joan Crawford, was displayed on the Loew’s Theatre marquee. What sort of people went to the moving pictures, he wondered? Ordinary people who had lives filled with fun and love and friendship instead of traveling from town to town for concerts and nothing but practice in between. All the travel had been tolerable, even exciting, when he was younger, but now, as his age crept into the early thirties, he found himself wanting companionship and love, especially from a woman. Lately, he daydreamed frequently of a wife and children, a home. The idea filled him with longing, the kind that even the accolades and enthusiastic audiences could not assuage. But he was hopeless with women. Tongue-tied, stammering, sweating, all described his interactions with any woman but his mother. His manager, Walt, was good with people. He could talk to anyone. But Nathaniel? He could never think of one thing to say to anyone—his preferred way of communication was music. When his hands were on the keys it was as if his soul were set free to love and be loved, everything inside him released to the world. He would never think of taking the astonishing opportunities his talent had afforded him for granted, especially after the sacrifices his parents had made for him to study with the finest teachers in the world. Even so, he was lonely. The disciplined life and his natural reticence afforded little opportunity for connection.

A young woman stood near the entrance of the Winecoff, one foot perched saucily on the wall while balancing on the other, reading a magazine. She wore a cream-colored dress, and her curly, white-blonde hair bobbed under a cloche hat of fine-woven pink straw with a brim just wide enough to cover her face. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the door’s glass window, suddenly conscious of his own appearance. Tall, with a slight slump at his shoulders from years at the piano, dark hair under his hat, high cheekbones and sensitive brown eyes from his father but a delicate nose and stern mouth from his mother. Handsome? He suspected not. Just because you wish something didn’t make it so, he thought. As his hand touched the door to go in, the young woman looked up and stared into his eyes. “Good afternoon. How do you do?”

Porcelain skin, gray eyes, perfect petite features, all combined to make a beautiful, exquisite, but completely foreign creature. A beautiful woman. Right here, in front of him. What to do? His heart flipped inside his chest and started beating hard and fast. Could she tell? Was it visible? He covered his chest with his hand, hot and embarrassed. “Yes.” He lifted his hat. Oh, horrors: his forehead was slick with sweat. Yes? Had he just said yes? What had she asked him? He moved his gaze to a spot on the window. A fly landed on the glass and went still, looking at him with bulging eyes.

Her voice, like a string attached to his ear, drew his gaze back to her. “It’s unbearably hot. I could sure use a Coca-Cola.” With a flirtatious cock of her head, she smiled. She had the same thick Georgian accent as all the women in Atlanta, but there was a reckless, breathless quality in the way she oozed the words.

“Quite. Yes. Well, goodbye, then.” He somehow managed to open the door and slip inside.

The hotel was quiet. Several women lounged in the lobby, talking quietly over glasses of sweet tea. A man in a suit sat at one of the small desks provided for guests, writing into a ledger. A maid scurried through with an armful of towels. He wanted nothing more than to be swallowed by the wall. What was the matter with him? How was it possible to hold the attention of hundreds during a concert, yet be unable to utter a single intelligible thing to one lone woman?

He stumbled over to the café counter and ordered a sandwich and a glass of Coca-Cola. He allowed himself one glass whenever he performed in Atlanta during the summer. The heat, as the young woman had said, made a person long for a Coca-Cola. But only one, no more or he might never stop, and next thing he knew he’d have one every day and then twice a day and so forth. Sweet drinks were an indulgence, a dangerous way to live for a man who must have complete discipline to remain a virtuoso. If he allowed himself anything or everything he wanted, where might it lead? He could not be like other people, even if he wanted to be.

Waiting for his drink, he heard, rather than saw, the door open, and then the blonde woman sat beside him, swinging her legs ever so slightly as she perched on the round bar stool. “Hello again.” She placed her hands, which were half the size of his and so white as to appear almost translucent, upon the counter. She interlaced her fingers, rather primly and in a way that seemed to belie the general forwardness of sitting next to a man she didn’t know at an otherwise empty counter. He nodded at her, catching a whiff of gardenia he supposed came from her smooth, white neck.

“Would you like to buy me a Coca-Cola?” She peered up at him from under her lashes. Her eyes were the color of storm clouds.

What was this? She wanted him to buy her a drink? Had she hinted at that outside? What a ninny he was. Of course. Any imbecile could have picked up on that. Walt would have had her in here with a soda in her hand before the door closed behind them. He tried to respond, but his voice caught in the back of his throat. Instead he nodded to the man in the white apron behind the fountain, who, in turn, also in silence, pulled the knob of the fountain spray with a beefy arm.

“I’ve just come from the Crawford picture. It was simply too marvelous for words. I do so love the moving pictures. What’s your name?” She pressed a handkerchief to the nape of her neck where soft curls lay, damp with perspiration. What would it feel like to wrap his finger in one of the curls?

“Nathaniel.”

“I’m Frances Bellmont. You from up north?”

“Maine originally. I live in New York City now.”

Her gray eyes flickered, and an eyebrow rose ever so slightly. “I see. A Yankee.” He thought he detected an excitement as she said it, as if to sit by him were an act of rebellion.

“As north as you can get and still be an American,” he said. At last. Words!

“’Round here we’re not sure any of y’all are true Americans.” She took a dainty sip from her soda and peered at him out of the corner of her eyes. “Now wait a minute. Are you Nathaniel Fye, the piano player?”

“Right.”

“Oh my.” She turned her full gaze upon him. “That is interesting.” She had full lips that looked almost swollen. “My mother and I happen to be attending that very concert tonight. I don’t enjoy such serious music, but my mother simply adores it. We’re staying overnight here at the Winecoff. We live all the way across town, and mother thought it would be nice to stay overnight. Together.” She rolled her eyes.

Before he knew what he was saying, a lie stumbled from his mouth. “Party. Later. In my suite. You could come. Your mother, too.”

“A party? I’d love to attend. Do I have to bring my mother?” She sipped her soda while looking up at him through her lashes.

“I, I don’t know.” He stuttered. “Isn’t that how it’s done?”

She slid off her seat, touching the sleeve of his jacket like a caress. “I’m just teasing. We wouldn’t think of missing it. I’ll see you then.” And then she was out the door, leaving only the smell of her perfume behind, as if it had taken up permanent residence in his nostrils.

Later that night, before the concert, he stood at the full-length mirror in the greenroom of the Howard Theatre, brushing lint from his black tuxedo jacket. Walt sat across from him in one of the soft chairs, scouring the arts section of the New York Times and occasionally making notations in a small notebook.

“I’d like to have a small group up to my room. After the concert tonight.”

“What did you say?” Walt, a few years younger than Nathaniel, possessed light blue eyes that were constantly on the move, shifting and scanning, like a predator looking for his next meal. He was once an amateur violinist who had played in his small town of Montevallo, Alabama, at church and town dances before he went to New York City. “Played the fiddle, but I didn’t have the talent to go all the way,” he told Nathaniel years ago, during their first interview. “But the music, it gets in a person’s blood, and I aim to make a life out of it however I can.”

Walt closed the newspaper without making a sound, like he was trying not to spook a wild horse. He stood, folding the newspaper under his arm. He had a slim build and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Receding light brown hair made his forehead appear more prominent than it once was. Despite his ordinary appearance, women flushed and giggled when he spoke to them. “Never, in five years, have you had folks up to your room. Much as I’ve asked you to.”

“I know,” Nathaniel said, shrugging as if it were nothing important. “You know I can never think of anything to say to people.”

Walt’s eyes were already at the door. “You want me to bring the music promoter I was telling you about? He’s keen to get after you with some ideas.”

“Fine.”

Walt rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. “I’ll make sure no one stays too late. We leave for the West tomorrow on the early train.” He pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “Why the sudden interest in sociability?” He raised an eyebrow and punched him on the shoulder. “Could it be the young lady I saw you with earlier?”

Nathaniel straightened his bow tie. “How did you know that?”

“I was checking into the hotel when I happened to see the two of you at the bar. I saw her again at the restaurant tonight. Dining with her mother, if I make my guess. They’re almost identical.”

Nathaniel wanted to ask more but kept quiet. He took his pocket watch out of his trousers and set it on the table. His pockets must be empty when he played. He stretched his fingers.

“You do know who they are, don’t you?” Walt’s forehead glistened. He took off his glasses and waved them in the air. Nathaniel couldn’t decide if he only imagined the movement was in the shape of a dollar sign.

“Last name’s Bellmont.”

“Yeah, that’s Frances Bellmont you bought a soda for, my friend. The Bellmont family’s old money. Used to own half of Georgia. He’s a vice president over at Coca-Cola.”

“I see.”

Walt waggled his fingers, teasing. “I know you don’t care about such things.”

“Just be at my room at ten,” Nathaniel said, chuckling. “Before anyone else arrives. I’ll need you to do the talking.”

“My mama always said I was a good talker,” said Walt.

“One of us has to be.”

“I’ll get hold of some champagne. From what I hear, Frances Bellmont likes her champagne.” He slapped Nathaniel on the back.

“What do you mean?” A dart of something, almost like fear, pierced the bottom of his stomach.

“Just rumors. Nothing to worry over.”

“Tell me.”

“She likes parties. That’s all.”

“How do you know that?”

“It’s my job to know these kinds of things.” Walt put up his hand, like a command. “Stop. This is the first time I’ve ever seen you interested in a woman. Don’t ruin it by talking yourself out of it.” He left through the greenroom door, calling out behind him, “Good luck tonight.”

After the concert, Nathaniel went back to his suite and bathed the perspiration from his body, using a scrub brush and soap he imagined smelled like a woman’s inner wrist. He washed his thick, dark hair and flicked it back with pomade so that the waves that sometimes fell over his forehead were tamed. Using a straight blade to shave his face, he scrutinized his looks. Would he ever be appealing to a girl like Frances Bellmont? His eyes were brown and on the small side, if he were truthful. And his lips were thin, now that he really looked at them, although he had straight, white teeth. That was something. People were always telling Walt that Nathaniel came across as intense, and sometimes even the word frightening had been used. I’ll smile, he assured himself. Easy and fun, like Walt.

He hung his tuxedo in the closet and smoothed the bed cover from where he’d rumpled it during his earlier nap. Then he straightened the sitting room, disposing of a newspaper and moving several music sheets marked with his latest composition to the other room. Would people sit, he wondered? Or stand? He looked about the room. He hadn’t noticed much about it upon his arrival. All hotels began to look the same after a while. A crystal chandelier hung in the middle of the room, cascading like fallen tears and casting subdued light across a dark green couch with scalloped legs. A round table stood between two straight-backed chairs with cushions decorated in a complicated red floral design. Would there be enough room for everyone? How many did Walt invite? He should have asked. Despite his recent bath, he began to perspire.

Just then there was a knock on the door. It was Walt, looking newly shaven and dapper in a tan linen suit with a blue tie. With him was a man about Walt’s age, whom he introduced as Ralph Landry. “How do you know Walt?” Nathaniel asked him, feigning interest, trying to keep his gaze from wandering to the door.

“Knew one another growing up in Montevallo, Alabama.” Ralph’s accent sounded like a foreign language to Nathaniel: slow, elongated vowels, twice as many, it seemed, than words usually had, and no “r” sounds. “Moved out to New York together for college, and I went on to med school. Now I’m headed back to Montevallo to start my own practice.” Ralph’s face, pink and fleshy, looked like the underbelly of a sow, and he had a particularly thick neck that seemed about to pop open his bow tie.

“Best of luck to you.” Nathaniel cleared his throat and glanced over at Walt, who was taking bottles of champagne out of an apple crate. He forced himself to look back to his companion.

“How’s your younger brother doing?” Walt asked.

“Half-brother,” Ralph corrected him. “He calls himself Mick now.” Ralph’s face turned serious. “He’s at loose ends since graduating from high school.”

“Send him out to California,” said Walt. “Didn’t you tell me he lives for moving pictures? He could get a job out there.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Ralph.

“We can thank Ralphie here for the illegal suds,” Walt said, slapping is friend on the back.

Ralph took a big sip. “Well, let’s just say being able to stitch folks up after a gunshot wound in the middle of the night provides some benefits.” He laughed and took another gulp of champagne. “Have to get a little wop blood on my hands sometimes, but it’s worth it.”

Nathaniel felt a blast of revulsion, knowing Ralph meant the New York underworld of organized crime. One of the head crime bosses had asked Nathaniel to play at his daughter’s birthday party several years ago. He booked an overseas tour to get out of it, fearing his hands might be crushed if he refused.

“You want a drink, Nathaniel?” asked Walt.

Nathaniel shook his head, no.

“Don’t drink, Mr. Fye?” asked Ralph.

“I do not,” said Nathaniel, stifling a sigh. This was a mistake. Frances probably wouldn’t even show, and he’d be trapped here all night while these derelicts went through the half-case of champagne.

“Nathaniel here is looking for sainthood after his death,” said Walt. “All he does is work. So you and I’ll have to drink his share.”

Before Walt could answer, there was another knock on the door. It was John Wainwright, the music promoter, and his wife. Walt had told Nathaniel the wife’s name, but he couldn’t remember it. The palms of his hands were damp. His throat tightened. The pulse at his neck was rapid, yet his breathing felt shallow, like he couldn’t get enough air. He caught a glimpse of the bed in the other room and felt a sudden, intense longing for the feel of the cool sheets on his skin.

To his relief, John Wainwright came over to him and held out his hand, introducing himself. Mr. Wainwright had the kind of face no one would remember in the morning and a limp, clammy handshake, like a faded, damp cloth on a clothesline. His wife wore a black evening gown that clung to her wide hips and large breasts. Her copper red hair was cut in an unflattering blunt bob above the ears. She stared at Nathaniel with eyes rimmed in charcoal-colored liner, grasping in her gloved hands the program from tonight’s concert. “Autograph for me?” She blushed, the fat of her upper arms straining against the elastic of her long white gloves.

He did so, avoiding her gaze. My God, the room was stifling. He reached inside his jacket for his handkerchief and wiped the palms of his hands and then mopped his brow.

“I’m just absolutely thrilled to meet you.” Mrs. Wainwright’s highpitched voice reminded Nathaniel of one of those yappy lapdogs he saw with wealthy New York socialites. “Oh, the excitement in the theatre tonight when your hands hovered over the keyboard before those last notes. I thought the woman next to me might faint. How do you do it?” Her eyes bulged as she leaned forward, so close to his face that he caught a whiff of onions on her breath.

“It’s just my job.” His voice sounded like a rusty gate. He tried to smile, feeling as if his lips were caught against his teeth. “Same as anyone.”

Another knock on the door. Walt, setting down his glass of champagne, moved to answer it. Nathaniel held his breath. He wanted it to be her. And he didn’t want it to be her.

Walt opened the door, and there stood Frances Bellmont. She wore a pale blue gown with rows of fringe all the way up the skirt, which reminded him of the spikes of sea anemones. Fair hair curled around her face, and her stormy eyes were made up with black mascara. They sparkled even from across the room and were, for an instant, the only things Nathaniel could see. He tore his eyes away from her. Yes, he thought, that’s what it felt like to turn away, like a ripping away from something life-giving. Her mother was equally lovely, and Walt was correct, they looked remarkably alike, except Mrs. Bellmont was several inches shorter and wore her hair in longer curls.

The room had gone silent, like an enchanted breeze had woven its way among everyone, rendering them speechless. Walt recovered first, taking the Bellmont ladies’ hands in turn and introducing himself. Nathaniel could do nothing but stare at his shoes and wish for a piano where he could play and hide. And then, like walking in a strong wind, he came forward and put his hand out to Mrs. Bellmont. She took it, and he brought her gloved hand up to his lips in the way he’d seen Walt do many times to young ladies after concerts.

“Mr. Fye, I’m pleased to meet you.” Mrs. Bellmont’s eyes were identical to Frances’s, except without any makeup. She was virtually unlined, but her face was thinner than her daughter’s, showing evidence of her age. He imagined, for a brief, insane moment, that he saw his future, but then her lovely resonant voice, like a stringed instrument, brought him back to the present. “The concert was simply lovely. What a privilege to meet you in person.”

“Mr. Fye, good to see you again.” Frances tugged at her gloves as her eyes shifted about the room. “Are more guests expected?”

“I’m not sure. Walt arranged this.” Frances’s gloves were off now, dangling in her left hand like discarded snakeskins. “Oh, I do hope so. It’s wonderful to be out. You must have such a glamorous life in New York City.” She held out her left hand.

He took the offered hand, but instead of kissing it properly as he intended, his shaking hand seemed incapable of bringing it to his mouth; instead of making contact with her soft skin, he kissed the air just above her knuckles, resulting in a smacking from his lips that sounded like a baby suckling. He felt his ears turn red.

Frances smiled at him and removed her hand, which was the texture of a rose petal. Dazzling, that’s the only way he could think to describe her smile. It reached him someplace deep inside, stirring feelings he didn’t know he had. Was it possible that a man like him could get a woman like Frances Bellmont to love him? If only he were less awkward, less confused.

She stuffed her gloves into the small, black purse she carried. “Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you have a glamorous life in New York City? I imagine you know actresses and singers. Think of that, Mother.” Without waiting for an answer, she continued, her eyes bright, “I suppose there are hundreds of parties?”

“I’m unsure. I travel much of the time. In fact, I leave for the West tomorrow. I’ll be gone eight weeks.”

“The West? Do you mean California?” asked Frances.

“Yes. All the western cities, including San Francisco and Los Angeles.”

“Hollywood?” Frances clapped her hands together. “How exciting.”

“I suppose.” He wanted to tell her how lonely he was, how comforting it would be to have a wife by his side, but, of course, he could not. Even he knew this was not appropriate cocktail party conversation.

Ralph Landry brought champagne to both the Bellmont ladies and then guided Mrs. Bellmont over to the Wainwrights, leaving Nathaniel alone with Frances. For the second time in less than a minute he wished for a piano, and then he simply wished for music, but there was not a gramophone in the room and no piano at which he might sit and transform into the man featured on posters and programs. Instead, in the glow of the beautiful Frances Bellmont he was merely a large, awkward man in an expensive suit.

He remembered then, as if it were only yesterday, standing at the side of the Grange hall when he was in his late teens, home for a brief visit before he left for New York City to begin another chapter in his tutelage, dressed in a suit made by his mother. For days, while he practiced in the other room, he’d heard the stop and go of the sewing machine, between his scales and notes; his mother unconsciously matched the rhythm of whatever he played—relegated, for her son, to seamstress from her own seat at the piano bench.

That night, at the Grange, a band of the variety Walt had once been part of played as entertainment. There was a fiddler, a banjo player, and a pianist who had no feel for the subtlety of music. The singer was a young woman with a clear, crystal voice; thick, shiny, brown hair arranged in a loose bun at the nape of her neck; and round, blue eyes the color of the sea on a sunny day. She wore a cheap cotton dress, loose like it belonged to an older sister, but Nathaniel could see the roundness of her hips and breasts, could imagine what her thighs might feel like in his hands. And the desire for her rivaled even his ambition, so that for nights afterward he thought of her, staring at the ceiling in his childhood bedroom, which was no bigger than a closet, with walls so thin he imagined he heard the wood rotting in the sea air. He prayed for the thoughts to go away, even while imagining himself as the moderately skilled piano player next to her. He wondered, should this be his small life instead of the large one his mother imagined for him, that he, indeed, had imagined for himself?

But he’d gone away, to live with his mentor, and it would be years before he acted on his base desires with a prostitute in New York. While he thrust into the half-used-up immigrant girl who spoke only the romantic, lyrical Italian of her native country, he closed his eyes and imagined the singer. It was only after he was done that he truly looked at the girl’s face and saw her humanity. She was someone’s daughter, someone’s sister. What had he done? Sickened, his lust was immediately replaced by a terrible feeling of regret and shame that lived in his gut for months afterward, like a flu from which he couldn’t recover. But he was a man, and there were others from time to time, all women who traded pleasure for money. It shamed him, each one, and yet he was a slave to his desires. Without a wife, he must turn to these destitute women and then repent on Sundays and ask for forgiveness. How lonely it was, this life that was his destiny. The feeling of desolation lessened only when he played. And so he did. Day after day. Night after night.

Now, at this makeshift party, Frances drank her champagne as if it were water. Think of something to say, he commanded himself. Cigarettes. Offer a cigarette. Women liked that. Did they like that? He had no idea what women liked. “Would you like a cigarette?”

“No thank you. Not in front of Mother. She has this ridiculous notion it’s bad for a woman’s complexion.”

He put them back in his coat pocket without taking one for himself and then stuffed his hands in his pockets. Under his jacket, he drew his stomach to his backbone, cringing inside. He caught Walt’s eyes and silently begged him for rescue. Walt understood, apparently, because he brought Mrs. Bellmont over to where Nathaniel stood with Frances and offered his arm to the younger woman. “Miss Bellmont, come with me. I’ll introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Wainwright. And my old friend, Ralph Landry.”

After they had gone, Mrs. Bellmont smiled up at Nathaniel. “Frances was awfully happy to be invited to a party. We don’t have nearly as an eventful life as she wishes.” Her accent was slightly different from Frances’s, clipped with more distinct “r” sounds.

This was something, he thought. Something to ask. “Are you from Georgia originally?”

“A small town in Mississippi, but I’ve been in Georgia for more than twenty years now.” She paused, glancing over to where Frances was now talking with the Wainwrights. “Frances tells me you’re from Maine. I’ve read it’s beautiful there.”

“I’ve never been anywhere prettier.” A surge of pleasure exploded inside him. Frances had spoken about him to her mother. Perhaps she liked him a little. “If you can stand the winters.”

“How does your father earn his living?”

“Lobster. Worked the cages almost every day of his life, pulling up those crates with his bare hands, often to find only one or two lobsters at a time.”

“He’s passed, then?”

He nodded, feeling the ache in his chest that had taken a year to subside. “Three years ago.”

“He lived to see your success?”

“Yes.”

“He must have been quite proud.”

“I believe so. He wasn’t one to talk much. My mother told me he used to listen to my recordings every single day before he died.”

His mother had been his first teacher, but after several years she decided he’d surpassed her ability to teach him and found a teacher of considerable reputation in the next town over. He remembered, vividly, his father taking the boat out on Sunday afternoons, even though it was the Sabbath, to catch additional lobsters to pay for Nathaniel’s lessons. “You can’t imagine what they gave up for me to have this life.”

“I’m sure I can.” She played with the collar of her gown, a lovely light green that reminded him of gowns he’d seen in Paris last year. He thought of his mother’s one decent dress, ironed faithfully every Saturday night to wear to church the next morning, until the fabric thinned at the elbows and frayed at the hem. “My grandmother did the same for me. And we must never forget those sacrifices.” Mrs. Bellmont smiled and took a small sip of champagne.

“Is Frances your only child?”

“No, I have a son. Whitmore.” Her face lit up when she said her son’s name.

From across the room Walt laughed and clinked glasses with Mrs. Wainwright and Frances. Nathaniel must have sighed because Mrs. Bellmont’s kind eyes met his as she touched the sleeve of his jacket. “What’s wrong, Mr. Fye?”

He blinked. “Nothing really.”

“You don’t usually host parties, I imagine?”

“Never.” He turned toward her. “I find it difficult.”

“Meeting new people?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve had to live a disciplined life. It doesn’t leave much time for social engagements.” Her voice was sympathetic, understanding. “So why tonight?”

He took his hands out of his pockets. The bubbles in Mrs. Bellmont’s glass floated one by one to the top of her drink.

“I suggested the party for the sole purpose of seeing your daughter. I also wanted to meet you properly so that I might ask if I could call on her when I return from the West. But when she was in front of me, I couldn’t think of one thing to say.”

Mrs. Bellmont was silent for a moment, twisting the stem of her champagne glass with her fingers. “When I married, my husband paraded me in front of people like I was a prize racehorse. I have a nervous stomach, and I’d be sick for hours beforehand. I had to figure out a way to get through those engagements.”

“What did you do?”

“You’ll laugh.”

He smiled, feeling relaxed for the first time that night. “I promise not to.”

“I found a book called The Lost Art of Conversation, by Horatio Sheafe Krans. I probably should have read Emily Post instead, but I’m one to look to the masters first, so I muddled through each of the essays, and do you know what I learned?”

He put his hand up to his heart. “Tell me, Mrs. Bellmont, and save me from a life of solitude.”

She laughed. “It all comes to this.” She raised one hand in the air like a preacher. “Ask questions.”

“Questions?”

“Precisely. Begin every conversation by asking a question of the other person. It never fails me. People love to talk about themselves.” She looked, once again, over at Frances, who was now talking with Mr. Wainwright, and then back at Nathaniel. “Mr. Fye, you must come visit us. This isn’t the setting to talk with Frances properly.”

“You might think I’m too old for her. I’m thirty-two.”

“Frances is twenty. Quite old enough to marry. My husband’s ten years older than I am. I see nothing wrong with it. Anyway, her father will like it if you call on her at our home. He’ll be delighted that a man of your reputation is interested in Frances.” She took another sip of her champagne.

“Do you think she would consider me?”

Her face softened further as her eyes turned a deeper shade of gray. “I didn’t raise a fool, Mr. Fye.”

“That’s kind. Thank you.” He forgot himself for a moment, forgot his terrible wanting of young Frances Bellmont and his paralyzing shyness. The room was beautiful and so were his party guests, and, in the company of Mrs. Bellmont, he felt like the kind of man who laughed at parties and thought of questions and answers. It was good, this, to have people around him, and he felt hope, too, for a future that might include the beguiling Frances Bellmont and her lovely mother.

Then, he noticed Frances and Walt across the room in a corner by themselves. Frances leaned into Walt, whispering something in his ear. Walt flushed and shook his head. A moment later Walt left Frances and came to stand next to him. “Excuse me, Mrs. Bellmont, but it’s getting late, and our prodigy here needs his beauty rest.”

Mrs. Bellmont set her glass on the table behind them. “Oh, of course. It’s getting late for us, too.” She waved to Frances. “Time to go, darlin’.”

Frances stood next to Ralph Landry now; he poured more champagne in her glass. “But we just arrived,” said Frances.

“Nathaniel has a busy day tomorrow,” said Walt. Nathaniel stared at him. He’d never heard Walt sound so cold. What had happened?

Frances glared at Walt while drinking the rest of her champagne in one swallow.

Everyone else bustled about, getting ready to leave. Goodbyes were made until it was only the Bellmont women left, standing in the doorway, and Walt, gathering the empty champagne bottles.

“Good night, Mr. Fye,” Frances said. “It was awfully nice of you to invite us.” Behind them, Walt flung bottles into the apple crate. Frances leaned forward, pulling at the lapel of Nathaniel’s suit jacket, and whispered in his ear. “Please tell me I’ll see you again soon?”

“I would like that very much.”

“Mr. Fye’s agreed to call on us at the house when he returns from California,” said Mrs. Bellmont to her daughter.

Frances gave Nathaniel her hand. “Something to look forward to then, even though it seems terribly far away.” She paused, looking up at him from under thick lashes. “I can’t remember a better evening.”

Nathaniel kissed both women’s hands and bid them good night. After he closed the door, he turned toward Walt, grinning. “She wants to see me again. I can hardly believe it.”

“I don’t think Frances Bellmont’s a good idea.” Walt went to the table and poured a last bit of champagne into his glass from the open bottle on the table.

“Why? Did something happen between you?”

“Let’s just say I know women, and she’s trouble.” Walt downed the champagne in one gulp and thumped the glass down on the table. “You could have your pick of women, you know, if you could conquer this shyness.”

“I tried tonight, Walt. I thought you’d be pleased.” He deflated, like a cake just taken from the oven into a cold room.

“I want you to be happy. I know you’re lonely, the way we work all the time. Hell, so am I. But you have to be careful of beautiful women. They come at a price.”

“They do?”

“The most important decision of any man’s life is who he chooses as his wife. Remember that.” Walt picked up his jacket from one of the chairs and draped it over his arm. “Miss Bellmont is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. That also makes her the most dangerous.”

Walt was out the door before Nathaniel could think of what to say.

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Dublin, Ireland 1915

Eighteen-year-old May Gallagher is beautiful but restless, and longs for the freedom to live her own life, to decide her own destiny. Mollycoddled as the only remaining child of middle-class parents in the suburbs, she sneaks out to the theatre when she can. She is mesmerised by the captivating actor Peter Cullen, and wishes she could enjoy a more bohemian life.

The Great War is taking all the boys away, and the promise that it will all be over by Christmas is ringing more hollow with each passing month.

Her parents would be appalled if they knew she'd befriended the enigmatic Peter, who was from the wrong side of the city, but there is something about him that intrigues May.

When catastrophe strikes Peter, it's to May that he turns, and in that moment she knows her life will never be the same again.

“With lyrical prose and unforgettable characters, Hepburn's Necklace proves that Jan Moran is a writer at the top of her game and a storyteller to remember.” —Kristy Woodson Harvey, USA Today bestselling author of Feels Like Falling

A vintage necklace. A long-hidden secret. A second chance for love.

When costume designer Ariana Ricci leaves her groom at the altar, she seeks solace at the Palm Springs home of her great-aunt, a Texas-born Hollywood legend who began her career as an extra on the film Roman Holiday. While opening yellowed, 1950s letters postmarked Italy, Ariana discovers relics from her great-aunt's hidden past, including an intriguing necklace that Audrey Hepburn gave her during the filming of the movie.

Aching for a fresh start and the chance to resolve an unfinished story, the two embark on a journey to the sun-dappled shores of Lake Como, Italy that will illuminate secrets of a bygone era and offer second chances to each of them—if they are bold enough to seize them. Escape on a heartwarming journey to Lake Como and the set of Roman Holiday in Hepburn's Necklace today.

Author Bio:

Jan Moran is a USA Today bestselling author of women's fiction. She writes stylish, uplifting, and emotionally rich contemporary and 20th-century historical fiction. Midwest Book Review and Kirkus have recommended her books, calling her heroines strong, complex, and resourceful. Her books are also translated into German, Italian, Russian, Portuguese, Dutch, Polish, Turkish, Bulgarian, Lithuanian, and other languages. Jan studied writing at the UCLA Writers Program, sailed on Semester at Sea, and graduated from the University of Texas and Harvard Business School. She lives near the beach in southern California.

Shop the Heartwarming Family Sagas Standalone Fiction series

The war is finally over and for the young and na ve Will Langton, his future is full of exciting adventure and happy dreams. Captivated by a brief, but innocent love affair on the rocks of Dancing Ledge, the romance is shattered in one single moment and she is lost to him. For Will, it's an unbearable pain that he cannot hope to escape from and the only means to assuage his sorrow is to run away... To Africa.

Meantime, Will's older, astute and devious brother Byron, has his own ideas on making his way through life. He wants money and power and he doesn't care whom he treads on, including his own family. After four years of absence, Will returns to England with a small fortune. Seeking his brother's financial advice, Will is deceitfully manipulated in more ways than one.

Bemused with life but accepting, Will drifts from place to place, Africa becoming another distant memory. Yet Will never forgets, always wondering where she is and what became of her.

But what too of his scheming brother? Will Byron ever reveal his deception?

Peter Rimmer's Just the Memory of Love is a deep, evocative, poignant saga of lost love, intrigue, and dishonesty set not only in the political landscape of Zambia but England too.

“Calia Read did it again…I can’t recommend this book, and all her other work, enough!” —Becca Baldwin, author of The Girl Gone Crazy series

I was just eight-years-old, looking up at the clouds, when Asa Calhoun became my one true love. He was my brother’s best friend. He was stoic and solemn, and always believed everything in life had to be perfect. But I saw past his eccentric mannerisms. I found him fascinating.

I was seventeen when I had my debutante ball. Throughout the years, there was a gradual shift between us. I stopped being the little sister he’s always known me as and transformed into a lady. By the end of that night, he found me fascinating.

I was twenty-one when he first kissed me. My one true love became my soulmate. I was certain nothing would ever come between us.

I married at twenty-three. But I wasn’t Mrs. Asa Calhoun. At the time I believed it was for the best, leaving Belgrave and my memories of Asa behind.

I was twenty-eight when my husband died. The pain was swift and sharp. I saw what could have been and all that I let go of. Including Asa.

Nearly seven months later I’m back in Charleston, because six years of a broken heart is too much for anyone to endure.

Asa once told me he would always be my home, but will he still mean those words when I walk through the church doors and object to his marriage?

Author Bio:
Calia Read is the author of the Sloan Brothers series, Fairfax series, Figure Eight, The Surviving Time series, and Belgrave Dynasty. She lives in the midwest with her husband and their five kids.

While the rest of the world reels from World War II, Miller Dreeser remains focused on his obsession born of ambition, and sweet Caroline Bennett, whose heart is as big as her father's fortune. Unfortunately, she's susceptible to Miller's charms and blind to his greed.

A man with a secret that could destroy anyone caught in his web. A woman whose youthful folly could destroy her family and her future. A story that spans two decades, the most defining moments of the 20th Century, and five intertwined lives from America's Greatest Generation.

This suspenseful, page-turning post-war drama is a must-read for fans of historic fiction and Tess Thompson alike.

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Author Bio:

Tess Thompson is the USA Today Bestselling and award-winning author of contemporary and historical Romantic Women’s Fiction with nearly forty published titles. When asked to describe her books, she could never figure out what to say that would perfectly sum them up until she landed on Hometowns and Heartstrings.

Book Excerpt:

Part 1: December 1921

Chapter 1: Caroline

Caroline Bennett, nestled into the corner of the sofa in her father’s study, organized a stack of letters into alphabetical order. Degrees of handwriting skills aside, each letter was clearly addressed to Santa at the North Pole from one of the forty‐two children at Saint Theresa’s Home for Orphans. Caroline was cozy in her red flannel nightgown and thick socks, and her legs were almost long enough to reach the floor. A fire crackled behind the metal grid. Fresh fir branches decorated the mantel and filled the room with their spicy scent. Candles flickered on the side tables, casting soft shadows. Outside, December fog sheathed their home so that tonight they lived in a cloud instead of a street in San Francisco where the houses were the size of schools.

Caroline knew there was no Santa. She was twelve now, after all. Her days of childish beliefs were in the past. Her parents were Santa. It was obvious now that she knew. She’d discovered the truth when she accidently saw their housekeeper, Essie, wrapping presents in the same paper that later showed up as gifts from Santa. This new knowledge rested heavily in the middle of her chest. It had been lovely to believe in magic. However, her dismay to learn that her favorite saint was, in fact, fiction was tempered by her delight that this year, for the first time, she would be able to help deliver the gifts to the orphanage. Her stomach did flips just thinking of it. As if that weren’t enough, her mother, Sophie, had entrusted Caroline with a sacred task. She was to help find just the right gift for each child.

Her father, Edmund, hidden behind the newspaper in his large chair with nothing but his long legs visible, occasionally grunted or exclaimed over something he read. He’d missed several Christmases when he was fighting overseas. This was his second Christmas home with them, but Caroline had not forgotten how lonely those days were or the worried tears Mother had shed. Edmund Bennett, as Mother often said, could fill up a room like no other. Without him, the house had seemed empty and less like Christmas, his presents stacked up under the tree for his hoped‐for return, their deepest fear that they would remain unopened. Now, though, Father was safe at home, and Mother no longer cried by the fire while holding his latest letter in her delicate hands.

Caroline settled back into the sofa, placing the piles of letters next to her. “I’ve put them in order, Mother. Are you ready for me to read them now?” Working side‐by‐side with her beautiful mother, Caroline imagined she’d experienced a great transformation from the previous Christmas. She was taller and more sophisticated, and felt almost sorry for her deluded younger self. What a little dolt she’d been, believing that a man could fly around the world in only one night on a sled pulled by reindeer.

Other than telling her parents she knew the truth, she kept mum about this devastating fact. There was no reason her friends should have their belief in magic ruined. Believing in something as wonderful as the idea of Santa made them happy, and it was not her place to take that away from them. The longer one believed, the better.

Essie entered with a plate of sugar cookies, hot chocolate for Caroline, and glasses of sherry for her parents. “Good evening. Some sweets for the sweet?” Caroline grinned, knowing Essie meant she was sweet.

“Essie, you must stop working and retire for the evening,” said Mother. “You’ve been on your feet since dawn.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bennett, and I beg your pardon, but dawn is an exaggeration.” Essie, only twenty‐five, had come to them four years before as a housemaid but had proven so smart and capable that Mother promoted her to head housekeeper when cranky Mrs. Smith, inherited from Father’s mother, had retired. Caroline adored Essie. She was pretty with brown curls that made Caroline want to pull one to see it spring back into place. Essie was never cross, even with Caroline who sometimes forgot that she wasn’t supposed to run in the house.

The newspaper lowered. Father’s green eyes fixed upon Essie. “Mrs. Bennett exaggerating? Impossible.”

Mother laughed. “No one asked for your opinion, Mr. Bennett.”

Essie patted Caroline’s head, smiling. “Oh, the letters from the children. How wonderful.” At the door, she turned back, tears glistening in her eyes. “What you do for those poor orphans—giving them a Christmas. Could’ve been me but for the grace of God.”

“Thank you, Essie. Have a good rest,” said Mother. “We have a million cookies to make tomorrow.”

The newspaper lowered once again. “We?”

“Well, it’s my mother’s recipes, anyway.” Mother tossed a pillow at Father, which he thwarted by once again hiding behind his newspaper. The sound of Essie’s laughter accompanied her clicking heels down the hallway.

Mother held up her pen and paper. “I’m ready, darling. Read away.”

The first was from a boy named Miller, who wanted a telescope so he could study the constellations. Caroline put it back into its envelope while left‐handed Mother, the paper at a slant so she didn’t smear the ink, wrote his wish on the list. Other than Miller’s rather forthright letter, the others had deeper wishes.

Please, Santa, bring me a new family for Christmas.

Santa, bring my mother back to me.

Santa, do you know where my brother is?

After the tenth letter, she couldn’t continue. Tears slid down her cheeks and onto the paper, blurring the ink. “Mother, please. I can’t. They’re too sad.”

Mother set down her pen. The newspaper came down and Father placed it on the table next to him. “Caroline, I know the letters hurt you,” said Mother. “They do us as well. But you must never turn away from truths like these just because it’s hard. It’s your responsibility as a person with so much to understand that many others have nothing and to let it soften you to do good in the world.”

“For whom much is given, much is expected,” said Father.

Caroline wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, then ran her fingers over her embroidered initials. “But why do I have so much when others have so little?”

“We’re lucky,” said Mother. “Because of that we have to serve others as best we can.”

“Love instead of hate,” said Father. “This is what Jesus taught us. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” Caroline picked up the next letter. “Dear Santa.”

Chapter 2: Miller

It was Christmas Eve. While sugarplums danced in the heads of the other children, twelve‐year‐old Miller could not sleep, shivering under a thin blanket. An unexpected cold front had come the day before, encasing San Francisco in ice, and the orphanage’s fireplaces could not keep up with the frigid temperatures. Before he ventured from his bed, he listened for the sounds of the other boys sleeping. Norm snored, Wesley murmured pleas to his dead mother, and Timmy made a sound with his lips like he was trying to blow a horn. The other four boys were smaller, and in general, uttered nothing, other than falling out of the narrow beds occasionally and crying until one of the big boys shushed them. One grew tough here. Coddling and sympathy were in short supply. There was no room for softness and sadness. It was only tolerated if it was amid dreams, like poor Wesley.

Miller walked in silent steps to the window, and drew back the curtain. He stood between it and the glass, looking up at the cloudless sky where stars danced in the black night. He wanted to observe them in the silence, to soak them in without distraction because it made him feel as if anything were possible, like there was more to his paltry existence than the chilled room. He gazed for many minutes until he became a star, too. Silver and shining with heat. Last August, the stars shot across the horizon and he caught them in his hands and hung on, streaking across the sky in splendored glory.

Dust tickled his nose and he rubbed it with the back of his hand to keep from sneezing. He shivered as he placed his hand on the glass of the window. A layer of ice had formed on the inside, and it melted under his warm hand. This proved he did exist and was not invisible like he’d been that afternoon. He didn’t care that he wasn’t chosen again. No one would ever come for him. He understood that now. Days of hopeful wishes and prayers were with the stars, out of his reach.

That very afternoon a couple had come at lunch, scanning the children lined up in rows at the tables as they waited for a bowl of lukewarm soup and piece of bread. The couple, wearing tweed coats that almost matched and holding rosary beads, presumably for luck, were looking for a child to take home for Christmas. A gift to themselves, thought Miller, as if the children were toys to be handed about to rich people who had everything already. Their earnest expressions and the way they scanned the children’s faces, like a miracle was about to happen, made him sick. Oh, yes, she’s the one. Thank you, Lord, for our little miracle. A bitter taste filled his mouth, like he’d sucked on a handful of coins. He didn’t try to catch their eyes like he used to. No one wanted a boy his age. There was no point to try to look endearing any longer. He’d predicted they would choose Patsy, the toddler who’d come to the orphanage just the week before, and he’d been right. The woman’s face had lit up like a candle on the Christmas tree the moment she set eyes upon her. “Oh, Frank,” she’d said. “Do you see her curls?” It didn’t take a genius to see that coming. Sweet little Patsy with her chubby fingers and blond ringlets. He didn’t stand a chance.

He’d lived at the orphanage for almost five years, having been dropped there when he was seven years old in an unceremonious delivery by his deceased mother’s only living relative, a cousin with six children of her own and no desire for any further mouths to feed. Before his mother’s death, Miller had lived with her in a dirty, one-room shack at the end of a country road. Memories of the time with his mother came to him in a series of fuzzy images, like overexposed photographs. Uneven floorboards, rough on the bottom of his feet. One window, a crack like a spider’s web and a layer of dirt so thick that day and night were often indiscernible. A table with one chair next to a wood‐burning cooking stove. One time when he was small, he burned his wrist on the stove, reaching for a two‐day old biscuit. Greedy boys get burned. He remembered her voice and the sound of the whiskey bottled as she slammed it on the table. That’ll teach you. It did. After that he knew not to touch, no matter how hungry he was. He slept in the closet. When his mother did her business with the men, he was to stay there with the door closed and be quiet, putting his fingers in his ears to stifle the sound of creaking bedsprings and frightening moans. Sometimes, she disappeared for days and came back only to sleep for hours and hours, murmuring things he couldn’t understand. She did not hug or kiss him like he’d seen mothers do on the few occasions he went into town. Instead, he was smacked or pushed or spanked. He was never sure why.

The memory of smells, more vivid than the images, still lived in his nose. Men’s perspiration, wood smoke, whiskey, and the sour smell of his mother. One day, she didn’t get out of bed. Men came to the door, smelling of booze and cigarettes, but once they came inside, they quickly retreated. The scent of something rotting from the inside out replaced the sour odor of his mother. One day she didn’t wake. He stood over her, unsure what to do. Several flies buzzed around her body, and outside, the shriek of a wild bird pierced the quiet. Her white hand, paper thin, hung from the side of a bed. For five days he remained in the shack alone, surviving on the sack of raw potatoes that had been his companion in the closet. Then, one day, a woman came. She held a paper bag over her nose and offered him her hand. It was the first time he could remember being touched without it being accompanied by a beating.

Now, Miller took his hand from the glass, sticking it between his thighs for warmth. The stars were as close as he’d ever seen them, and a half‐moon hung just above the large oak. Not Santa in his sleigh, as some of the younger boys believed. He’d known for years Santa was not real. Just like God, it was a story to make them succumb to authority. Lies told to them by the nuns to keep them placid, well‐behaved. God and Santa are watching. He knew it was all fiction. He told the others. There is no Santa. They were all too young or too stupid to believe him. It wasn’t his problem if the little idiots chose to believe the lies. What did he care? Still, he wondered where the presents came from every year. Surely the Sisters couldn’t manage to buy all of them.

Miller didn’t believe in the birth, death, or rising of Jesus. However, he knew the nuns who cared for them not only believed the stories of the Bible, but wanted the children to believe as well. So, Miller pretended he did, to keep from being smacked with the ruler over the palm of his hand. Who could believe such nonsense? The other children were ridiculous. Who would give up a life in the world for the thankless work of caring for motherless children simply because of a made‐up story in a book?

The rumble of a car’s engine, and, a few seconds later, the beams of light that appeared between the trees, drew his attention. His stomach flipped over in excitement, despite his disbelief in magical fat men. A visitor of some kind? In the middle of the night? Yes, it was a car coming up the lane, headlights like bouncing balls in the dark. The car, black with wide fenders, stopped in front of the orphanage’s front doors, and the sound of the engine ceased, bringing back the silent night. A man in a black suit and cap slid from the driver’s seat and walked around the car to open the back door. Small feet in patent leather shoes appeared first, reflecting light from the lamppost, attached to thick legs covered in white stockings. Then, the rest of a girl emerged. She wore a fur coat and hat and was short and stout, like the teapot in the song the woman had sung to Patsy earlier. Slightly younger than Miller, if he had his guess, but it was hard for him to judge the age of children who were well fed. They always seemed older than his scrawny companions.

The girl’s hands were stuck inside a matching muff, but she shivered despite all her layers. She shifted weight from foot to foot, waiting for whoever was still in the car, her plump face tilted upward, seemingly examining the outside of the building in great detail. Miller pretended to be a statue, hoping she could not see him. A man in a top hat and dark jacket joined her, putting his hand on the top of her head. She looked up at him and smiled. They said something to each other that Miller could not decipher. The man and the chauffer went to the back of the car and pulled out two large boxes. Miller strained his eyes, trying to make out the contents. Packages with bows? Presents for the children. It was not Santa, but this man and his little girl. He was triumphant. He was right. There was no Santa, unless he traveled in a Rolls‐Royce and wore a top hat.

The two men, each carrying a box, and the little girl stepped out of sight, under the awning over the front door. Miller crept from his hiding place, tiptoeing to the door of the boys’ sleeping quarters. He turned the knob silently, and stepped into the hallway. Holding his breath, he made his way to the top of the stairs and looked down into the foyer. Their chauffeur and the boxes were out of sight, presumably being delivered into the common room and placed under the tree, but the man and little girl huddled with Sister Catherine, talking in hushed voices. Miller made out every word. “Mr. Bennett, I was afraid you wouldn’t make it with all the ice covering the roads. Sister Rosie and I have been beside ourselves with worry.”

“Thanks to Mac, we made it just fine. He’s driven in worse,” said Mr. Bennett, taking off his top hat and holding it in two hands. “We would’ve walked if we had to. I cannot disappoint Mrs. Bennett. She was also beside herself with worry.”

“Bless her,” said Sister Catherine. “And who have we here? Is this Miss Caroline?”

The little girl curtsied. “Yes, ma’am. My mother let me come this year. I had to beg her. Because of the roads, she was worried Mac would crash the car and we’d all be lost forever. Well, that and this year I learned the truth about Santa, so Mother allowed me to help shop for the gifts.” She had a clear, almost musical voice.

Sister Catherine chuckled. “I’m sorry to hear about Santa, but I’m glad you’ve come and that you didn’t crash.”

“Caroline and her mother spent many hours shopping for what they hoped would please the children,” said Mr. Bennett. “They were appreciative of the letters to Santa with their specific requests. I think we managed to find everything.”

Caroline tugged on her father’s sleeve. “No, Father, we didn’t. We couldn’t find mothers and fathers for them. They had that in their letters.” Her voice had the shaky quality that happened when girls were trying not to cry. Girls in the orphanage were crying all the livelong day, so he knew. “I’m so very sorry for them, Sister.”

“Ah, well, God has a plan for them all,” said Sister Catherine. “So don’t you fret.” She turned to look at Mr. Bennett. “Edmund, without your contributions, we would surely have shut down by now. We can’t thank you enough.” She gestured toward the door. “Now, you best be off before it gets any colder.”

They exchanged several other pleasantries, but Miller had stopped listening. I’m so very sorry for them. The fat little brat. How dare she pity them? He filled with anger, the kind that raged like the color red, burning his face as if he stood before a great fire. How easy it must be to have everything in the world, sipping cream from a silver spoon. He hated her. Gripping the spokes of the railing he imagined kicking her face, stomping on her fingers until she cried.

The chauffer had come back to the foyer. Mr. Bennett said they must go now, and Merry Christmas, and God bless, and all the other absurdities people said on this fake day. Sister Catherine followed the men out, but Caroline, falling slightly behind, looked up to where he crouched by the railing. Her eyes widened. She stared at him. He stared back, not daring to move, for fear she would betray him. Then, in a moment of genius, he put his finger to his lips to indicate she must be quiet. She nodded, put her finger to her lips, and slipped out the door. He ran back to the boys’ room on tiptoes, his toes cold and achy, and went to the window. Caroline climbed into the car first, followed by her father. Miller watched their car turn out of the driveway and head down the road until it disappeared from sight.

The next morning, like the other children, he opened his present. It was a telescope, just as he’d asked for. There were also blank notebooks for all of the children. Sister Catherine encouraged them all to keep journals or use it as a place to put their mementos. “If you write down your thoughts and feelings, your life will have clarity and purpose.” He wanted to laugh. What mementos, clarity, or purpose did any of them have exactly? He kept the question to himself. Last time he’d been cheeky, Mother Maria had smacked his knuckles with a ruler until she drew blood.

That night, he sat in bed, running his fingers over the velvet fabric that covered the outside of the journal pages and envisioned the little girl and her father. With a pen he’d found on the floor in Mother Maria’s office and had stashed under his mattress, he wrote on the first page.

December 25, 1921

This is Miller Dreeser. I am here even though no one sees me. Someday I will be visible. I will be like Edmund Bennett and wear fancy clothes and have more than enough to eat.

When he wrote it down, he knew exactly what it was he wanted. Perhaps Mrs. Bennett understood something he hadn’t.

Chapter 3: Caroline

Christmas Eve, her parents surprised Caroline when they said that, yes, she could accompany her father to drop the gifts at the orphanage. The roads, slick with ice from the unexpected freeze, made the journey slower than expected, but Caroline didn’t mind. Sitting next to Father in the backseat of their car, she was a princess dressed in her new dress and stockings, plus the delightful fur coat Mother had let her open early so that she might wear it for their festivities tonight. She wanted to wave to her imaginary subjects like she’d seen photos of real princesses do. She closed her eyes for a moment, imagining that she was adored by the masses. Father wore his top hat and formal evening suit. She wriggled closer to him and lay her cheek against the rough material of his jacket. “Thank you for letting me come, Father,” she said. “I feel so grownup.”

“I’m delighted to have such a worthy traveling companion.” He kissed the top of her head. “But don’t grow up too fast.”

When they arrived, Father said she could come inside with him to meet Sister Catherine. Once she was out of the car, she stood, looking up at the building that loomed large and almost creepy in the dark. She suspected it was cold inside and shivered despite her fur coat. The stars above shone with an intensity she had not seen before, as if the heavens acknowledged the awesomeness of this night before Jesus’s birth. She was about to follow Father inside when a movement in one of the upstairs windows caught her eye.

Was it a boy, standing in the window? She couldn’t be sure, but it appeared to be an outline of a boy. She looked away. It was strange to be watched. Dread washed over her. She shivered. Don’t think of it. Pretend you didn’t see him.

They went inside. Sister Catherine greeted them and they chatted for a few minutes in the foyer, which seemed no warmer than outside. They were about to go when she happened to glance up. A boy crouched low at the top of the stairs, looking down at them. His eyes, the color of coal, stared at her, unblinking. She was about to say something to him when he put his finger to his lips. He didn’t want her to speak and let it be known he was there. Perhaps he would get in trouble for being out of bed. She nodded, to let him know she understood, and followed Father out the door.

After their late‐night delivery, Mac drove them to the Christmas Eve mass at their local parish. Mother arrived before them and had saved them seats near the front. Like Easter, every seat in the church was taken, forcing men to stand in the back of the church in clumps. Women were dressed in their finest: long, flowing dresses slack at the middle and head pieces with plumes in rich colors. The men were in dark suits, holding fedoras in their hands. The air smelled of incense and ladies’ perfume. A silence fell over the parish as the service began, but Caroline didn’t pay close attention. Instead, she prayed for the motherless children with so much silent vigor that she worried it might be apparent to others. When she looked around, though, between the kneeling and the chants and the story of Jesus’s birth, no one seemed to notice her. She was safe and warm, with more gifts waiting under the tree than most children had in a lifetime. Since the Santa letters, her world had opened. There were children without hope, without a family or a home. She could not stop thinking of them and their letters. Haunted by the phrases in the letters, a heaviness had settled onto her shoulders over the last few weeks. And tonight at the orphanage, the boy standing at the top of the stairs had hollow cheeks that matched his empty eyes, like nothing good had ever filled him, neither food nor love.

As Christmas Eve Mass ended, however, she had sudden clarity. Guilt. She was guilty. For whom much is given, much is expected. Mother and Father conducted themselves in a manner worthy of the directive to their daughter. Yet, somehow it didn’t feel like enough. She was a child of privilege. There were others who suffered, while she, Caroline, thrived. She could not understand why. Kneeling in the pew one last time, she vowed to God, “I will do my best to lessen the burden of others, however I can. Please show me the way.”

After Mass ended, she accompanied Mother and Father to their club for a late supper. Garlands hung in the windows. A massive tree near the fireplace, decorated with shiny bulbs and red bows, made the lobby smell of pine. In the dining room, a band played Christmas music. Waiters walking around with trays, gave her parents glasses of champagne, and the three of them were enveloped into a swarm of friends. She held on to her mother’s hand, afraid to be swallowed by the crowd. Ladies’ bare shoulders glistened under the lights, and their perfumes made Caroline’s eyes itch. She stifled a yawn. Her bladder was full. “I have to use the ladies’ room, Mother.”

“All right, darling. Meet us in the dining room,” said Mother, waving to a friend standing across the room.

The ladies’ lounge was quiet compared the bustle of the lobby. An attendant with skin the color of dark tea stood near the sink. Caroline said hello, politely, as Mother had taught her, before finding an open toilet. She closed the door and sat, delighted to empty her bladder. Voices of two women outside the door reached her. Caroline recognized her friend Elizabeth’s mother by her unusual voice. Mrs. Beale had a particularly low timbre for a woman. It could be mistaken for a man’s. When she mentioned this to her mother one time, she had pretended to puff an imaginary cigarette and told Caroline she must never smoke, as it made you sound hoarse and gave you wrinkles. This was one of Mother’s strange notions. No one else seemed to believe this, as most women smoked. Mrs. Beale was almost never without a cigarette dangling from one of those long holders, the ash always about to drop. “Goodness, did you see the size of Caroline Bennett?” asked Mrs. Beale.

“It’s such a shame. Terrible thing to have a beautiful mother and be so homely. And fat! My God, it’s like she ate her twin.” Caroline did not recognize this brittle voice that sounded like squeaking curds. “Do you think she was adopted?”

“I suppose it’s possible. It’s hard to believe she came from Edmund and Sophie,” said Mrs. Beale.

Caroline stood, pulling her stockings up and her dress back into place, shivering. She should have kept her coat and hat on. It was frigid in the club, like it had been in the orphanage. She walked out to the dressing tables where the two women sat, looking at themselves in the mirror. I will stand in front of them. Make them see me. Shame them for their cruelty.

Mrs. Beale’s eyes met Caroline’s and she made a circle with her mouth. She held a lipstick in her hand, but did not use it, like she’d forgotten it was there. “Caroline, what’re you doing here so late? Elizabeth’s home in bed.”

“My mother and father allow me to stay up as late as them on Christmas Eve. It’s important to my mother that I attend Mass.” Caroline’s voice shook and her cheeks were damp. Had she been crying without knowing? She pulled out her handkerchief from the little pocket of her dress and patted under her eyes.

The other woman’s eyes skirted to Mrs. Beale, then back to Caroline. She looked properly ashamed. They knew she’d heard them. Good. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Beale.”

“Merry Christmas, Caroline. Give my best to your mother.”

Caroline washed her hands at the basin. Her fingers were like sausages and her cheeks as round as apples. How had she not noticed before? Her thighs pressed against each other. She pushed into her middle, feeling several rolls there, like jelly. She was fat. The attendant handed her a towel. After she was finished drying, Caroline handed the attendant a coin. Good manners were important, Mother always said, and these poor women work for tips only.

Caroline found her parents near the entrance to the dining room. A pain stabbed her stomach, yet she was ravenous, like she hadn’t eaten in days. “Mother, will they have pudding?” Pudding and cream. Butter spread over rolls. A thick cut of roast beef. Thinking of the meal ahead made her mouth water, but with that feeling came shame. She was a fat girl, like a pig. No one should have to look at her.

“I believe they will,” said Mother. “I’m famished.” She held out her hand. “Come along, darling, let’s eat.”

The next afternoon, she and her mother stood in front of the mirror in her dressing room. They both wore their new Christmas dresses, matching dark blue taffeta. Mother, slim and tall, smiled into the mirror. “I suppose it’s a sin to love these dresses as much as I do.”

Caroline didn’t answer. She stared at herself in the mirror. Mrs. Beale was right. Caroline had been adopted. Perhaps from the orphanage when she was too young to remember? Why else would she look so different from her mother?

“Mother, did you find me at the orphanage when I was a baby?” She met her mother’s gaze in the mirror.

Mother turned away from the mirror to look directly at her. “What would make you think such a thing?”

“Because I’m fat and you’re not.” She pinched the sides of her face. “And I’m homely and you’re beautiful.”

“You’re most certainly not homely or fat.” Mother’s blue eyes, the same color as the sapphire necklace around her slim neck, filled with tears. “I don’t want to ever hear you say that again, do you understand?”

“Other people say it,” said Caroline.

“What other people?”

“Elizabeth’s mother. I was in the powder room at the club last night and she was in there with another lady and she said, ‘It’s such a shame about Sophie’s daughter. She’s such a homely thing.’ And the other lady said, ‘Yes, and fat as a little piggy. It’s hard to believe she came from Edmund and Sophie and maybe she’s adopted.’ Or, something like that, anyway.” Caroline looked at the floor, trying not to cry. “It doesn’t bother me, though, Mother, because I want only to be good and smart. I don’t care that I’m not pretty.”

Mother knelt on the floor, taking Caroline’s hands in her own. “Listen to me, my love. You’re beautiful inside and out. No one, not even awful Anna Beale, can take that from you. She was feeling particularly mean because her husband has made a bad business deal and they’ve lost their fortune. It was probably the last time they’ll ever be at the club. When people are bitter or disappointed, they’re often mean to others.”

“But why?”

“Oh, darling, I don’t know. It’s easy to be kind when your life is filled with security and love, as mine has been. Anna Beale was feeling spiteful because she’s jealous of what we have, and it made her unkind. But you, my sweet girl, despite what those women said, look exactly like me.”

“I do?” Was Mother lying to spare her feelings?

“Yes, look here now.” Mother lifted Caroline’s chin to look into the mirror. “Do you see? Same blue eyes.”

It was true. The color of sapphires, Father always said.

“And do you see our noses? Same little upturn on the end. See there?”

Yes, it was like a button on the end of their noses. On Mother it looked fashionable, like everyone should have one. Mrs. Beale was probably jealous of her mother’s nose. She had a long, pointy one, and skin the texture of tarnished leather despite layers of powder.

“And our hair is the same.” Honey blond with curls, although Mother’s was piled on top of her head in an elaborate arrangement, whereas Caroline’s hung in a bob at her chin. “So is our skin. Your father says we have skin like butterscotch candy.” Mother kissed the top of her head. “Someday you’ll grow taller, like me, and you’ll become slimmer. I was just like you when I was your age.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. And do you think I’m ugly?” asked Mother.

“No. Not one bit.”

“So, there you have it.” Mother stood. “Now, come along. Your father will think we’ve run off to the circus if we don’t go down for dinner.”

She took Caroline’s hand as they entered the dining room. “I have a surprise for you.”

“You do?”

“Julius and his father are going to spend Christmas with us. They’ve come up from the beach.”

Julius and his father, Doctor Nelson, lived at the beach all year around, not just during the summer like the Bennetts. Occasionally, they came up to the city to stay with her family. Like tonight! Her heart leaped with joy when she saw them, all thoughts of Mrs. Beale slipping from her mind. Julius and Doctor Nelson sat at the table with Father, both dressed in suits. How nice Julius looked. He waved and grinned at her from across the room. Julius. Everything was always better when he was there. She glided across the room, newly light. He looked older than when she’d seen him at Thanksgiving with his light blond hair, bleached from the sun, slicked back and smoothed with pomade. Both men and Julius stood as they approached the table. Mother put both hands out to Doctor Nelson. “So lovely to see you.”

Doctor Nelson kissed her hand. “Thank you for having us.”

“You’re looking quite well,” said Mother. It was true. Doctor Nelson looked rested and healthy, less thin than the last time they’d seen him.

After they all sat, she squeezed Julius’s hand under the table. “I’m happy to see you.”

He grinned. “Me too. We’re staying the night and everything. I brought you a present.”

“I have one for you, too.” Mother had found an archery set for him. Ever since they read Robin Hood, they’d both become obsessed with archery. She couldn’t wait to see his face when he opened it. They had played Robin Hood and Maid Marian many times on the beach, with driftwood as the bow and arrow. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“Me either. Father surprised me this morning.”

“Has it been lonesome? Christmas without Father was awful.”

Julius looked down, as if studying his plate with great intent. “Yeah. For my dad mostly.”

Julius’s mother had left them last summer. Caroline learned of it listening at the door of Father’s study. Mother’s voice, sounding strangely shrill, had spoken the unthinkable. “She disappeared into the night. With a man.” Julius’s mother had left her child and her husband? How was this possible?

She and Mother had gone over to see them that afternoon with dinner. Essie had arranged the meal in a basket with a colorful tea towel. Would the beautiful display make someone feel better when their wife or mother had left them? Caroline doubted it.

Doctor Nelson had answered the door, looking just the same as he always did, dressed in a light suit and tie, his hair groomed so that the little ridges from his comb showed. Julius looked different, though. He hadn’t combed his hair, and his face looked pale and pinched under his tan. His eyes were bloodshot. He’d been crying. One other time he’d cried, but that was when he broke his arm. Other than that, he was tough. But this? This was too much.

Julius took her into the kitchen while their parents talked. He pointed to the note, still on the table. “There it is.” His eyes, flat and dull, would not meet her own.

I’m sorry, but I’m slowly dying here in this place. I was not made to be a small‐town doctor’s wife.

Why had they left the note on the table? Caroline would have burned it in the fireplace, along with any photographs of the woman’s selfish face.

“Remember how I always tried to get her to laugh,” he asked. “She never thought I was funny.”

“You are funny.”

“Not funny enough.” He picked up the letter and stuffed it in his pocket. “She’s not coming back. My father thinks so. He hasn’t said it, but I can see by the way he’s acting like everything is normal. But I know she’s not. I saw her leave last night. She assumed I was asleep, but I was awake, reading Robin Hood again, and I heard a car pull into the driveway. I went to the window and I saw a car and this man get out. It was him. She ran to him. She couldn’t get away fast enough.”

How dare she leave Julius. Caroline’s stomach burned. She wanted to smack something or throw an object at the wall. No, she wanted to throw an object at Mrs. Nelson. That was it. She wanted to hurt her like she’d hurt Julius. Mrs. Nelson was cruel and selfish. She tried to imagine her own mother leaving, but it was unfathomable. She would never do it. Mrs. Nelson would be sorry. It was one thing to leave a husband, but how did a mother leave a little boy, especially one like Julius? Caroline understood for the first time the phrase “May she burn in Hell.” The last time Caroline had seen Mrs. Nelson was just last week. It was the middle of the afternoon and she was bent over the sink, inspecting something. She had not looked up when the children came into the room, nor had she responded when Julius said they were going into town and could he get anything for her.

He cried, later, sitting on the beach, and she had wrapped her arm around his waist and let his head rest on her shoulder, his tears mixing with the seawater on her shoulder.

“Let’s throw the letter into the sea,” she said. “We won’t ever think of her again.”

“All right.” They stood together. She took his hand as they walked to the place where the waves crashed onto the shore. Julius retrieved the letter from his pocket and crumpled it into a ball. He threw it hard toward the water. There was no breeze to deter its course as it sailed through the air and fell into a breaking wave. They did not see the paper that broke Julius’s heart again, but they both knew because of the time they had spent in the very same surf that it was pulled under the surface now, tossing this way and that until it would be carried out to sea, ultimately disintegrating into fish food. And yet, it was not enough to wipe away her memory. Caroline saw her in the shadows under Julius’s eyes.

Since that day, Mother had made sure to include him in everything at the house. Doctor Nelson was often away at night doing house calls or delivering babies, so Julius would stay in their guestroom. “You’re family now,” Mother said to Julius one night. “Family isn’t always blood. Sometimes, when you’re lucky, you get to choose who you want for your family.”

Now, the waiter, dressed in a black tuxedo, put a small plate in front of her. A sliver of toast with a dollop of caviar and sour cream on top. “Are you going to eat that?” Julius whispered in her ear.

Caroline giggled. “Mother says it’s a delicacy.”

“How’s Essie?” asked Doctor Nelson.

His question yanked Caroline from her conversation with Julius. Why was he asking about Essie? She darted a look to her mother, who held her small appetizer fork in midair. Caroline squeezed Julius’s hand under the table and pretended to be absorbed in her food. If the adults realized they were listening, they might stop talking.

“She’s fine,” said Mother.

“Why do you ask, old man?” Her father’s voice held a hint of teasing.

“It’s time for me to move on, I suppose,” said Doctor Nelson.

“I see no reason not to,” said Father. “Everything’s been taken care of legally.”

“You’ve been a good friend, Edmund. I thank you for your help.”

“Every man needs a good attorney at least once in his lifetime,” said Father.

“If only it were only once,” said Mother.

“I understand Essie will be at the house on Christmas day,” said Doctor Nelson.

“She’s a live‐in, so yes,” said Mother. “But you knew that.” Her mother’s voice was teasing as well. “I don’t suppose you’re intending to steal my housekeeper?”

“Something like that,” said Doctor Nelson.

Caroline looked over at Julius. His eyes twinkled back at her.

“Essie?” she whispered. “And your father?”

“He hasn’t said a word to me.” He continued to whisper.

“We’ve been corresponding since Thanksgiving,” said Doctor Nelson to Mother. “She’s terribly worried you’ll mind.”

“Doctor Nelson, I’m quite aware of your correspondence. She may be clever, but she’s not able to hide everything from me,” said Mother.

“Do I have your permission?” asked Doctor Nelson.

Caroline looked up at her mother. She smiled, looking extremely satisfied with herself. “As much as I hate to lose her, she does not belong to me.” She stabbed a piece of toast with her fork. “However, she’s like family to us, so you’re forbidden to hurt her.”

“I wouldn’t think of it,” said Doctor Nelson.

“Let’s have a toast,” said Father, picking up his champagne glass. “To new beginnings.”

Caroline and Julius toasted one another with their glasses of milk. “Merry Christmas, Julius.” She smiled at him.

“Merry Christmas, Caroline.”

Chapter 4: Miller

In the days following Christmas, Miller thought of the Bennetts often, and not just when he used his telescope. Despite the pleasure the gadget gave him, it made him hate them more. It was nothing to them, this gift. Yet, to him it was the difference between wanting to live or not, from having something to look forward to or nothing but flat, dry hunger day after day. For this he hated them. To the Bennetts, it was not a dent in their wealth or their existence. They had anything and everything they wanted. This kindness was just a way for them to feel less guilty about it. People didn’t do something for others unless they were getting something for themselves at the same time. He knew this after living in the orphanage for so long. The kids lived by this rule: I’ll give you this, if you give me that.

He made it his mission to learn everything he could about Edmund Bennett. He asked Sister Catherine if he might read her discarded newspaper each day, hoping to find mentions of the Bennetts in the paper. She was delighted, for he had shown little interest in anything academic, and Sister Catherine was a kind soul who loved the children, even when they were too old to be endearing. He understood this, especially in the stark contrast to some of the others, who smacked the children’s hands with rulers for the smallest offense. Sister Catherine was the first to teach him that kindness was a weakness one could easily exploit.

The first article he saw in the paper was about Edmund Bennett opening a center for veterans of the Great War where they could visit with one another, play games, and have refreshments. Miller cut it out and pasted it in his journal. In the weeks and months to come, he continued to cut and paste several more articles. It seemed the family was always doing some good deed. He cut around the edges of the photograph carefully to make sure he captured the entire article and photograph.

That March, he saw the Bennetts again. The Sisters had taken the children out for the day, a rare treat, to have a picnic at a park, even though the weather was chilly. Miller had found a long stick and declared it a gun. Timmy found another stick, shorter and less satisfying, and they played cowboys and Indians, running and shouting, until they came upon a vendor selling peanuts and popcorn to a well‐dressed family of three. Miller stopped, his stick midair, surprised. It was the Bennett family. They stood before the cart, steam rising above their heads. Caroline was dressed in a brown coat and hat, as the sky was dark and moody, threatening a downpour. Miller shivered in his jacket with the holes in the elbows, the cold catching up to him now that he stood motionless. An insect of some kind had caught Timmy’s attention, leaving Miller alone to watch them.

The Bennetts—Edmund, Sophie, and little Caroline—out for a stroll in the park. He saw it like a headline in the newspaper, like so many he’d seen in the society section of the newspaper in recent months.

Mrs. Bennett was slender, only reaching Mr. Bennett’s shoulder in height. He could not see her face because she wore an enormous hat. Caroline pointed to a bag of peanuts right in the middle of the cart. “I want that one, please, Daddy.”

Edmund, a large man, might have been intimidating, but he was not. At least, not at this moment when he was looking down into the eyes of his ten‐year‐old daughter. “If that’s the one you want, you shall have it.” He turned to his wife. “And you, my dear? What will you have?”

His wife murmured something that made him laugh. He paid for the purchase and offered each of them his arm, and the three walked away together. They did not notice him. He was invisible.

I want that. I want what he has. I want to be him. That night he wrote in his journal. 

March 28, 1922

I saw them in the park. Caroline wanted peanuts, so she got them. I want peanuts and all the rest of it, too. So, I will marry Caroline someday. I will become like Edmund Bennett. No one can stop me.

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When Cullen's Celtic Cabaret rolls into a sleepy Irish seaside town, their eccentric and theatrical presence stirs up a flurry of excitement-the public clamouring to buy tickets for the greatest show in Ireland.

Set against the backdrop of a relentless war for Ireland's freedom, the stakes are higher than ever for Peter Cullen and his troupe as they try to stay out of the conflict. But as they soon discover, that's a luxury nobody can afford. As well as fighting the forces of occupation, some people are using this time of chaos to settle old scores, and it seems the cabaret has gathered some sinister enemies. With danger lurking around every corner, Peter must fight to protect all he's worked so hard to build.

Rivers of Wrath is the third book in the Cullen's Celtic Cabaret Series.

“Jan Moran is the new queen of the epic romance.” —USA Today bestselling author Rebecca Forster

A young widow. A husband she thought she knew. On the picturesque Italian coast of Amalfi lies a chocolatier's destiny...

San Francisco, 1953: Heartbroken over the mysterious death of her husband, Celina Savoia, a second-generation chocolatière, resolves to take their young son to Italy's shimmering Amalfi coast to introduce him to his father's family. Just as she embarks on a magical, romantic life of making chocolate by the sea surrounded by a loving family, she begins to suspect that her husband had a dark secret—forged in the final days of WWII—that could destroy the relationships she's come to cherish.

While a second chance at love is tempting, the mystery of her husband's true identity thwarts her efforts. Challenged to pursue the truth or lose the life she's come to love, Celina and her late husband's brother, Lauro, must trace the past to a remote, Peruvian cocoa region to face the deceit that threatens to shatter their lives—or lose the life and those she has come to love.

More Reviews:

“A solid pick for fans of historical romances combined with a heartbreaking mystery.” —Library Journal

“A novel that gives fans of romantic sagas a compelling voice to follow.” —Booklist

Author Bio:

Jan Moran is a USA Today bestselling author of women's fiction. She writes stylish, uplifting, and emotionally rich contemporary and 20th-century historical fiction. Midwest Book Review and Kirkus have recommended her books, calling her heroines strong, complex, and resourceful. Her books are also translated into German, Italian, Russian, Portuguese, Dutch, Polish, Turkish, Bulgarian, Lithuanian, and other languages. Jan studied writing at the UCLA Writers Program, sailed on Semester at Sea, and graduated from the University of Texas and Harvard Business School. She lives near the beach in southern California.

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After years of trying to break into New York City's literary scene, Madeline Slaughter is emotionally and physically exhausted. When a friend offers her a safe haven as the live-in companion to reclusive, bestselling novelist Victor Hallowell she jumps at the chance to escape the city. Madeline expects to find rest and quiet in the forests of Upstate New York. Instead, she finds Victor, handsome and intensely passionate, and Audrey Coffin, Victor's mysterious and beautiful neighbor. When Victor offers her a kiss and the promise of more Madeline allows herself to become entangled even as Audrey is also claiming her heart. The only problem is that Audrey and Victor are ex-lovers with plenty of baggage between them. As Madeline finds herself opening up and falling in love with both she starts to wonder, can there be a future for all three?

The discovery of long-lost mail delivers a marriage proposal, a missing person, and a magical mystery.

A road trip with Gabe and her friends leads Sylvia to discover more about her mother's veiled past yet throws up several questions, too. The stack of unopened letters addressed to her family will hopefully provide answers. As she delves into the contents, a startling revelation emerges: the letters allude to a clandestine union between two magician families, hinting at the elusive identity of Sylvia’s father.

Full of hope, she embarks on a quest to find the author of the letters, only to discover an artless youth who vanished decades ago, a dead man with the wrong name, and a hospital for former soldiers that connects them. The further Sylvia and Gabe delve into these mysteries, the more lies they expose, including long-buried secrets that certain individuals will stop at nothing to protect.

When danger strikes, Sylvia wonders if finding answers is worth the risk.

**Winner - Canada Book Awards**

**Independent Press Award 2020 Distinguished Favorite - Historical Fiction Series**

**Next Generation Indie Book Award 2020 Finalist - Fiction Series**

**Readers' Favorite 2020 Bronze Medal Winner - Fiction-General and 5-Star Review**

A story of war, prejudice, migration, crime, love, and heartbreak. The Prophecy saga is a fast-moving, intriguing historical tale, spanning more than 70 years.

On a blustery January day in 1952, Mina Kota gives birth to her daughter, Miriam. Mina and her mother, Punita, endeavour to protect Miriam from their business associates and raise her in a loving home in post-war Amsterdam. As she grows to adulthood, Miriam struggles with her identity. She demands that Punita teach her how to read tarot cards and seeks to fulfill their predictions, while pursuing the one thing from which her elders sought to shield her innocence: sexual desire.

Hart Lange is born at the end of 1949 into a family of soldiers whose wartime experiences drove their need to survive, sometimes against treacherous odds. They are a family bound together by a web of enduring love.

When Miriam meets Hart, she sees an opportunity to change her life and achieve her dreams. When Hart shares his longing for a child, she sets out to oblige him, thereby securing her future-or so she thinks.

Hart loves his wife and son, and believes his family is a happy one. However, his love blinds him to Miriam's willfulness. Too late, he realizes that he's failed to heed his mother-in-law's warning. When Miriam disappears, taking their son Matthew with her, Hart is devastated. Although Hart's search for his son is relentless, he fears that he will never see Matthew again.

Together, The Crest, The Emerald and The Destiny tell of the challenges and changes that external forces place on everyday people, who must rise above their own expectations to meet family obligations and responsibilities-no matter how reluctant they may be to do so. They provide the reader with an opportunity to consider life from an alternate perspective.

About the Author
Tobiasen, Jerena: - "Award winning author, Jerena Tobiasen retired from a legal career in 2015. Since then, she has published three historical novels - The Crest, The Emerald and The Destiny - collectively The Prophecy saga. Jerena enhances her writing by travelling to foreign lands, visiting museums and libraries, conducting interviews, and travelling in the footsteps of her characters. Her experiences and discoveries enrich the authenticity of her stories. In 2019, Jerena travelled extensively through southern Europe, northern Africa, the Arctic and the Middle East collecting data for new stories. Many of Jerena's short stories and poems have been published in the Royal City Literary Arts Society e-magazine 'Wordplay at Work', as well as on her website jtobiasen.ca. Jerena is a member of The Writers' Union of Canada, the Canadian Authors Association, the Federation of BC Writers and the Royal City Literary Arts Society."

From a USA Today bestselling author, comes a story about three women, one small-town rumor, and a gardening project that's not for the faint of heart.

Lillian Gulch's husband died, and she's ready to be something more than a small-town widow. So, she turns to the only friends she knows: a gardening club she joined years before. The only problem? They think she had something to do with her husband's death.

Betsy Borden is a forty-something who happens to be Gull's Landing's most prolific, single socialite. But if she can't find a way to make friendships (much less relationships) that last, then she's destined to be nothing more than a gossipy spinster forever.

Emily Addams is twenty years old and twice divorced. Now, she is truly ready to start fresh, and the idyllic boardwalk town of Gull's Landing seems perfect. Until she learns that the grass is never greener. Even if the only job available is secretary at Second Street Mortuary.

Female friendships, romance, and mystery-The Garden Guild is a standalone women's fiction that has it all. This heartwarming, quirky story follows three very different women with one common goal: to survive the rumor mill. The only way they can do it? If they stick together.

Each book in Gull's Landing is a standalone women's fiction. These novels are not written sequentially and can be read and enjoyed in any order.

The Summer Society

The Garden Guild

The Country Club

The opportunity of a lifetime lands in Peter Cullen's lap and nothing is going to stop him taking full advantage, not even the misgivings of his wife. Cullen's Celtic Cabaret has been flying high, but the real goal, the secret desire of Peter's heart, America, is finally, incredibly, looking like a reality.

The troupe are not at all prepared for what awaits them in prohibition era Atlantic City and they are dazzled by the bright lights. Keeping discipline and ensuring everyone remains focused drives Peter to the edge of his patience, but he soon realises that this is the least of his problems, as the gloss and sheen of the New Jersey shore reveals a dark side, and somehow his cabaret has fallen foul of it.

What begins as a summer of fun, looks to be taking a sinister turn, and Peter is in way over his head. He can possibly survive, all he needs now is the luck of the Irish.

If you enjoyed The Great Gatsby or Boardwalk Empire, you'll love The Gem of Ireland's Crown, the latest instalment of Cullen's Celtic Cabaret.

A country fighting to stay free.
A woman with an impossible decision.

In November of 1939, Sini Toivola is sure of two things: she loves Marko Linna, and she has a comfortable life in Helsinki. But when the massive Soviet army invades her beloved homeland and Marko spurns her affections, her life is turned upside down. Needing a fresh start, Sini decides to join the female volunteer corps-the Lotta Sv rd-and is sent to serve near the front lines. Service at a field hospital proves a good distraction-until Sini discovers a Russian soldier lost behind their camp.

Duty requires her to turn him in, but her heart begs to keep him safe and help him escape. Torn between love for her country and love for her enemy, Sini must choose-but no matter what choice she makes, heart-wrenching consequences await them all.

About the Author
Lyon, Annette: - Annette Lyon is a USA Today bestselling author, an 8-time Best of State medalist for fiction in Utah, and a Whitney Award winner. She's had success as a professional editor and in newspaper, magazine, and technical writing, but her first love has always been fiction. She's a cum laude graduate from BYU with a degree in English and is the author of over a dozen books, including the Whitney Award-winning Band of Sisters, a chocolate cookbook, and a grammar guide. She co-founded and was served as the original editor of the Timeless Romance Anthology series and continues to be a regular contributor to the collections. She has received six publication awards from the League of Utah Writers, including the Silver Quill, and she's one of the four coauthors of the Newport Ladies Book Club series.

“…a women’s fiction novel of epic proportions…undoubtedly one of the best novels I have read this year.” —Heather Osborne for Readers' Favorite

As a girl on the brink of womanhood in 1960s India, Shanti Bamzai has big dreams. Rather than enter into an arranged marriage like her sister, Shanti embarks on a journey into the unknown, leaving her family home behind for an education and a chance to chart her own destiny. While India experiences an upheaval of cultural and societal changes as old-world traditions collide with the modern global era, Shanti navigates college, a marriage of her own choosing, and motherhood, fighting a constant battle between the pressures of traditional expectations and her own burning desire to be an artist and an independent woman. A move to America presents exciting new opportunities, but Shanti is disappointed to find herself still hemmed in by the restrictions of her Indian upbringing. As her children become adults and her marriage becomes a shell of what it once was, Shanti must find the courage to step out of her husband's shadow and into the life she's always dreamed of.

More Reviews & Awards:

2017 Indie Excellence Books Award Multicultural Finalist

2017 Winner Next Generation Indie Book Award Multicultural Finalist

2017 Readers’ Favorite Award, 5 Stars

"The novel is rich in content and the writing is exceptional…An excellent book, providing a rich and authentic look into Indian society and culture., and I highly recommend it." —Gisela Dixon for Readers' Favorite

“In her debut novel, The Immigrant Wife, Madhu B. Wangu brings to life a mysterious time and place. Wangu creates rich, dynamic images of India, comparable to her watercolors, evoking every sense. The indigenous sights, sounds, and smells are so vivid that I swear I could find my way to Shanti’s home. Wangu’s style is gentle and quiet like the protagonist, and deeply powerful. This tale of love and nurturing, loss and growth, and transformation will stay with readers long after they finish the novel.” —Kathleen Shoop, award-winning author of The Last Letter and After the Fog

 “This book is an experience worth treasuring. Readers who are fascinated by Indian culture, or who wish to challenge the biased traditions of a society, would enjoy Madhu’s work.” —Ankita Shukla for Readers’ Favorite

Author Bio:
Founder of the Mindful Writes Groups and Retreats, Madhu Bazaz Wangu is an author and meditation instructor. Her CDs, Meditations for Mindful Writers I & II guide and inspire writers of all levels to tap  into their creative flow and delve deeper into their writing. Her essays on Hindu and Buddhist art have appeared in anthologies in India and the United States.

"You must come at once if you want to stop the suttee from happening again..." This phone message summons Kumud Kuthiyala back to Neela Nagar, the blue town of her youth, and the shackled life she thought she had left behind forever... As a nine-year-old, Kumud witnessed the brutal and horrifying suttee ritual when her beloved aunt immolated herself on the burning pyre of her dead husband. Years later, Kumud summoned the courage to escape the isolated and primitive town of her youth to start a new life in Ambayu, a metropolitan city. She began as office help at Save Girls Soul Orphanage Center and progressed to become its director. At SGSO Center, she becomes a warrior for women's education and equal rights. She teaches young women to protect themselves from outmoded practices and rituals that victimize women. Then a phone call informs Kumud that the suttee of a sixteen-year-old is inevitable. She has vowed that she will never let it happen again. Still haunted by her aunt's suttee, she leaves everything behind, including her love, Shekhar Roy, to end the barbaric custom that scarred her for life, and to save the young bride from committing suttee. As Kumud travels back to the town of her youth, long-buried memories resurface and force her to remember the life from which she fled. The town that greets her is full of contradictions. It has electricity and clean water, and a new school is open to low castes, yet superstition and prejudice abound. How can she convince the town that their centuries-old tradition is cruel and barbaric, that a widowed young woman deserves the right to live? Can she change the minds of the townspeople and the Five Elders before it's too late?

Evie Fraser, paid companion to a crotchety spinster, seems destined for a lonely life. Then out of the blue, a marriage proposal arrives by post. She met the handsome Douglas Barrington just once - at his wedding - but never forgot him. Now widowed, plantation-owner Douglas offers her a new life on the lush, exotic island of Penang. How can Evie resist?

But what are Barrington's motives in marrying Evie when he barely knows her, and why is he so hostile and moody?

Evie soon finds herself pitched against Douglas on the one hand and the shallow, often spiteful world of the expatriate British on the other. Has she made the biggest mistake of her life?

Flynn's tenth novel explores love, marriage, the impact of war and the challenges of displacement - this time in a tropical paradise as the threat of the Japanese empire looms closer.

About the Author
Flynn, Clare: - Clare Flynn is the British author of ten historical novels and a short story collection.

“Readers will devour this page-turner as the passions spin out.”  —Library Journal

A young French perfumer. A world at war. A personal vengeance that could destroy a family.

Europe, 1939: At the dawn of World War II, French perfumer Danielle Bretancourt and her German husband strive to ensure their family's safety, yet neither can foresee the ultimate cost. From London to Paris, Danielle struggles to find her missing child and aid the French Resistance, even as she grieves her losses.

As the war intensifies, Danielle is forced to seek refuge in America to save the lives of her remaining family. She draws on her skills as a talented perfumer to lift her family out of crushing poverty. Yet even as she forges a new life among the Hollywood elite, she cannot forget her child nor the man who risked everything for her. Even an ocean away, she discovers that safety remains an illusion. Set between privileged lifestyles and gritty realities, The Perfumer: Scent of Triumph is one woman's story of courage, spirit, and resilience.

More Reviews:

“A sweeping tale that transports readers from the lavender-scented fields of Provence to the pulsing boulevards of Paris…. Heartbreaking, evocative, and inspiring...a powerful journey.” —Allison Pataki, New York Times bestselling author of The Accidental Empress

”A novel that gives fans of romantic sagas a compelling voice to follow.” —Booklist

“A stylish, compelling story of a family. What sets this apart is the backdrop of perfumery that suffuses the story with the delicious aroma—a remarkable feat!” —Liz Trenow, New York Times bestselling author of The Forgotten

”A gripping World War II story of poignant love and devastating, heart-wrenching loss.” —Gill Paul, USA Today and Toronto Globe & Mail bestselling author of The Secret Wife

“A sweeping saga of one woman's journey through World War II and her unwillingness to give up even when faced with the toughest challenges.” —Anita Abriel, Author of The Light After the War

”Hard to put down...captivating. A must-read.” —Marvel Fields, Chairman, American Society of Perfumers

Author Bio:

Jan Moran is a USA Today bestselling author of women's fiction. She writes stylish, uplifting, and emotionally rich contemporary and 20th-century historical fiction. Midwest Book Review and Kirkus have recommended her books, calling her heroines strong, complex, and resourceful. Her books are also translated into German, Italian, Russian, Portuguese, Dutch, Polish, Turkish, Bulgarian, Lithuanian, and other languages. Jan studied writing at the UCLA Writers Program, sailed on Semester at Sea, and graduated from the University of Texas and Harvard Business School. She lives near the beach in southern California.

Shop the Heartwarming Family Sagas Standalone Fiction series