“B.J. Herron is a deft storyteller who perfectly captures the feelings of dread that a person can experience in an environment filled with painful memories. Constantly able to make familiar and normal surroundings feel oppressive through association, Herron’s prose is consistently high quality, and the author's understanding of trauma is evident throughout the work. Losing Love is an incredible journey and a very worthwhile character study of a trauma survivor.” —K.C. Finn for Readers Favorite (5 Stars)

There is more than one way to lose love…

Still struggling from a broken past, lawyer Faith Shields is stronger and braver than the girl who left home 15 years ago. After years of therapy, Faith recognizes that change is hard and must be embraced in order to grow. But when her beloved grandmother, the woman who supported and encouraged her in life, suffers a tragedy, she is thrust back into the environment that left her scarred and bleeding. Facing the demanding family that damaged her, Faith must find the courage to confront the demons of her past once and for all. Along with her husband Nicholi Shields, a neurosurgeon who’s dedicated to saving lives and his wife, she returns to her hometown on the South Side of Chicago, where murky waters of family and pain await and where she learns at last what it means to grow, what it takes to heal, and, most importantly, what it means to love.

More Reviews:

"Full of feelings of passion and emotion, Losing Love may teach us to understand the importance of both love and loyalty and the difference between them. A beautifully written story...will have readers cheering until the end." —Seattle Book Review

"Losing Love by B.J. Herron is well worth reading from cover to cover for it explains and shows so much of a world that some of us have never imagined, and how this affects families, and how they progress in life... B.J. Herron writes with sensitivity so that you feel as if you are in the story." —Bernadette Longu for Reader's Favorite (5 Stars)

Author Bio:
B.J. Herron was born in Chicago and raised in the South Suburban area outside of the city. Growing up, she was fascinated with words and storytelling, and the meaning behind them. This interest led to some early exposure to reading since she was drawn to poetry and stories about people who looked like her. Later, B.J. received her BS in Mass Communications from Tennessee State University and her MFA in Creative Writing from Full Sail University. She also worked for eleven years as a writer and editor for a myriad of publications, including the Chicago Defender. She now lives in Nashville, Tenn. Losing Love is her first novel.

“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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What if Mr. Bennet died in a duel with Wickham after Lydia eloped, just as Mrs. Bennet feared? Would Elizabeth and Darcy still find their happily-ever-after if the Bennet women lost their reputation and their home? If you like Austenesque retellings, such as Death Comes to Pemberley and Unleashing Mr. Darcy, then Reputation, An Easy Thing to Lose will be your cup of tea.

Nearly four months ago, Elizabeth Bennet hotly rejected Fitzwilliam Darcy’s marriage proposal. Now she wonders if that was the biggest mistake of her life. Orphaned and living with her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner in London, Elizabeth is determined to take a position as a governess or companion; Darcy could never renew his attentions to her after her family’s disgrace. Which is a shame because she just may be in love with him.

Fitzwilliam Darcy would do anything for Elizabeth. As soon as he learned of Lydia Bennet’s elopement, he rushed to London to try to put everything to rights. But his journey was fruitless: Mr. Bennet died of his wounds before Darcy could bring a doctor. Now, he must convince Elizabeth to forgive and marry him before she is beyond his reach forever.

When an illegitimate child makes Lydia’s shame complete, Elizabeth and Darcy are left to try to salvage what is left of their reputations and relationship. Follow our favourite Austen lovers through sacrifice, misunderstandings, disrespect, a secret marriage, and a whole lot of shenanigans from the marriage minded ladies of London.

Author Bio:

E.M. Storm-Smith is a mother, wife, attorney, former engineer, and literature lover. A lifelong obsession for books drove her to create stories of her own. Several years into the journey of writing about characters she loved, E.M. decided to take her passions to the world and see what happened. When she’s not writing, E.M. is spending her time reading others’ books – preferably somewhere with lots of sunshine, traveling, and cooking things with chocolate as a primary ingredient. In her day job, EM works with nonprofit organizations to increase their reach, meet their financial goals, invest in impact sectors, and secure their future mission.

“Smart and funny, After Happily Ever After is an exciting debut.” —Laura Dave, international best-selling author of The Last Thing He Told Me

Maggie Dolin is forty-five and isn't dealing with getting older very well. Seventeen years ago, she gave up her job in publishing to raise her daughter, Gia—but now her only child is about to leave for college, and Maggie isn't sure what her new purpose will be. She's been the caretaker and nurturer for so long that she can't even remember the last time someone took care of her. She wishes Jim, her husband of nineteen years, would take that role on—but he's been distracted and disconnected, and she's convinced he's hiding something from her. Her self-involved, judgmental mother and resentful brother, meanwhile, are certainly no help, and her father—the only person in her life who's always been there for her and asked nothing in return—is dealing with increasingly serious health issues, leaving Maggie without her rock.

As all these stressors pile on, a chance meeting with a younger man causes Maggie to act in a way that is completely out of character for her. As she gets deeper in, she's forced to make some big decisions about what she wants and deserves—decisions that could change her life forever.

After Happily Ever After deals with love, marriage, family, the empty nest, aging parents and what happens when they all come crashing down at the same time.

Awards:

2022 Eric Hoffer Book Awards Honorable Mention in Commercial Fiction
2022 Independent Press Awards Distinguished Favorite in Contemporary Novel
2022 Reader Views Literary Awards Silver Winner in General Fiction/Novel
2022 Reader Views Literary Awards Silver Award Winner in General Fiction/Novel
2022 Independent Press Awards Distinguished Favorite in Contemporary Novel
One of Popsugar's Best Books of 2021
2021 Top Shelf Awards Runner Up in Fiction (Women’s)
2021 Literary Titan Book Awards Silver Winner
2021 Firebird Award Winner in multiple categories, including Contemporary Novel and Marriage
2021 Book Excellence Awards Finalist in Marriage
2021 International Book Awards Finalist in Fiction: Women's Fiction
2021 Readers' Favorite Book Awards Finalist in Fiction: Realistic
2021 Hollywood Book Awards Honorable Mention in General Fiction
2021 NYC Big Book Awards Winner in Marriage
2021 NYC Big Book Awards Distinguished Favorite in New Fiction (First-time published)
2021 IAN Book of the Year Awards Finalist in Fiction: Women’s Fiction

More Reviews:

"A soon-to-be empty nester learning to love herself one blunder at a time. After Happily Ever After is delightful..." —Foreword Reviews

“Rasmussen is a freelance journalist and former TV sitcom writer and the latter is evident in the novel’s sharp, funny dialogue and Maggie’s wry, observational narration.” —Kirkus Reviews

“Leslie A. Rasmussen has written a fiction story that most women can relate to in one way or another with compassion and love. After Happily Ever After is a wonderful read that will not disappoint. I highly recommend After Happily Ever After to women both young and old.” —Readers' Favorite

“Leslie A. Rasmussen’s After Happily Ever After gives voice to many women in the ‘sandwich generation’—and the voice is a funny one.” —Leslie Lehr, prize-winning author of A Boob’s Life and What a Mother Knows

“With warm tenderness, peppered with humor throughout, Leslie A. Rasmussen has written a novel of fresh, relatable characters, easy to root for and easy to know. Anyone juggling the lives of loved ones while navigating their own will recognize the protagonist as she struggles to find the missing parts of a so-called life that turns out to be…herself.” —Sande Boritz Berger, author of Split Level and The Sweetness

“After Happily Ever After is a road map for every empty nester whose marriage has lost its spark. You can’t help but see yourself on these pages.” —Adrienne Barbeau, actress and author of There are Worse Things I Could Do and the Vampyres of Hollywood series

“This book takes a very real look at the complex lives of forty-something women who are torn between their duties to all family members while still trying to fulfill their own desires. The characters ring true, and although there are heavy themes, the book manages to be very funny at times and also a fast, easy, read. Many women will see a lot of themselves in Maggie and will enjoy seeing how her circumstances and decisions will play out.” —Seattle Book Review

“Written with honesty and humor and grit, Leslie A. Rasmussen’s wonderful debut novel is filled with poignant and truth and so much clever. Yes, you will cry, and yes, you will laugh out loud and…fall in love with this book.” —Amy Ferris, best-selling author, screenwriter, and playwright 

“Author Leslie A. Rasmussen peppers the story with humor and sarcasm, making Maggie, the protagonist, likeable and easy to identify with. Her breezy writing style is entertaining, but there’s real meaning beneath her attitude. If you like women’s fiction, After Happily Ever After is worth your time.” —Story Circle Book Reviews 

Author Bio:

Leslie A. Rasmussen was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. She graduated with a bachelor's in communications from UCLA and went on to write television comedies for Gerald McRaney, Burt Reynolds, Roseanne Barr, Norm McDonald, Drew Carey, and Ralph Macchio, as well as The Wild Thornberrys and Sweet Valley High. Later, she earned a master's degree in nutrition and ran her own business for ten years. Most recently, Leslie has written personal essays for online magazines such as Huffington Post, Maria Shriver, and SheKnows. She loves dogs and besides having two adorable Labradors, she volunteers at the Burbank Animal Shelter in Burbank, California. Leslie lives in Los Angeles and has two sons, and a husband she's been with since college. This is her debut novel. She lives in Los Angeles.

 

Independently published with She Writes Press

“Riveting and consuming—I loved it and anxiously look forward to the next book in the series!” —Goodreads

After her third broken engagement, Gianna Campbell comes home to help with the family business and to heal her heart, only to realize that she has become the town joke—dubbed the runaway fiancé. If that wasn't bad enough, who should show up in town but her former crush Zach Barrington, a man who has other reasons to hate her.

Zach returns to Whisper Lake not only for a job opportunity but also for a chance at personal redemption. The last person he wants to see is Gianna, who once got him kicked out of the only place that made him feel whole. But when an accident sends her into the lake, their first face-to-face meeting in years leaves them both breathless.

And suddenly the past feels a lot closer...

Zach and Gianna back away as fast as they come together, both wary of more danger to their damaged hearts. But their search for a truth leads them to surprising secrets, life-changing revelations, heartbreaking emotion, and the chance for a love more powerful than they ever imagined. Can they trust each other the second time around?

 

Author Bio:

Barbara Freethy is a #1 New York Times bestselling author of 41 novels ranging from contemporary romance to romantic suspense and women's fiction. Traditionally published for many years, Barbara opened her own publishing company in 2011 and has since sold over 4.8 million copies of her books. Nineteen of her titles have appeared on the New York Times and USA Today Bestseller Lists. In July of 2014, Barbara was named the Amazon KDP bestselling author of ALL TIME! She was also the first indie author to sell over 1 million copies at both Barnes and Noble and Amazon. An author known for writing emotional stories about ordinary people caught up in extraordinary situations, Barbara has received starred reviews from Publishers' Weekly and Library Journal and has also received six nominations for the RITA for Best Single Title Contemporary Romance from Romance Writers of America. She has won the honor twice for her novels Daniel's Gift and The Way Back Home. 

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A beastly fae king with a deadly curse.

A devious bargain to break it...

All Gemma Bellefleur wants is to leave her past behind and forget the day scandal broke her heart. But when she's captured by a trickster fae king who threatens to hold her for ransom, she'll find herself at the top of the gossip column yet again.

Unless...

Plagued by a curse that will soon claim his life, the human-hating King Elliot will do anything to save himself. And if Gemma can use that to her advantage, she might be able to bargain her way to freedom. All she has to do is help him break his curse.

There's just one hitch-to do so, they'll have to trick someone into falling in love with the beastly, brooding Elliot.

With a devious alliance made, their scheme begins, bringing Gemma and Elliot into very close quarters. Soon, an unexpected desire stirs where once there was only hate. But Gemma must fight it. For when the curse is broken, Elliot will return to his true form-a wolf-and be lost to her for good.

Can Gemma sacrifice her budding feelings to save the king's life? Or will love force her to give up something even greater...her heart?

ACOTAR meets Bridgerton in this standalone fairytale retelling of Beauty and the Beast. If you like slow burn romance, wolf shifters, and brooding fae royals, then you'll love this swoon-worthy story in the Entangled with Fae series.

*NOTE this book is upper YA/NA featuring mature situations and some adult language. The romance is slow burn but leads to moderate steam.

Curse of the Wolf King is a complete stand-alone novel set in the same world as The Fair Isle Trilogy. Journey back to Faerwyvae or begin your adventure for the first time with this enchanting tale. Each book in the Entangled with Fae series can be read on its own and in any order. Happily ever after guaranteed!

A playboy prince in want of a decoy bride.

A servant girl desperate for a disguise...

Raven shifter Prince Franco is every social climbing debutante's dream. He's handsome, heir to the Lunar Court throne, and deliciously single. Every young woman wants to bed him, wed him, or steal a moment of his time. Except, of course, for Ember Montgomery.

Half-fae Ember craves freedom from her conniving stepfamily. As if they weren't enough to deal with, a chance encounter with the arrogant Prince Franco leaves her humiliated and in a fiery rage. Nothing could convince her the prince is anything but a rake. But when the opportunity to evade her scheming stepmother falls into her lap, she'll pay the price-even if it means impersonating the prince's newest flame...

To prove himself a worthy heir, Prince Franco must marry a princess. But after far too many unsatisfying trysts, he's given up on love. With the social season in full swing, and bringing with it a horde of husband-hungry socialites, he'll do anything to delay the pressures of both marriage and the crown. And what better solution than an alliance with a desperate servant girl glamoured as his false future bride?

Locked in a bargain, Ember must pose as a princess until midnight at the full moon ball. Until then, all she has to do is wear the glamour, pretend to court the prince, and above all else, not fall in love. But when feelings emerge on both sides, she starts to wonder if there's more to their contrived courtship than either of them planned...

Can Ember and Franco find love when the masks come off? Or will illusions and lies prove stronger than their hearts?

ACOTAR meets Bridgerton in this standalone fairytale retelling of Cinderella. If you like slow burn romance, fake engagements, and snarky fae royals, then you'll love this swoon-worthy story in the Entangled with Fae series.

*NOTE this book is upper YA/NA featuring mature situations and some adult language. The romance is slow burn but leads to moderate steam.

Heart of the Raven Prince is a complete stand-alone novel set in the same world as The Fair Isle Trilogy. Journey back to Faerwyvae or begin your adventure for the first time with this enchanting tale. Each book in the Entangled with Fae series can be read on its own and in any order. Happily ever after guaranteed!

A handsome fugitive seeking a marriage of convenience.

A selkie with a lethal kiss sent to seal his fate...

To evade a vicious sea queen's clutches, selkie Maisie hides on land surviving as a thief. But when she rescues a human from drowning and illegally brings him to shore, she must answer for breaking fae law. As punishment, she'll have to hunt down the man she saved...and kiss him. But with a kiss that can kill, Maisie's mission means more than seduction. It means murder.

Son of a notorious fae-killer, Dorian was never meant to survive the shipwreck that was orchestrated to assassinate him. Now that he's on the forbidden fae isle, he'll do anything to gain citizenship-even marry a fae bride. Desperate for a hasty marriage, he holds a bridal competition in the isle's most theatrical city, where displays of frivolity aren't just encouraged-they're expected. And if Maisie can act like a proper debutante and join the pageantry, she'll get near enough to deliver her fatal kiss.

But getting close to her target brings complications she didn't expect. As she pretends to compete for Dorian's heart, it starts to feel less like an act...and more like falling in love.

If Maisie doesn't deliver her kiss by sunrise on the last day of the competition, she forfeits her life. But if she succeeds, Dorian dies. When the pageant ends, will there be a true victor? Or only death and broken hearts?

ACOTAR meets Bridgerton and The Selection in this standalone fairytale retelling of The Little Mermaid. If you like enemies-to-lovers romance, bridal contests, and snarky fae royals, then you'll love this swoon-worthy story in the Entangled with Fae series.

*NOTE this book is upper YA/NA featuring mature situations and some adult language. The romance is slow burn but leads to moderate steam.

Kiss of the Selkie is a complete stand-alone novel set in the same world as The Fair Isle Trilogy. Journey back to Faerwyvae or begin your adventure for the first time with this enchanting tale. Each book in the Entangled with Fae series can be read on its own and in any order. Happily ever after guaranteed!

Is the heart smarter than the head? Artist Miranda Jones begins to trust her heart enough to escape from her life of privilege and start over in Milford-Haven, the small town of undiscovered beauty on California's Central Coast. She connects with environmentalist Samantha Hugo--a brilliant PhD twenty years her senior who gave up a son years earlier; and with restaurant owner Sally O'Mally who left Arkansas to create her own dream. Each woman wrestles with her own core issues while balancing demanding careers with the attentions of interesting men. None is aware that journalist Christine Christian has just been murdered while investigating a half-built house. Though the book stands alone, it is also Book 1 in the critically acclaimed, popular series, a multi-generational saga. Based on Purl's BBC Radio drama Milford-Haven U.S.A.

Is the heart a better navigator than the head? Artist Miranda Jones has followed her heart to a new home in the beautiful California coastal town of Milford-Haven, and now begins to map her emotional and professional life from a new perspective. An extensive Los Angeles research trip takes her from the Palos Verdes peninsula to the Mojave Desert, and from A Doobie Brothers Concert at the Hollywood Bowl to the Angeles Crest National Forest. Meanwhile her Milford-Haven friends have adventures of their own: Samantha Hugo plunges into a search for the son she gave up years earlier; restaurant owner Sally O'Mally suddenly encounters the highschool man she lost. Each woman wrestles with her own core issues while balancing demanding careers with the attentions of interesting men. Though the book stands alone, it is also Book 2 in the critically acclaimed, award-winning, Amazon best-selling series, a multi-generational Milford-Haven saga. Based on Purl's BBC Radio drama Milford-Haven U.S.A.

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

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

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

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

About the Author
Alexander, Stephanie: - Stephanie Alexander is a writer and a family law attorney. She lives in Charleston, South Carolina, with her husband, their blended family of five children, and their miniature dachshund, Trinket.

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

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

About the Author
Alexander, Stephanie: - Stephanie Alexander is a writer and a family law attorney. She lives in Charleston, South Carolina, with her husband, their blended family of five children, and their miniature dachshund, Trinket.

Four years have passed since Eleanor Brice Desmarais's darkest secret came to heartbreaking, perilous light. The princess with the cracked glass slipper still mourns unimaginable losses, including the deaths of her son and her best friend. Her lover, Dorian Finley, is in exile in a far northern kingdom. Eleanor and her husband, Crown Prince Gregory of Cartheigh, barely tolerate one another. Her two daughters are the bright stars in what feels like an existence of endless night.

Husband and wife travel north on an unexpected diplomatic mission, and Eleanor, Dorian, and Gregory resume their dangerous love triangle, with continued interference from Eleanor's wily stepsister. Eleanor's old nemesis, Ezra Oliver, forms a mysterious alliance with an army of vicious, bloodthirsty ogres, pushing Cartheigh to the brink of war. His magical finagling exposes strange connections between Eleanor's world and our own, and places her precocious, enigmatic daughter, Natalie, in terrible danger. When Gregory suddenly finds himself king, he leans on Dorian and Eleanor's counsel. With a fledgling monarch on the throne and the enemy amassing in the north, the unlikely triad must unite for the good of the kingdom. Their shared purpose forces Eleanor to rethink years of grudges, resentment, and animosity. As she truly embraces her own power, she finds herself learning to forgive, and asking for forgiveness.

The long-awaited conclusion to Stephanie Alexander's Cracked Slipper Series brings a satisfying resolution to a beloved fairytale. Eleanor's surprisingly relatable enchanted life is a testament to the power of personal evolution, and a reminder that there are no simple happy endings.

“Charleston Green is a charming and clever novel…. Eminently readable and quietly inventive, the novel’s unusual tone casts a lingering spell.” —BookLife, 2020 Quarter Finalist in Fiction

If Tipsy Collins learned one thing from her divorce, it's that everyone in Charleston is a little crazy—even if they're already dead.

Tipsy, a gifted artist, cannot ignore her nutty friends or her vindictive ex-husband, but as a lifelong reluctant clairvoyant, she's always avoided dead people. When Tipsy and her three children move into the house on Bennett Street, she realizes some ghosts won't be ignored.

Till death do us part didn't pan out for Jane and Henry Mott, who've haunted the house for nearly a century. Tipsy's marriage was downright felicitous when compared to Jane and Henry's ill-fated union. Jane believes Henry killed her and then himself, and Henry vehemently denies both accusations. Unfortunately, neither phantom remembers that afternoon in 1923. Tipsy doesn't know whether to side with Jane, who seems to be hiding something under her southern belle charm, or Henry, a mercurial creative genius. Jane and Henry draw Tipsy into their conundrum, and she uncovers secrets long concealed under layers of good manners, broken promises and soupy Lowcountry air. Living with ghosts, however, takes a toll on her health, and possibly even her sanity. As she struggles to forge a new path for herself and her children, Tipsy has a chance to set Jane and Henry free, and release the ghosts of her own past.

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Awards:

2021 Annie McDonnell Memorial Literary Award Finalist

2020 Chanticleer International Book Awards Finalist for Paranormal Division

2020 Publisher's Weekly BookLife Prize Quarter Finalist for Fiction

2020 Readers' Favorite Book Awards Silver Medalist for Paranormal Fiction

More Reviews:

“An enchanting novel of a woman finding her way out of a midlife (and mid-death) crisis…. [In Charleston Green], Alexander blends the warm humor of her characters with balmy descriptions of her Southern gothic setting.” —Kirkus

“…Stephanie Alexander has crafted a delightfully cozy mystery that, despite not being without peril, is a fun and pleasurable read…. There’s an intriguing puzzle to be solved, as well as life lessons to be learned, and it’s very entertaining to follow the escapades of the various characters, both alive and dead.” —Manhattan Book Review

“Stephanie Alexander does an outstanding job of not only outlining a mystery and the dilemma of a psychic who would rather not imbibe in the problems of the afterlife as she faces her own relationship and family dilemmas, but who finds her own psyche buffeted by too many emotional entanglements….  [Audiences] will find Charleston Green a thoroughly engrossing saga.” —Midwest Book Review

“Charleston Green is a highly entertaining and enjoyable read for fans of women’s fiction; a cozy clairvoyant mystery and family saga.” —Readers’ Favorite

“Charleston Green is the perfect read for summer.”  —San Francisco Book Review

“This southern tale of love and loss, life and death, and intricate family dynamics is like a taste of fried green tomatoes with a side of sweet tea, while sitting on the porch’s joggling board painted a deep Charleston Green.” —BookTrib

“Impressively original and solidly entertaining from beginning to end, Charleston Green showcases author Stephanie Alexander’s genuine flair for deftly crafted fantasy fiction that will completely engage the reader’s full and appreciative attention.” —Small Press Bookwatch

"…once I started reading Charleston Green by Stephanie Alexander, I was captivated. This novel leaves the reader entranced; the writing is skillful and clever and funny. I highly recommend this book." —New York Times bestselling author Elin Hilderbrand

"With humor, heart and a heaping helping of Southern Charm, Charleston Green brings an entirely new meaning to the term 'unwanted house guests.' Tipsy is a lovable, flawed, complex heroine that readers will root for from the first page to the last-and pitch-perfect storytelling will leave fans begging for a sequel. This is Stephanie Alexander at her best!" —USA Today bestselling author, Kristy Woodson Harvey

Author Bio:

Stephanie Alexander is a writer and a family law attorney. She lives in Charleston, South Carolina, with her husband, their blended family of five children, and their miniature dachshunds, Trinket and Tipsy.

Book Excerpt:

Chapter 1

If Tipsy learned one thing from her divorce, it’s that everyone in Charleston is at least a little crazy— even if they’re already dead.

She had to move into Miss Callie’s place to figure out that the dead carry on like the living do. She almost always ignored dead people, because early experience had proven that if she paid any bit of attention to them, they became a straight up nuisance. When she met Jane and Henry Mott, Tipsy had to stop avoiding and start listening. Some ghosts refuse to be ignored.

She wasn’t worried about ghosts on moving day. She was thinking how damn lucky she was to be moving into Miss Callie’s house, rent free. By the time the movers cleared out at five o’clock, she was done in. Even the house seemed wiped out, and it hadn’t done anything but sit there since the 1890s. Thank goodness it was Ayers’s weekend with the kids; she couldn’t have handled them running in and out and rustling through boxes. The whole crew, Ayers and all three children, had stayed with his parents for the weekend to avoid the chaos. Ayers had moved out six months ago, and now with Tipsy moving to Miss Callie’s and him returning to their old house, she felt like she was in a game of musical domiciles. She had trouble remembering where anyone lived.

She carried the last box, the one containing Mary Pratt’s American Girl dolls, through the white picket fence and up the porch stairs to the double front doors. Miss Callie’s tea roses had run amuck since she passed on. The June sunshine woke the yellow blossoms, and they reached for Tipsy through the banister. Ayers’s brother-in-law Jimmy had offered Tipsy this temporary solution to her housing problem.

Jimmy’s mother had recently died, and he was happy to let Tipsy move into Miss Callie’s place and look after it for a time. She made a mental note to rein in those rebellious flowers once she got settled. Tipsy hadn’t known Miss Callie too well, but she certainly owed her now. Her status as honorary caretaker would give Jimmy time to fix things up before selling the place, and buy Tipsy precious months to figure out her increasingly unpredictable life. She planned on earning her keep in the meantime.

Tipsy took the winding staircase to the second floor for the hundredth time that day. She couldn’t help but compare this crumbling yet palatial house in the Old Village of Mount Pleasant—one of the most elegant neighborhoods in the Lowcountry, a place legendary for all things refined—with her grandmother’s four-room 1950s rancher in the upstate town of Martinville. She grew up at the end of a dirt driveway. The nearest body of water: the aboveground swimming pool behind the neighbor’s doublewide trailer. Now, her neighbors across the street sipped cocktails on their docks and watched the sunset over the harbor. On the other side of the Ravenel Bridge, the Charleston skyline wiggled through humid air. Bronze crosses grabbed at the sky, the Episcopalians trying to reach God before the Presbyterians. She could hear her Granna’s voice: My Tipsy, ain’t you all fancy now.

Shush, Granna, Tipsy thought. Not too fancy in the bank account department at the moment. Besides, this place has seen better days.

Tipsy dropped the box of dolls in the twins’ bedroom. They grinned at her, reminders of the days when she and Ayers had casually doled out hundreds of dollars on smiling plastic little girls. She transferred her hands to the small of her back.

Glass of tea, sugar? Granna’s voice rose in her mind again. Granna and she had shared that strange affinity for the dead, so although Granna herself was many years gone, Tipsy still sometimes heard the voice that had steered her through her haphazard childhood. Truth be

told, at times Granna resonated clearer than living people, with their yammering on about this or that. She didn’t tell anyone this, of course, because that would qualify her own mental church as infested with a bad case of the batshit crazies. 

Bats and belfries aside, Granna’s voice had a good idea. As Tipsy backtracked down the narrow hallway she ran her hands over accent tables and the random chairs elderly people always place in spots where no one ever sits. Heavy wood and dark reddish upholstery in velvets and satins had an old-plantation-house kind of prettiness. While the mustiness made her nose itch, the well-worn furniture made the place homey. She hadn’t wanted to take much of the furniture in her old house. Ayers had picked all of it, and he preferred stark modern styles. Made no sense for a hunting-and-fishing boy like him to have the aesthetic of an effete New York theater director, but that was Ayers. A study in contradictions.

Tipsy avoided her passing reflection in the glass covering Miss Callie’s framed Duck Stamp prints. She let her long hair down from its too tight ponytail and rubbed her sore scalp.

That hair. Not blonde. Not brunette. Granna’s sniffing laughter. So sweaty dark it looks like you had a run in with the wrong shade of L’Oreal. Like thirty-four years of hard livin’!

Thanks, Granna.

Oh, come now. You know I’m teasing. You’ve barely changed since seventeen. Who’ d know you had three kids? But damnation, you need some of that Botox! You got my worrying brow.

You’re biased, and then out loud, “Got to grow old gracefully.”

“Is someone there?”

That shrill voice shot out of one of the guestrooms and knocked Tipsy sideways. Her ankle rolled. As she fell, she grabbed one of Miss Callie’s antique porcelain lamps. She hit the Oriental rug with a thud. The three cavorting cherubs on the lamp reached out to her in sympathy. She thanked god those expensive little dudes were still in one piece.

Tipsy stood and rotated her foot until most of the pain dissipated up her leg. She peered into the cheery little room, with its yellow wallpaper and accent pillows in the shape of lemons and cherries. A woman sat on the four-poster bed. While she appeared to be about Tipsy’s age, her tiny bare toes didn’t reach as far as the lace bed skirt. Her pale, almond-shaped eyes stared into Tipsy’s with startled curiosity, like a Siamese cat who unexpectedly found itself pinned down by the tail.

The woman jumped to her feet, buried her face in her hands and sobbed. She wore a sleeveless lavender dress with a dropped waist and a multi-layered lace hemline that ended below her knees. Her skin was translucently white, her hair black. Tipsy’s initial assessment had classified the women’s coiffure as a messy up-do, but her fidgeting revealed it to be a disheveled bob.

She whimpered with no break to gasp for air. It was too repetitive, too staccato. She wrapped her thin arms around herself. The edges of her dress smudged and faded and solidified again as she swayed. The fading spread from her clothes to her hair to her skin.

She’s dead, Tipsy thought. She doesn’t need to draw breath.

As a child, suffering from her own loneliness and tired of finding friendships in storybooks, Tipsy would speak to a ghost here or there, although most of them had lost their senses over time, like the teenage girl who haunted Martinville’s single public park. She once caught Tipsy staring at her. She followed Tipsy, in her Little House on the Prairie garb, from the slide to the swings, begging Tipsy to help her find the family pig. By age ten, Tipsy had to swear off the park all together. It had been years since she made such a mistake, and not only because a ghost’s desperate jabbering could annoy the hell out of a person in a skinny minute. Granna had warned her that while most were harmless, there were a few who were anything but. In educating Tipsy about their mutual peculiarity, she emphasized downplaying its existence, for everyone’s benefit.

Something about this woman, though, made Tipsy pause. She reminded her of a little girl in the middle of some childish heartache. Grown women don’t cry so hard without a good reason. This one was producing enough tears to fill the River Styx, and being damn loud about it—and in the bedroom right beside Tipsy’s. Tipsy’d probably seen a hundred or more ghosts in her day. She’d run across them in places as predictable as the old Dock Street Theater— during a showing of A Christmas Carol, no less—and as random as the Mount Pleasant Whole Foods.

She’d never, however, lived under a roof with one, or tried to have a real, adult conversation with one. Tipsy wasn’t really sure how any of it worked, from a ghost’s perspective. Now suddenly, she and this lady were two chickens in the same coop. Tipsy would need to make her acquaintance sooner or later, if she didn’t want to have the bejesus scared out of her on a daily basis.

Besides, from the antiquated look of the ghost’s dress and hair, it appeared this had been her house a hell of a lot longer than it had been Tipsy’s. Tipsy wasn’t going anywhere, and this woman’s ghostly existence meant she wasn’t going anywhere either. Tipsy knew that much. The ghost couldn’t leave the house if she tried, bless her heart. Trapped as a blind and clawless kitten on a high tree branch. Compassion, practicality, and a smidge of plain old curiosity overrode Granna’s deeply entrenched wisdom.

“Can I help you with something?” Tipsy asked. She raised her voice to be heard over the woman’s bawling.

The woman hugged herself tighter and rocked herself faster. “I can’t say I know how to reply. Perhaps I did once, but I’ve forgotten.”

Tipsy didn’t know anyone other than Granna who shared her talent, so opportunities to speak probably hadn’t come this woman’s way too often. She tried a different route. “I should have introduced myself. My name is Tipsy Collins. Sorry if I startled you, but I didn’t expect to find a ghost crying in the spare bedroom.”

The woman’s fingers twirled among themselves, as if she were knitting an invisible scarf. She sniffed and went solid. Aside from her pallor, she didn’t look particularly dead. “Tipsy? Is that a French name?”

“No. My real name is Tiffany Lynn. Tiffany Lynn Denning, now Collins. The pastor’s son couldn’t say Tiffany when I was a baby. So I’ve always been Tipsy.” She waited for the ghost to make the usual alcoholic comment, before remembering she probably wasn’t familiar with booze-related slang.

“You can see me.” Still her fingers spun, as if she were raveling together fractured pieces of thought.

“Yes.”

That seemed enough of an explanation. “My name is Jane Mott. I was born a Robinette. The Robinettes of Water Street. My mother’s people came from the Old Cannon, on the Wando.” Jane ran both hands over her face, and giggled. She smoothed her hair a little too eagerly.

Uh, oh. Maybe I’ve popped the tab on a shook up can of Coke.

Too late, now, said the voice of Granna. She might be crazier than a stoned possum, but now she knows you can see her. You’re stuck with her.

Tipsy backed toward the door. She would only need three of the house’s six bedrooms. One for herself, one for her six-year-old twins, Mary Pratt and Olivia Grace, and one for her eight-year-old son, Ayers Lee Collins V. Maybe she’d be able to steer clear of this diminutive spirit. “I live here now,” Tipsy said. “So maybe we could, you know, mind each other’s space.”

The ghost’s mouth hung open, as if she needed a straw to draw meaning from Tipsy’s words.

“I guess I’ll see you sometimes,” Tipsy said, “but I’m usually really busy. So if I don’t chat—”

“I’m accustomed to being ignored.”

“Because no one sees you?” Again Tipsy felt the tug of sympathy.

“My husband ignores me. I ignore him. It’s to our mutual benefit.”

“Your husband is still alive?”

Jane looked at her with eyes as clear as Miss Callie’s best Waterford vase. “He’s just as dead as I am, Miss Tiffany-Tipsy.”

“Oh, of course,” said Tipsy, feeling slightly stupid. “Why do y’all ignore each other? It seems like a nice arrangement. Like a couples’ haunting?”

For someone who wants to mind each other’s space, you’re asking a lot of questions, said Granna.

Tipsy ignored her. Sometimes Tipsy and Granna ignored each other, too. It could get crowded with both of them inside Tipsy’s head.

“We don’t get on,” said Jane. “Haven’t gotten on in quite a spell of time.”

Tipsy found it odd to hear someone who appeared to be her own age speak in the soft drawl she associated with women of the grandmotherly sort, albeit rich Charleston grandmothers like the ones in Ayers’s family. Jane seemed to blink when a particular word needed emphasis. The combination of bobbed hair, batting blue eyes and fey voice was reminiscent of Betty Boop. “If I can be frank, Henry and I don’t get on at all.” Blink-blink!

Tipsy did some rough math in her head. The woman’s attire put her squarely in the 1920s category, like Downton Abbey, later seasons. “And you’ve been stuck in this house together for…ninety years?”

“Ninety-five.”

Tipsy thought of being trapped in a house for decades with only Ayers for company. She couldn’t bring herself to hate him now, despite the damage he’d dealt her over the past six months, but she damn sure would after a century. “That’s understandable. Marriage is only supposed to last ‘til death do you part. You’re not meant to keep at it for all eternity.”

“How can we possibly be congenial”—blink-pause-blink—“when he killed me?”

Boop-Boop-be-do! said Granna.

Tipsy sank into an antique chair. “Well, shit.”

Jane scowled, and she remembered that proper southern ladies probably didn’t drop the word shit very often in the 1920s. “Sorry. Wow, he did? How… or…” Is it polite to ask a ghost the details of her murder?

“Yes, he did. Although he still denies it.” Jane balled her hands into fists. “But I know he did it! And then he killed himself.” She hugged herself again and her black hair went smudgy. Tipsy saw right through her.

“Wait!” she said, and Jane returned to focus. “I’m moving my children into a house that’s haunted by a murderer?”

The air around her cooled as Jane crossed the space between them. Jane’s legs didn’t move fast enough to explain her momentum, but she came on just the same, as if the wood floor had turned into a flat airport escalator. A lemony scent overrode the dusty smell of Miss Callie’s antique quilt. Tipsy shuddered. She’d have had the same reaction if hands tipped a glass of lemonade down her shirt.

Granna! Tipsy thought as she stood. Is she one of the bad ones?

But Granna said nothing. Tipsy knew that if Granna had the answer, she’d give it. The thought brought her no comfort.

She took a step into the hall and Jane followed. “Henry will never admit to it,” the ghost said, with blinking ocular italics. “He won’t. But I know he did it.”

“Of course. I’m sure it was horrible—but I have to—”

Jane’s eyes filled with sparkly diamond tears. “Beg pardon. I’m frightening you.” The sobbing again. “I believe he did it. In my heart…” She buried her hands in her hair. “But oh, my soul, I can’t remember. I can never remember.”

And with that, Jane Mott disappeared.

…

Tipsy wasn’t keen to stay in the house that evening, but her girlfriends had been itching to check it out. So after a rushed tour, she sat on the late Miss Callie’s front porch with Shelby and Lindsey. She gripped a cold Bud Light in a koozie emblazoned with the cheerful message, “Joe and Julie, October 18th, 2013—Love is Always a Party!” Tipsy had never met Joe and Julie, but she’d somehow acquired this token of their undying love. She wondered if they were still partying five years later, maybe with a couple kids and a mortgage and Julie’s growing suspicions that Joe was shacking up with his assistant.

She took a long swig of beer and it stuck in her throat. I live in a house with a murdering ghost and his discontented, possibly deranged wife. Hey Julie, want to trade?

“And so there she is,” Shelby said, “standing out on the driveway at three in the morning. Drunk as Cooter Brown. Screaming up at his window. I know you’re in there, Glen! I know you’re in there! And all the neighbors opening windows—”

“Wait—what?” Tipsy asked. “You lost me.”

Shelby pursed her lips. “You’re worse than a man with one eye on ESPN and the other on this month’s Playboy.” She crossed her eyes, as if Tipsy and Lindsey needed a visual.

Tipsy had first laid eyes on Shelby Patterson during a sorority rush skit at Carolina. Shelby’s portrayal of Sandy from Grease was the stuff of legend in the Kappa Zeta house. Tipsy would never forget watching Shelby’s skillfully teased blonde hair float across the makeshift stage. Her skintight black pleather pants had accentuated the purposeful shaking of her voluptuous butt.

“Glen’s ex-wife,” said Shelby, “y’all know she hates me—”

“You hate her, too,” said Lindsey. Lindsey was always one for stating the obvious, but at least she gave Shelby her full attention. With her wide brown eyes and round face she resembled an early rising owl come to roost on the porch for Happy Hour.

Shelby sniffed loud enough to drown out the cicadas. “Hell, I don’t hate her. But she is a tramp—”

Movement at the other end of the porch caught Tipsy’s eye. Miss Callie’s joggling board bounced ever so slightly.

Did you invite Miss Jane to your girls’ evening? asked Granna.

Tipsy eyed the wooden contraption, just like the one Granna had kept on her own modest porch. No different from the boards she’d seen on umpteen South Carolina porches. Joggling boards were part lawn ornament and part outdoor furniture, a long single board with a dip in the middle, held up by two simple wooden pedestal ends. They had always reminded her of church pews without the back, or of saggy picnic table benches.

As a general gravitational rule, a joggling board didn’t bounce unless the weight of someone’s butt on the center plank made it bounce. Tipsy stared at the empty air above the board, but made out nothing beyond the haze of a summer evening punctuated by a few swirling no-seeums.

“Of course I was pissed. Who spends a whole Friday night with his ex-wife shooting at zombies?”

“Zombies?” Tipsy asked. Aren’t ghosts enough?

Lindsey rescued Tipsy once again. Shelby looked like she might scream at the next interruption. “Glen and his ex,” said Lindsey. “They took their son to paintball for his birthday. It’s zombie paintball.”

“Oh. He took his son. You can’t get angry.” Tipsy sipped her beer and glanced down the porch again.

A man sat in the middle of the joggling board, his elbows resting on his knees. He wore baggy tan pants and a white button down shirt. His bright red wavy hair suggested a failed attempt at flattering it with pomade. A man like that should have been pale all over. Instead, his dark eyes clashed with the rest of him. High cheekbones towered over a full, sensuous mouth. He was either one of the oddest looking men Tipsy had ever seen, or the handsomest.

“What are you looking at?” asked Shelby.

Tipsy cleared her throat. “The joggling board. It needs a fresh coat of paint.”

“Charleston green,” said Lindsey.

“Mmmm, hmmm.” Shelby squinted at the board and tilted her head. “Nice shade.”

Tipsy nodded. If she turned her head just right, so sunlight glanced off the board, the oily sheen of the paint revealed the true color. The green of a forest at midnight, under a full moon. “Probably hand mixed.”

“Hand mixing always makes the best Charleston green,” said Lindsey.

While most people wouldn’t have noticed the subtle tone, Tipsy, an artist; Shelby, an art dealer; and Lindsey, a part time but unusually talented interior designer, could pick it out from a mile away. Or at least from across the porch. “I could work up a batch once the kids are settled in—”

“Good lord, Tips, I’m trying to tell a story!” said Shelby. “I know the three of us can make a whole conversation out of mixing paint, but come on now.”

“I’m sorry,” said Tipsy. The man on the joggling board picked at the peeling paint, but no flecks of blackish green drifted to the floor below him.

“Pay attention. You’re about to send my train of thought off the rails and into a ditch.”

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” Tipsy got a peek at the yin and yang tattoo on Shelby’s right wrist before Shelby took her hand. Years ago, Tipsy had taken to tapping that black and white symbol when Shelby needed to be talked off an emotional ledge. Shelby’s ledges tended to be steep and high and loom over unyielding concrete and racing emotional traffic. The gesture had become part of their friendship’s long code. Come back to the light, sister.

Sometimes, though, life turned the tables on them. Shelby was her rock during the dark days after the twins’ birth, when sadness settled over her like a stalled low pressure system, soaking her in fear, worry, and inexplicable despair. While no challenge, before or since, equated with the emotional mêlée of postpartum depression, in the wake of her divorce, Tipsy was once again more of the sooth-ee than the soother.

“Honey, you must be so tired,” Shelby said. “Let me shut up about Glen, Sexy Fishing Charter Captain Extraordinaire.”

“That sounds like a better story than Glen, Possible Deadbeat Dad, and His Annoying Ex-Wife,” said Lindsey. “Besides, y’all have only been dating two months. Story can’t be that long.”

“You know with me it can be.” Shelby scooted closer to Tipsy on the wicker loveseat. “When is Ayers bringing the kids back?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Tipsy said. “I’ve got to set up their rooms.” She looked over her shoulder, but the redheaded man was gone.

“Y’all know I love to decorate!” Lindsey grinned and hopped to her feet. She wore obscenely tall platform wedges, despite Tipsy’s and Shelby’s flip-flops. Regardless, she barely reached Tipsy’s chin, and even Shelby could still look down at the top of her head.

“It shows,” said Shelby. “Your house is straight out of Architectural Digest.”

“Thanks, honey,” said Lindsey. “I had to get something out of my ex—that pathetic old goat!”

Tipsy laughed, and Lindsey joined her. She never minded being the butt of the joke, even after the intense public humiliation of her divorce from Barker Davies, one of the richest lawyers in town. Barker had left his first wife and kids for Lindsey. Ten years later, he had once again

traded in for a newer model, leaving Lindsey a single mom with one daughter, a huge house, a fat bank account, and a great attitude. Tipsy thanked the good lord Shelby had introduced her to Lindsey after she left Ayers. Lindsey’s positivity gave her hope.

“I might never have rustled up the nerve to leave him myself, so this new chick did me a favor.” Lindsey’s short blonde ponytail bounced. “Come on.”

Tipsy’s calves ached as she walked to the kitchen, the result of too many flights of stairs on Lowcountry legs unaccustomed to inclines of any sort. Lindsey called over her shoulder as she and Shelby headed upstairs: “Bring the beer to the nursery, Jeeves!”

Tipsy imagined the red headed man appearing in the doorway holding a levitating Yeti cooler and a butcher’s knife. She assumed him to be Jane Mott’s homicidal husband, Henry. Henry’s flat, dark stare hadn’t done anything to rouse the sympathetic curiosity that Jane had evoked.

By the time she reached the refrigerator, she’d squashed her burgeoning fear by donning the Armor of Mommy. Tipsy’s children needed more than pretty rooms. They needed stability. She wasn’t going to let a ghost risk their first opportunity at either in months.

Be careful, sugar, said Granna. You already caught the attention of one loony spirit. Knowing you, you’ll poke your head right into a Venus flytrap. You’re not sure what he’s capable of.

That’s what I need to figure out. And I will. Sooner over later.

Tipsy, that man killed his own wife.

What choice do I have? Tipsy grabbed hold of the perpetual panic that lurked in her stomach before it could poke her heart. It’s this or a friend’s couch and blow-up mattresses for the kids.

Ain’t that the truth. What if Ayers wants the kids full time? Or his parents do? asked Granna.

No way. My children will stay with me, and I’ll make a home for them. I will make this work.

Tipsy rose and fell on her toes to stretch her calves as she hunted through unfamiliar drawers for her Gamecock bottle opener. Tomorrow she’d go for a long run. She didn’t have tolerance for wobbliness in her limbs or her living situation.

She watched for signs of Henry as she popped the tops on three beers: her own Bud Light, Shelby’s Mich Ultra (always watching her carbs) and Lindsey’s Corona Light (always with a lime). She carried them up to the second floor landing, where Shelby and Lindsey were examining a table covered with old vases.

“What’s the latest with the ex-husband from hell?” asked Shelby.

“Okay, Shelby.” Tipsy handed over her beer. “That’s a bit extreme.”

“Screwing your wife out of her alimony qualifies as extreme to me.”

“Seriously,” said Lindsey. “Even Barker didn’t do me like that.”

“Ugh, y’all, I don’t want to talk about screwy South Carolina alimony laws.” Tipsy walked faster. “What’s done is done. He’s paying me child support—”

“Not enough to come close to getting y’all by.” Shelby gripped the skinny neck of a green vase as if she were choking it, or might knock someone upside the head.

“I know, but he’s having a really hard time. I’m trying to give him a break.”

“Whatever!” said Shelby. “He shouldn’t even expect you to speak to him, after what he’s done to you. Accusing you of adultery? When y’all weren’t even living together anymore?”

“We all know the laws in this state.” Tipsy had learned the ramifications of South Carolina’s unusually conservative divorce laws the hard way. “You date someone before you have a settlement agreement in place and it’s adultery. Ayers was depressed, and his lawyer talked him into it. And I left him. I don’t know what that feels like.”

“Jesus, Tipsy,” said Shelby. “Why are you defending him? You left him for a hell of a lot of reasons. You were intimidated by his ornery ass when you were married to him.” Shelby waved the vase in Tipsy’s direction. Lindsey swiped it out of her hand and rearranged all the vases in neat rows. “Now add feeling guilty to feeling scared,” said Shelby, “and it’s a recipe for disaster.”

Sometimes the truth can get under a person’s skin. Shelby didn’t sugarcoat anything, so her truth often came with a double dose of annoying. “I hear you, Shelby, but we have to get along for the kids.”

“Right, but you’re too nice. Ayers can go screw himself.” Shelby grinned. “I’ve been engaged three times and never married so I’m the expert on ending relationships.”

Lindsey stepped carefully over a stack of bubble-wrapped frames as Tipsy steered them into Little Ayers’s room. “Time to move on,” Lindsey said, “and we know who you need to move on with. Will Garrison.”

Tipsy opened a moving box near the closet door. Soccer trophies, a Carolina piggy bank, a few framed photos from Little A’s christening, and the antique toy cars her father-in-law had given him. The cars were heavy and cool in her hands. Solid craftsmanship, not like the flimsy Walmart specials that Ayers always bought. “Glen’s fishing buddy?”

“Yes! He and P.D. were roommates at the College of Charleston, and they grew up together in Beaufort, too. He’s handsome—”

“He didn’t seem very friendly.” She thought of the time she’d met Will Garrison in passing on the way out of a restaurant. He’d pretty much glared at her through a mumbled nice to meet you and good-bye.

“He’s so sweet, once you get to know him,” said Lindsey. “Wouldn’t it be fun? We can all hang out.”

“Hmmm,” Tipsy said. Lindsey’s boyfriend, P.D., was a gentle giant of a man who worshipped the ground she walked on, despite her post-marriage habit of philandering with the local college students. Tipsy trusted his good opinion. Glen’s, however…

Shelby clapped. “He’s a great dad, and he has a good job—”

“And good hair!” Lindsey tapped her head.

“Maybe. A little distraction can’t hurt, right?” She held Little Ayers’s old bunny in front of her chest like a tattered plush bridal bouquet.

Shelby reached over and hugged her, the embrace squashing the bunny between them. Little Ayers didn’t need it every night anymore, so Tipsy hadn’t sent it with his dad. For some reason the feel of that beloved toy against her best friend’s hug brought tears to her eyes.

“You think about it, sister,” said Shelby. “No hurry. Just think.”

Tipsy gave her a watery smile. As she wiped her eyes, a shiny black shoe and one trouser leg disappeared past the doorframe.

When that ghost comes calling, you might as well ask him to set awhile and chat. Tipsy could have sworn she felt Granna’s warm breath on the side of her neck. The smell of grits and apples and Prell shampoo. Memories like that returned to her, clear as day, at the most peculiar times. Sometimes they ran through her head like movies on a screen, or recordings of long past thoughts. The smells and sounds and tastes just as full and loud and flavorful as ever they were in the original.

When Tipsy was not long out of diapers, she’d seen a car hit a squirrel while she and Granna waited for a ride at the end of the state road. When she was eight, for no reason at all, the little creature’s death had come back to her in all its gory detail. Granna found her crying in her bedroom. She’d tried to explain the blood shooting across hot asphalt, and the thump of a tiny body against an uncaring tire. Granna had barely remembered the squirrel at all. She’d said, Sugar, maybe your talent serves you in other ways. Not just seeing ghosts. You find a way to use it.

The next day, Tipsy drew a picture of the squirrel’s demise instead of talking about it—much to the disturbance of her third grade art teacher. Drawing became her release, and then, as she discovered the comfort of a brush in her hand and a picture in her mind, she turned to painting. As the years rolled on, she stopped trying to explain the movie memories. That didn’t mean they stopped coming. 

Shop the Tipsy Collins series

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

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

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

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

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

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Author Bio:

Stephanie Alexander is a writer and a family law attorney. She lives in Charleston, South Carolina, with her husband, their blended family of five children, and their miniature dachshunds, Trinket and Tipsy.

Book Excerpt:

Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m nearly finished with chapter two!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still getting the heebie-jeebies from Will?

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

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

“Stop it,” said O-liv.

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

“It’s the clean version, Mom.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Damnit!” she yelled. “Shit!”

The kids shut up mid-complaint.

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” said Ayers. “Sorry, O-liv.”

“S’okay,” said Olivia Grace.

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

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

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

Will Garrison Text Message (2)

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

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

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

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

Tipsy: Why do you keep asking?

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

She swiped across Will’s next text.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I tend to agree with Shelby, said Granna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Haint blue? Tipsy asked Granna.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, well, we’ve had our moments.”

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

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

“It’s truly blue, that’s for sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do?”

“Will didn’t tell you?”

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

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

“I’m sorry?”

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

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

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

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

“What else did he tell you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She gets angry?”

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

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

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

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

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

“So your grandmother—”

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

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

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

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

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

“It seems pretty quiet here now.”

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

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

“What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll make it worth your while.”

“It’s not that—”

“Fifty thousand.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fifty thousand dollars.”

Tipsy about fell out. “Are you serious?”

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

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

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

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

Shop the Tipsy Collins series

“Full of the action-packed suspense and romance that Barbara Freethy is known for…this rapid page turner will have you on the edge of your seat from cover to cover.” —Page Turners blog

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As Chelsea and Brodie work together to solve a mystery, sparks fly between them. Brodie tempts Chelsea out of her safe cocoon, but will more pain be waiting? And when Brodie pushes Chelsea to find her voice again, will she be one more dream he has to give up?

 

Author Bio:

Barbara Freethy is a #1 New York Times bestselling author of 41 novels ranging from contemporary romance to romantic suspense and women's fiction. Traditionally published for many years, Barbara opened her own publishing company in 2011 and has since sold over 4.8 million copies of her books. Nineteen of her titles have appeared on the New York Times and USA Today Bestseller Lists. In July of 2014, Barbara was named the Amazon KDP bestselling author of ALL TIME! She was also the first indie author to sell over 1 million copies at both Barnes and Noble and Amazon. An author known for writing emotional stories about ordinary people caught up in extraordinary situations, Barbara has received starred reviews from Publishers' Weekly and Library Journal and has also received six nominations for the RITA for Best Single Title Contemporary Romance from Romance Writers of America. She has won the honor twice for her novels Daniel's Gift and The Way Back Home. 

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“…WOW such an emotional book. The characters were so well written, with so much depth. There were scenes in this book that gave me a lump in my throat.” —Booklovers Anonymous

Justin Blackwood can't remember a time when he believed in the magic of anything, least of all love. A cynical businessman, who grew up in a broken home, he guards his heart with every breath he takes. His job has taken him all over the world and roots are the last thing he wants...until he meets a beautiful innkeeper in Whisper Lake.

Warm-hearted, free-spirited Lizzie Cole wants it all—the dream job of running her own inn and a man who wants to settle down. Despite a previous romantic setback, she still believes in happily ever after and her perfect soulmate. She just has to find him. While the dark-haired man with the shockingly blue eyes makes her heart beat faster, Justin Blackwood is the last man who should leave her breathless. He's her complete opposite and they don't want the same things.

But when a lunar eclipse throws Whisper Lake into darkness, Lizzie and Justin find themselves struggling to fight the moonlight and a love that could change their lives—if they're willing to take the risk.

 

Author Bio:

Barbara Freethy is a #1 New York Times bestselling author of 41 novels ranging from contemporary romance to romantic suspense and women's fiction. Traditionally published for many years, Barbara opened her own publishing company in 2011 and has since sold over 4.8 million copies of her books. Nineteen of her titles have appeared on the New York Times and USA Today Bestseller Lists. In July of 2014, Barbara was named the Amazon KDP bestselling author of ALL TIME! She was also the first indie author to sell over 1 million copies at both Barnes and Noble and Amazon. An author known for writing emotional stories about ordinary people caught up in extraordinary situations, Barbara has received starred reviews from Publishers' Weekly and Library Journal and has also received six nominations for the RITA for Best Single Title Contemporary Romance from Romance Writers of America. She has won the honor twice for her novels Daniel's Gift and The Way Back Home. 

 

Shop the Whisper Lake Series

Shop all Barbara Freethy books

 

“I devoured this book in one setting! The story was captivating!” —Booklovers Anonymous

Hannah Stark takes care of everyone else, from the patients she nurses back to health, to her family, who can never seem to get it together. She'd love to find someone she can trust, someone she can lean on, someone she can love, but that someone will not be Jake McKenna. The ruggedly attractive owner of Adventure Sports might still make her palms sweat, but Jake broke her teenage heart years ago.

In the twelve plus years since they were a couple, Jake has given up on forgiveness from Hannah. He'd really like the chance to set the record straight, but that would mean revealing secrets he has sworn to protect. So, they dance around each other, never getting close enough to the lingering sparks to start another fire.
A stormy Christmas eve at the lake changes everything. A woman in trouble and a death-defying rescue gives them a chance to start over as they are now-if they can find the courage to trust each other. Will these two enemies turn into lovers, or will they reject the fate that has once again thrown them together?

Don't miss this heartwarming, irresistibly romantic holiday Christmas romance by #1 New York Times Bestselling Author Barbara Freethy.

 

Author Bio:

Barbara Freethy is a #1 New York Times bestselling author of 41 novels ranging from contemporary romance to romantic suspense and women's fiction. Traditionally published for many years, Barbara opened her own publishing company in 2011 and has since sold over 4.8 million copies of her books. Nineteen of her titles have appeared on the New York Times and USA Today Bestseller Lists. In July of 2014, Barbara was named the Amazon KDP bestselling author of ALL TIME! She was also the first indie author to sell over 1 million copies at both Barnes and Noble and Amazon. An author known for writing emotional stories about ordinary people caught up in extraordinary situations, Barbara has received starred reviews from Publishers' Weekly and Library Journal and has also received six nominations for the RITA for Best Single Title Contemporary Romance from Romance Writers of America. She has won the honor twice for her novels Daniel's Gift and The Way Back Home. 

Shop the Whisper Lake Series

Shop all Barbara Freethy books

“Barbara Freethy never disappoints. This newest [book] has it all—romance, drama, danger and a little steam. Make sure you add this one to your TBR list” —My Bag of Books Blog

One moment can change a life...or two

Keira Blake agrees to the blind date simply because she has a wedding coming up and no plus one. Tired of being the last single girl standing in her group of friends, she shows up at the bar with low expectations, but her ruggedly handsome date is far more attractive and interesting than she'd imagined. In fact, he seems too good to be true...

Dante DeAngelis, the star pitcher for the Miami Mavericks, is in Whisper Lake for a month to rehab a shoulder injury away from the spotlight of his baseball career and his famous girlfriend. When the beautiful brunette assumes he's her date, he momentarily plays along, enjoying the rare instance of not being seen as a celebrity but as himself...

When their true identities are revealed, Keira and Dante try to stay away from one another. Keira has family commitments that will keep her in Whisper Lake, and Dante is just passing through. He also has a girlfriend and a job miles away. But sometimes love gets in the way of the best laid plans...

Author Bio:

Barbara Freethy is a #1 New York Times bestselling author of 41 novels ranging from contemporary romance to romantic suspense and women's fiction. Traditionally published for many years, Barbara opened her own publishing company in 2011 and has since sold over 4.8 million copies of her books. Nineteen of her titles have appeared on the New York Times and USA Today Bestseller Lists. In July of 2014, Barbara was named the Amazon KDP bestselling author of ALL TIME! She was also the first indie author to sell over 1 million copies at both Barnes and Noble and Amazon. An author known for writing emotional stories about ordinary people caught up in extraordinary situations, Barbara has received starred reviews from Publishers' Weekly and Library Journal and has also received six nominations for the RITA for Best Single Title Contemporary Romance from Romance Writers of America. She has won the honor twice for her novels Daniel's Gift and The Way Back Home. 
 
Shop the Whisper Lake Series

Shop all Barbara Freethy books 

“I delighted in every turn of the story and, when away from it, found myself eager to return to Emerson Pass. I can't wait for the next book.” —Kay Bratt, bestselling author of Wish Me Home

The delightful first book in USA Today bestselling author Tess Thompson's Emerson Pass Historicals historical romance series.

An untested teacher. A wealthy benefactor. When their attraction becomes undeniable, will they open their hearts to each other?

Colorado, 1910. Quinn Cooper can’t help feeling uneasy. But securing a job as a schoolmarm in a tiny frontier town was the only way to save her family from starvation back in Boston. And her nerves aren’t eased by a stray gunshot that spooks the sleigh horses, casting her into the snow… until she’s rescued by a handsome stranger.

Lord Alexander Barnes knows better than to believe any pretty young woman would willingly become a mother to five children. But the lonely widower finds himself charmed by the lovely newcomer and her easy rapport with his offspring. And after his disgruntled nanny quits, his heart melts at the sight of her joyfully taking over the role.

Determined to prove herself in the schoolhouse and as a governess, Quinn fears her near-poverty will prevent any possible courtship with the affluent Englishman. And between their age difference and prejudicial violence in the town, Lord Barnes is certain this second chance at happiness just cannot be.

Will their love go unspoken, or will their persistence reward them with a lasting passion?

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“I frequently found myself getting lost in the characters and forgetting that I was reading a book.” —Camille Di Maio, bestselling author of The Memory of Us

 “I loved this book!” —Karen McQuestion, bestselling author of Hello Love and Good Man, Dayton

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:

Chapter 1: Quinn

Had I known of the ways in which Emerson Pass would test my character, I might not have had the mettle to step off the train that autumn day in 1910. Then again, perhaps I would have. The path to our true places, our northern lights, are circuitous. We cannot predict the joys and sorrows that await us on this journey through life. Courage is our only map.

My journey began when we lurched to a stop at the train station with a terrible roar and release of steam from the engine. As I had during the entire way from Denver to Emerson Pass, I wondered if the passenger car would remain in one piece. During our trek higher and higher into the Rocky Mountains, through tunnels and over tracks built on stilts over deep canyons, I’d feared we’d never reach our destination. My wild imagination had run amok envisioning the train falling from the track and killing us all. Would I die in the unforgiving mountains after making it all the way from Boston to Denver?

I cleaned the window and pressed close, hoping to catch a glimpse of the former mining town that was to be my new home. I’d expected golden leaves of the famous aspens this time of year. Instead, I saw nothing but snow flurries so thick it was as if I were peering into a closely knitted white blanket.

I slipped into my wool coat, frayed and tattered from withstanding six Boston winters, and squared my shoulders. Courage, just then, was a shadow buried deep within me. Even more so than the day last week when I’d pressed this same nose to a different window to catch one last glimpse of my mother and sister as the train pulled from the station.

Next to me, the baby asleep in her mother’s arms woke and began to howl. Her diaper was full. The odor mixed with that of human perspiration and the greasy hair of my companions might have turned my stomach, but I was too tired and hungry to care. Third-class was not for the fainthearted. I gathered my suitcase and rose unsteadily to my feet. I waited for the couple with the baby to exit first, then the two men dressed in overalls and heavy work boots with whom I’d been sure to avoid eye contact. For a woman, traveling alone was not wise. For those like me, without funds or a companion, I had no choice but to set out alone.

I held my long skirts high and stepped from the train down to the platform and lifted my face toward a sky the color of smoke. Daylight was nearing its end. Snowflakes as big as quarters caught in my lashes. Grime and soot swirled about me as I tromped onto the platform. The covered area was a relief, although the wooden planks were icy. Behind me, the train groaned as if it too were happy to have arrived. Here at last, it seemed to say.

The trip had taken almost a week to get from Boston to Denver. Long days with the scent of oil and unwashed men. When we reached the plains, blizzards, ice storms, and harrowing wind that howled like a tortured animal had chased us all the way to Denver. “Unusual this time of year,” the porter had said to me, probably in response to my terrified expression. After a night spent in Union Station in Denver, unable to sleep for fear of being murdered for my meager possessions, I’d boarded the train that took us up the mountains to my final destination.

A gust of wind swept under the train station’s awning and threatened to lift my hat from my head. I gripped the brim between gloved fingers. This hat with its wide black bow was no match for the gusts of wind and snow. It did not matter. I was off the godforsaken train. I was alive, despite nature’s relentless attempt to make it otherwise.

I would have dropped to my knees and kissed the ground if I hadn’t been concerned with decorum. Truly, with no thought to my only gloves and second-best dress, I’d have dug through the snowdrifts that were as tall as my five-foot-two-inch frame and given the ground a big smooch as if it were my beloved. Instead, I sighed with great relief and stuck a pin through my hat, fixing it more securely into my masses of honey-blond hair.

My thick, silky hair was my only vanity. Some women needed wigs to make their buns appear thicker, but mine needed no enhancements. I’d once hoped my golden tresses compensated for my lack of figure. Even with my corset pulled tight, I had no curves. My hips were narrow and my chest flat. Combined with a quick mind that suffered no fools, and a teaching degree instead of a dowry, my fate was clear. Spinsterhood.

Alexander Barnes had written that he would send a man to fetch me and take me to the boardinghouse in town where I was to live. Clutching my suitcase, I searched the platform but saw no one. I exhaled, long and slow. My warm breath made a cloud in the frigid air. Only a few seconds off the train and I couldn’t feel my toes. Dizzy and light-headed, I felt as if I were drunk. Was it the altitude?

What if no one came for me? What if coming out here all alone to this place that was truly the Wild West was a terrible mistake? Emerson Pass was a town of prospectors, mostly men and probably heathens. One tiny woman named Quinn Cooper who had never set foot outside of Boston until a week ago was sure to fail.

I gave myself a stern lecture as I stood shivering on the platform. What was needed were the skills of a fine actress and the courage of a lion. For Mother and Annabelle. Images of their thin faces wavered before me like apparitions. Under my gloves, there were cracks between my fingers from the frigid nights without heat. I was their remedy and their hope. This work would save them. I’d live frugally with the barest of necessities and send everything else to them. Soon, I would have enough to send for them. We could all be together. Or I would return home.

No looking back. I can do this. I will do this. I was a young, educated woman about to teach at a newly built school. Lord Barnes had written of its brick construction and shiny wood floors. A dozen students, he’d said, who needed an education. I might be headed to spinsterhood, but I was a good teacher. Having my own school was a dream. Remember how blessed you are, I reminded myself.

I’d be plucky, like the characters in the novels I loved so much.

Please, someone come. Don’t leave me to freeze when I’ve finally reached my destination. As if I had conjured him, a young man appeared from the curtain of snow. He had dark eyes with thick lashes and a red mouth, which smiled at me. Brown curls sneaked out from under the back of his newsboy cap.

“Miss Cooper?”

“Yes, yes.” Relief flooded through me. I was saved.

“It’s Harley, Miss Cooper. I’m sorry to be late.” I detected a slight accent. French, perhaps? “This storm came out of nowhere this afternoon and made traveling slow. Our horses don’t like it. We have a twenty-minute drive to town in the sleigh, but I have blankets.”

Harley took my suitcase, and I followed him outside where a sleigh waited, hitched to two brown horses. One whinnied and grinned at me with his large teeth. “Hello, lovely.” I stroked his nose. He nudged at me, most likely wondering if I had an apple. If I’d had one, despite how much I loved animals, I would not have shared it with him. I hadn’t eaten since the morning. Although my room and board would be covered, I’d had to leave most of the traveling money Lord Barnes had sent with Mother. They needed it to survive until I could mail my first paycheck. Which meant that I’d had to get by on one meal a day.

“Careful now,” Harley said, helping me into the sleigh. “We’ll have you there by suppertime. Mrs. Winslow makes a fine stew, and the boardinghouse is warm.” Had he hesitated before the adjective warm? What else was it besides warm? Was warmth all it had to brag of? And Mrs. Winslow’s stew? I thought of Mother’s meals. Although made of meager provisions, somehow, they always tasted delicious, if not altogether filling. Bread filled the spaces between our bones, my mother sometimes said when the soup was mostly broth.

I ached with a sudden homesickness. They would be sitting by the fire by now with their knitting or needlepoint. I was not there to read to them as had become our custom since my father passed two years ago.

No, I must not succumb to self-pity. This was an adventure. An opportunity. Traveling across the country to this beautiful, uninhabited land. A newly built schoolhouse and children who craved learning. I’d read the letter from Lord Barnes so many times I had it memorized.

The children here need education and refinement. The West lacks in proper guidance for young ladies, especially. Our hope is for your good breeding and manners to influence and educate a new generation of Americans. These are children born of adventurous and hopeful men, who have longed to provide better lives for their children. Alas, with this effort comes the wild.

Five out of the dozen children in town were his own. He was the board of education for their community, he had written. Not because I’m fit for the vocation, but because there was no one else. He did not mention a wife in his letters. I felt certain she was dead, as he’d referenced a nanny who cared for his children, but never a mother.

It was how he’d spoken of education that had touched my heart.

We raise them to be tough here, but at what cost? Surely culture and art must be taught, no matter that the gold rush has given birth to a new West?

“Please take off your hat or you might lose it,” Harley said.

I undid the pins and stuck them into the band, then handed the hat to him. He set it under a blanket in the back, along with my bag. “And wrap this scarf around your head and face.”

He tucked several blankets around me. On top of those, he laid a fur of some kind that smelled of oil. I lifted my scarf over my nose, which still carried the scent of home, and tried to relax. Bells around the horses’ necks made a merry song as Harley drove us away from the station. It was slow going for the horses through the high snow, but they clopped at a steady pace.

“Thank you for picking me up,” I said.

“It’s my pleasure, miss. I work for Lord Barnes. I take care of the animals and the garden, and whatever else needs doing. My little sister, Poppy, and I live in the servant’s cottage on his property.”

“I thought the train station would be closer to town.”

“Back during the gold rush, the train stopped at the mining site,” he said. “As the town grew, they realized building in the valley between the two mountains made more sense.”

“Have you been here long?”

“A few years, yes. My parents were French. They came out here chasing gold, like most. They died three winters ago from the flu, and so now it’s just Poppy and me.”

“Poppy? What a sweet name.”

“She’s thirteen. Same age as Miss Josephine, Lord Barnes’s oldest daughter. She can’t wait to start school. Until my parents died, we spoke mostly French, so she’s anxious to learn to read in English.”

“Does Lord Barnes live in town?” I asked.

“No, his estate’s a few miles from town.”

Estate? Estates were large with servants and fine meals. What did I expect from a man with the title Lord in front of his name?

“Lord Barnes owns at least a thousand acres, including the land in town. There was a fire in the late nineties and most of the residents left. Lord Barnes bought up all the property and rebuilt the town. This time in brick.”

“He owns everything?”

“That’s right. He rents the buildings to local businessmen for a fair price. His aim is to civilize this place.” Harley laughed, clearly fond of his boss. “If anyone can, it’s him.”

Normally, I would have been fascinated to learn more. I’m curious bordering on nosy. People are like books. I can’t wait to turn the next page to learn what happens next. But I felt sleepy, lulled by the rhythm of the sled across snow. I blinked to try to stay alert, but between the falling snow and dimming light blocking the view, in combination with the warmth of the fur some poor animal had sacrificed, I drifted to sleep.

The sound of a shotgun jarred me awake. Both horses jumped and neighed and then began to run. Harley called to them and tried to rein them in, but to no avail. They were afraid. As was I. Another shot rang out. The horses ran faster. The sled seemed to be several inches above the snow, as though we were flying. We were out of control. I could feel it in the way the sled shimmied. One of the horses reared back, and the sled yanked hard to the left. We flew over an embankment. A large tree loomed close. I screamed as I flew from the sled. Everything went black.

Chapter 2: Alexander

A pounding on my front door pulled me from a particularly moving passage in a Henry James novel. Startled, I looked at the clock in the corner of my library. Six on an evening? Who would call without notice? The children were all upstairs with Nanny Foster having baths. My belly was full of Lizzie’s hearty stewed chicken and potatoes, and I’d just settled in with a glass of whiskey for a deep read.

The knocking turned loud and fierce. I rose from my chair, alarmed. This was not the typical timid tap of tradespeople or visitors, but urgent, almost frightened, as if something was terribly wrong. A shiver crept up the back of my neck. Jasper’s efficient footsteps passed by the door of the library, all click-click on the hardwood floors.

I crossed the room and into the hallway just as Jasper yanked open the front door. Wayne Higgins stood on the steps, holding his hat in his hands. Behind him, snow dumped from a hidden sky.

“Mr. Higgins, are you all right?” Jasper asked.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to bother you.” Wayne nodded to me as I came to stand next to Jasper. “Lord Barnes, Harley’s had an accident. He and the schoolmistress were coming from the station.

Someone fired a gun and the horses got spooked and somehow the sled got unattached and it went over the embankment just yonder.” He pointed toward the road. “Clive and I saw the whole thing. We hauled them up from the bank, sir.” A layer of snow had already covered his white-blond hair and glistened in the lamplight.

Harley had gone to get Miss Cooper an hour ago. “Are they hurt?” I asked.

“Harley’s all right. We dropped him at the cottage so his sister could clean up a gash on his hand. He was bleeding pretty good. The teacher hasn’t opened her eyes or made any noise. We thought it best to bring her here so we could call the doctor.”

“Of course, yes, come in,” I said. From the darkness, Wayne’s brother, Clive, appeared, carrying a woman in his arms. She was a tiny slip of a thing, not much bigger than my thirteen-year-old daughter. Her boots were well-polished, but the soles were thin, and the sleeves of her dark coat tattered. Fair curls had come loose from her bun and dangled over Clive’s arms.

“Evening, Lord Barnes.” Clive shared the same light blue eyes with his brother. Tall and broad, made from German stock, they owned the butcher shop in town. The Higgins Brothers Butcher Shop was clean and well-run. They sold their cuts of meat at a fair price. I’d known them from the first day they move here. I happened to know, too, they gave away scraps and day-old meat to the hungry.

“I think she’s bumped her head real good.”

I stepped forward. “I’ll take her.”

“Yes, sir.” Clive transferred her to me. I gazed down at the lovely face that belonged to Miss Cooper. This was not the old lady spinster I’d expected. For one, she was a young woman. And my, she was a beauty, with alabaster skin and delicate bone structure. Her cheeks, flushed from the cold, were the color of cherry blossoms in the spring. She had long dark eyelashes and hair the color of wheat. A small mouth suited her small oval face.

Clive and Wayne hovered by the front door, holding their hats in their hands. “We sure hope she’s not hurt too bad,” Clive said.

“Would you like to come in?” I asked. “Lizzie can get you something warm to drink before you go back out in the cold.”

“No, sir. We best get back into town and send the doctor out,” Wayne said.

“This time of night he’ll be at the saloon,” Clive said.

“Thank you. It’s very kind of you,” I said, holding back from making a comment about the doctor’s gambling and whiskey habits.

“One more thing before we go,” Clive said. “The shots sounded like they were down by the Coles’ place. It might be best to send someone out there in the morning to make sure they’re all right.”

Samuel Cole and his family lived on the other side of the creek that separated our property. He and Rachel were good friends and neighbors. I doubted there was anything amiss. Samuel knew these parts better than anyone. The shots were most likely from him. He hunted or trapped almost all their meat. Deer were particularly abundant this year.

“Thank you. We’ll take care of it,” Jasper said as he clasped his hands behind his back. A habit from the old days when he’d been trained as a footman on my father’s estate.

“Yes, sir,” Clive said, without making eye contact.

At first glance, one wouldn’t have thought Jasper to be intimidating. He was quite ordinary-looking—tall and slim with sandy-colored hair and light blue eyes. It was the unfortunate way his lips often puckered, as if he smelled something foul, and his posh British accent that made him seem haughty and disdainful.

“Thank you. That’ll be all,” Jasper said to the Higgins brothers.

The young men put their hats back on and inched backward before escaping into the night.

Jasper shut the door as I headed toward the library with Miss Cooper.

My cook, Lizzie, appeared, poking her head out of the door that led downstairs to the kitchen, bringing the scent of garlic and butter with her. “What’s all the commotion?” She placed her flour-covered hands over her round cheeks. “Who is that?”

“The new schoolteacher. Harley had an accident on the way back from the station,” Jasper said. “Don’t worry, he’s all right.” He often anticipated a question before it was asked. “But he’s got a gash on his hand. Can you send Merry over to check on him?”

Merry, who had appeared from downstairs before she could be summoned, nodded and scuttled to the closet for a coat. “Yes, yes. I’ll go right away.” Not that I would have discussed such a topic, but I assumed I wasn’t the only person in this house who’d observed young Merry’s crush on Harley. In fact, the only person who seemed oblivious to the pretty Swedish immigrant’s devotion was Harley himself. If he didn’t come to his senses soon, I couldn’t imagine the strong, tall woman with golden skin and hair would remain single for long. The town was full of men only too happy to entertain her.

As Merry bounded out the door, I headed into the library, Lizzie and Jasper close at my heels.

I set Miss Cooper on the east-facing couch. In the lamplight, she looked even younger. She couldn’t have been much older than twenty. In our correspondence, Quinn Cooper had never mentioned her age, but I’d assumed she was an old maid—a spinster with a silver bun and a long nose with a wart.

Jasper had already fetched a blanket. I grabbed one of the square pillows from the settee and placed it under Miss Cooper’s head.

Lizzie, never exactly calm in normal circumstances, stood over Miss Cooper, tutting and fussing. “Is she breathing?” Short and round with curly brown hair that was forever springing from her bun and freckles that covered her fair skin, Lizzie looked very much like her Irish mother. Both her parents had worked for my father at our country estate. When I left for America, she and Jasper had asked to join me. Initially, I brought only Jasper but sent for her as soon as I was settled here in Emerson Pass. She’d been making delicious meals ever since.

I knelt at the side of the couch and picked up one limp arm to feel Miss Cooper’s pulse. “Strong,” I said.

“Shall I fetch tea?” Lizzie asked, looking as if she were about to burst into tears. “For when she wakes?”

“Yes, and smelling salts,” Jasper said. “We need smelling salts.”

“And loosen her corset,” Lizzie said. “God knows that’ll help.”

Jasper coughed and turned red.

“Let’s try smelling salts first,” I said, almost laughing despite the gravity of the situation.

Lizzie nodded and flew from the room and down the stairs to the kitchen.

“I had no idea she was young,” I said to Jasper.

“It’s not proper for her to travel alone,” Jasper said. “Americans have no sense of propriety.”

At times, I found Jasper’s reluctance to accept America’s ways irritating, but this time I agreed with him. A wave of shame washed over me. Why hadn’t a companion accompanied her? It wasn’t proper. Every young woman should travel with a companion. I should have paid for someone to chaperone her. Dangers lurked around every corner on a train headed west. Not to mention here in Emerson Pass. Rough and lonely men would do terrible things to her if given the chance. How could I have possibly suggested she stay at the boardinghouse? She wouldn’t be safe there. Miners and prospectors stayed there, forever enraged that the gold they hoped for never appeared. They stumbled home at night from the saloon, drunk and violent. It would be fine for an older woman who had more than likely seen a thing or two, but this innocent woman would be in constant danger.

She would have to stay here in the house. We had more than enough rooms to accommodate her. I’d built this house with three extra bedrooms, hoping for family and friends from England to come for extended stays.

I heard the clamor of my children filing down the stairs. They’d come to say good night. Would seeing their teacher splayed out upon their couch scare them? I feared it might. Especially after what had happened to their mother. I glanced at Jasper, who uncharacteristically seemed as rattled and unsure as I. Before I could decide upon a diversion, the children burst into the library. All five of them. Wearing their flannel nightgowns, they looked clean and shiny and smelled of lavender soap. I loved them after their baths.

For once, the children seemed stunned into silence. They gathered around the prone body on the sofa and stared.

Flynn, one of the nine-year-old twins, not unusually, found his voice first. “Who is she, Papa?”

Before I could answer, Cymbeline, only six years old but particularly articulate, stepped closer to Miss Cooper and whispered, “Is she a princess from a faraway land?” Cymbeline’s dark curls, still damp from her bath, stuck to her rosy cheeks.

Nanny Foster, from behind, spoke in a sharp voice. “Cymbeline, don’t get too close. She might be sick.”

“No, it’s all right, Nanny,” I said. “She’s only bumped her head.”

“Is she a stranger, Papa?” Josephine asked in a voice much too old for only being thirteen. “Have we taken her in from the cold?”

“No, this is our new teacher. Harley had an accident in the sleigh.”

“The small sleigh?” Flynn asked.

“What does it matter?” I asked.

“I’m just wondering,” Flynn said, grinning. “Because if the larger one is wrecked, then we wouldn’t be able to go into town for school.”

“You’re out of luck. It was the small one,” I said.

Fiona, my smallest daughter, slipped her hand into mine. At three, she still looked like a doll, with dark ringlets and round blue eyes that could melt the heart of the fiercest man. Especially her father. “Papa, I’m scared.”

I lifted her into my arms. “No need to be afraid, my darling. Doc’s on his way. He’ll fix her right up.”

“What if he can’t?” Theo asked. The quiet, worried half of my twin set didn’t have to explain his question. He would be thinking of his mother, who had walked into a blizzard and died when Fiona was a baby. Theo had been the one to find her. The doctor had come then, too.

“Let’s not worry ourselves,” Nanny Foster said in her brisk, unemotional way. “This looks like a strong but rather foolish young woman.”

I wasn’t sure how a bump on her head made her foolish, but I’d learned not to follow up with Nanny Foster’s observations unless I wanted a few more paragraphs of her opinions.

The children all gathered close, inspecting our patient.

Fiona wriggled from my arms, forever worried she’d miss something her older siblings were privy to.

Jasper appeared with a piece of ice wrapped in a cloth and placed it gently on top of that mound of shiny hair.

Miss Cooper’s eyes fluttered open. I took a step backward, stunned by the beauty of those eyes, brown and shiny as polished stone. They widened with alarm as she took in her surroundings. Here we were, staring at her like she was part of the circus. “Children, step away. Give Miss Cooper some room to breathe.”

“Oh, dear,” Miss Cooper said. “What’s happened? Where am I?”

 

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“A story worthy of more than 5 Stars.” —Wild Sage Book Blog

The wholesome second book in USA Today bestselling author Tess Thompson's Emerson Pass Historicals historical romance series.

Her love died on a battlefield. He carries a torch for a woman he’s never met. Can the tragic death of a soldier entwine the souls of two strangers?

Colorado, 1920. Josephine Barnes wrote every day to her beloved fiancé battling in the trenches of the Great War. Devastated when he’s killed in action, she vows never to marry and buries her grief in the construction of the town’s first library. But she’s left breathless when she receives a request from a gracious gentleman to visit and return the letters containing her declarations of desire.

Philip Baker survived the war but returned home burdened with a distressing secret. Though he knows it’s wrong, he can’t stop reading through the beautiful sentiments left among his slain comrade’s possessions. Plagued by guilt, he’s unable to resist connecting with the extraordinary woman who captured his heart with her words.

When Josephine invites Philip to join her gregarious family for the holidays, she’s torn by her loyalty to a ghost and her growing feelings for the gallant man. And as Philip prepares to risk everything by telling her the truth about her dead fiancé, he fears he could crush Josephine’s blossoming happiness forever. 

Will they break free from their painful pasts to embrace a passion meant to be?

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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:

Chapter 1: Josephine

The letter from Phillip Baker came on paper as thin as our pond’s ice after a first autumn freeze. Perhaps that delicate paper should have been a clue as to what was to come. How my life would change. One could not skate on ice that thin. How right I was.

I read his correspondence twice, thinking through his offer. With a lightness in my steps that did not match my heavy heart, I walked to the window of my parents’ sitting room. A first snowfall had blanketed the valley where my father’s estate dwelt between two Colorado mountains. Our winter wonderland had come late this year. A brilliant, sunny, crisp fall had gone on for months. Given all that the last few years had bestowed upon us, we gratefully enjoyed every moment.

We’d survived the days and days of worry over my twin brothers fighting in France and the threat of the Spanish flu to the troops. Then, a second wave—the deadliest wave—of the Spanish flu had plundered the world. A third in the fall, threatening us once more. Emerson Pass had managed to remain isolated enough that we’d been spared.

Finally, though, it seemed as if the world would return to our lives before the war. Papa and Mama had seemed to be able to breathe again for the first time since the boys had enlisted, not yet seventeen, having lied about their age. Our dear friend Isak Olofsson had also survived. All three were home now. Not quite the same, but physically intact.

Not all of our boys returned to Emerson Pass. We’d lost Francis Lane. I hadn’t known him well, but he was part of us. A soul lost. Buried in a cemetery across the seas. A young man who would never know what it was like to marry, have children, grow old.

And I’d lost Walter Green. He was not one of us. No one but I mourned him here. I had enough grief for a whole town.

The first letter from Phillip Baker had come in the fall of 1918. I could remember every word.

My name is Phillip Baker. I’m not sure if Walter ever mentioned me in his letters, but we knew each other for a brief time when we were children and then, by coincidence, were assigned to the same unit for basic training and sent to France together. I’m writing to tell you that Walter was killed in action last week. I was aware of your correspondence with him and that you would want to know. I’m sorry. He died bravely and without any suffering.

Just a month before the end, he’d been killed in action. The promise of our future together snuffed out before it began. I’d had only two weeks with him. Two weeks of bliss. Now I had only the memories. They would have to sustain me for the rest of my life. I would be a spinster. A librarian spinster and auntie to my six siblings’ children.

I touched my fingertips to the cold glass. Snow fell steadily outside the windows. In Colorado, we had at least a dozen words to describe snowflakes. Today it was a dry, fat flake. Good for skiing, according to Flynn and Theo. A new sport they’d fallen in love with after their time in Europe. They’d come home determined to bring skiing here to Emerson Pass. The sport of the future, Flynn had declared. A way for our town to continue to grow and flourish. Shops would be built around the visitors. They’d seen it in the Alps. It would work here too, they’d told Papa. He’d agreed to let them use part of their trust for the investment in their future. They were now happily planning away for the new version of our town. They’d cleared trees on the northern mountain for runs and built a lodge from the logs. In the spring, they would complete the rest of the needed details. By next winter, if all went well, skiing would have come to us for good.

I returned to the letter, reading the neat handwriting.

November 20, 1919

Dear Josephine,

I hope this letter will find you well. I’m also hopeful that you’ll remember who I am. If not, I’ll be mortified. Since returning from the war, I’ve been in New York City. Unfortunately, I became very ill last year with the Spanish flu. While convalescing, I remembered your descriptions of Emerson Pass from the letters you wrote to Walter. (He often read passages to me and the other men.)

Your descriptions of the wildflowers, sky, and trees have convinced me to travel west in pursuit of my own place of belonging. I’ve decided to take a leap of faith and come to Colorado, perhaps to settle for good. I’m writing to see if I might visit you and your family? I ended up with your letters and the books you sent. I feel guilty that I haven’t sent them to you before now, as I’m sure you’d like to have them.

My request and trip may sound strange to you, but there’s nothing or no one keeping me here. I grew up in an orphanage and have never truly had a home.

We all looked forward to your letters, as Walter shared many stories of you and your family with the rest of us lonely boys who, sadly, had no one writing to us. From your stories, I feel as if I know you all. I’d be honored to bring your letters, novels, and photograph and to meet you and your family.

I’m also hopeful that your father and brothers might have ideas for me in regard to work. Before the war, I apprenticed with a cabinetmaker. If they know of anything, I’d be pleased to hear of it.

If you’re amenable to my visit, I thank you kindly and look forward to hearing from you.

Sincerely,

Phillip Baker

His request to visit wasn’t the strange part. I found it odd that he made no mention of Walter, other than to say he’d shared my letters. An image of Walter laughing during one of our picnics flashed before my eyes. His sunny head of hair and light blue eyes had transfixed me from the start. He’d had an infectious smile that made me feel dizzy. I’d met him in Denver while I was attending a librarian conference. He’d been passing through on his way to report for duty. Our meeting had been pure chance. He happened to be out that warm evening while I walked in the park with colleagues. I’d thought at the time it was destiny. I now knew it was the day that led to my broken heart. Did I wish I’d never met him and be spared the pain of losing him? I couldn’t answer that question.

I pressed my forehead against the glass. If only the coolness would numb the rest of me. Even for a few minutes. To feel like my old self instead of a worn-out, dried-up spinster. I would be twenty-three on my next birthday. Most women were married with a child by this age.

“What is it, Jo? Why did you sigh?” Papa asked from behind his newspaper.

I hadn’t realized I’d sighed. Papa knew me too well. After everything we’d been through together, it was no wonder. I turned from the window and stepped nearer to the couch where he and Mama Quinn were having their tea. “It’s a letter from Walter’s friend. The one who wrote to tell me of Walter’s death.”

“Yes, we remember.” Mama’s eyes immediately softened with sympathy. “What does he want?”

“He wants to come out here for a visit and possibly to stay. My letters were a travel brochure, I guess.”

Papa lowered the paper onto his lap. “How interesting.” His English accent, according to my friends, remained as strong today as it had been when he came to America so many years ago. I, however, could not hear it. He sounded only like my beloved Papa.

“Does he have a wife and family?” Mama folded her hands together on her lap. I’d pulled her from reading. The novel, My Ántonia, was face-open on the couch next to her. Her fair hair was arranged in waves pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck. Younger than my father by fifteen years, she was blessed with delicate, even features and a heart-shaped face.

Just over ten years had passed since she’d arrived to open the first school of Emerson Pass and my father’s heart. Almost immediately she’d become the heart of our family. All five of us thought of her as our mother. Since their marriage, two little sisters had come, bringing our total to seven. Papa called us “The Lucky Seven.”

“He has no family of any kind,” I said. “In fact, he was raised in an orphanage. I have the feeling he’s in need of a fresh start and work. He thought Papa might have ideas for him.”

“How sad. We’ll help him in any way we can.” Mama set her teacup onto its saucer and fixed her kind brown eyes upon me. “Unless there’s a reason you wouldn’t want him to come here?” The anxious way she looked at me lately filled me with guilt. Papa, Mama, and my sisters had been worried about me. I hated knowing I caused them concern. My job was to be the responsible, steady eldest, not the sad, mopey mess I’d become.

“No, not at all,” I said. “Should we invite him to stay with us? Just until he can figure out what to do next?”

“Yes, we’ve room for him if he doesn’t mind bunking with the boys.” Papa drained the last of his tea and set aside his cup. “I’m keen to help any man who fought in that terrible war.”

“He says he trained as a cabinetmaker.” I hugged my middle as I walked over to the fire that roared in the hearth, crackling and snapping. “He says Walter shared the contents of my letters with him and the rest of the boys. I find that…perplexing.”

“Which part?” Mama asked.

“That he shared them. My letters were intimate, meant for only one pair of eyes.” I looked down at my hands to keep from crying.

“Darling, it doesn’t really matter,” Papa said softly. “If your letters brought them some relief, isn’t it an honor?”

“I suppose.” I sat in one of the armchairs and watched the fire. One end of a log looked like the nose of a fox.

Mama smoothed her hands over the top of her day dress made of crimson organza. “Phillip must stay for Christmas.”

“Yes, I agree,” Papa said. “He shouldn’t be alone for the holidays. We’ll take care of him until he can get on his feet. The boys can show him around town, do a little carousing.”

“Alexander, carousing?” Mama raised her eyebrows and looked properly mortified. “Our boys do not carouse.”

Papa didn’t answer, but his eyes twinkled as he gazed at her. My chest ached with both gratitude and sorrow. Their love pleased me. Yet it also brought to light what I’d lost. I’d hoped Walter and I would share a life as they had.

Mama returned her gaze to me. “Jo, what’s troubling you?”

“We don’t know Phillip,” I said. “What if he’s awful?”

“I doubt he will be,” Mama said. “He was so kind to write to you about Walter’s death.”

“That’s true. If he’s Walter’s friend, he must be all right,” I said.

“We didn’t really know Walter,” Papa said.

I sucked in my bottom lip to hold back a retort. Never in my life had there been any discord between my parents and me. However, they hadn’t approved of my whirlwind courtship with Walter. Which was in no way his fault. He hadn’t had time to come home with me and meet my family. “He was here such a short time. There wasn’t an opportunity for him to court me properly. He planned to, when he returned from the war.”

“Yes, of course, darling. We understand,” Mama said in a soothing voice.

“Yes, yes, quite right.” Papa followed up too hastily. No one wanted to upset me these days. I missed when my family treated me normally. Now it felt as if I were a fragile piece of china no one wanted to break.

“May I read the letter?” Mama asked.

I nodded and handed it over the tea set. She unfolded the letter and began to read.

“Sweetheart, have a biscuit,” Papa said to me. “You’re looking much too thin.”

I obeyed, not having the energy to disagree, and put a cookie, which Papa called a biscuit, on a plate. He poured a cup of tea and set it on the table front of me. He believed most problems could be solved after a cup of tea. Given my troubled mother’s death when I was nine, I’d known differently for a long time.

Mama folded the letter and put it back in the envelope. She had a strange look on her face, somewhere between puzzled and intrigued. “I think it might be good for you to have him here.”

“You mean to tell me stories about Walter?”

“Not that exactly,” Mama said. “He’s someone of your own age group. Perhaps he will become a new friend?”

Mama and Papa exchanged a glance I couldn’t decipher.

“I don’t need friends. I have Poppy and my sisters.” Poppy and I had grown up together. Their parents had died when Poppy was young and her older brother, Harley, had raised her while acting as groundskeeper and gardener. Poppy had been away for the better part of two years, working as an apprentice to a veterinarian in cattle country. I’d missed her more than I’d thought possible. She had just always been there and now she was off to her own adventures. “Poppy will be back in a few weeks. But I shall be a good hostess, don’t worry.”

“Regardless, we can’t let a hero be alone during what’s supposed to be the merriest time of the year.” Mama had the biggest heart in the world, rivaled only by my sister Fiona, who seemed to think it was her job to look after every single person in the world.

“I’ll write him this evening and ask if he’d like to stay with us,” I said.

All four of my gaggle of sisters rushed into the room. Those who thought only boys were loud had never met my sisters. Harley had taken them into town in the sleigh to ice-skate for the afternoon. The pond in the center of town had frozen solid for the first time this season just last night.

“You won’t believe what Delphia did,” Cymbeline said, without concern over interrupting the adults.

Delphia, in preparation for the admonishment, tore a cap from her mushroom of blond curls and glared at her older sister. “I didn’t do it.”

At sixteen, Cymbeline lorded over the younger ones. Fiona, thirteen, was the protector. Adelaide, or Addie as we called her, was quiet and shy and obedient to bossy Cymbeline’s wishes. Four-year-old Delphia, bless her, had the same fire as Cymbeline. From the time she could talk, she was having none of the dictatorship.

“She challenged a boy twice her age to a race,” Cymbeline said. “And when she didn’t win, she knocked him to the ground.”

Delphia’s bottom lip trembled. “I didn’t.”

“The whole thing was an accident.” Fiona placed her hand on Delphia’s head. “She slid into him because she was going so fast. Anyway, she learned it from you, Cym. You’re always racing boys.”

“That’s different.” Cymbeline’s color heightened, making her even more beautiful than the moment before. God help us all, she was stunning and looked more like a woman than a girl. Mama always said we only had two types in this family. Fair and blond, like her, me, and the two youngest girls. Or dark hair and deep blue eyes, like Papa, the boys, Cymbeline and Fiona.

“Come here, little one,” Papa said to Delphia.

She trudged over to him. He pulled her into his lap. “Tell me what happened.”

She looked up at him with angelic eyes. “It’s what Fiona said. I was going fast, pretending that a monster was chasing me, and then I ran into him.”

“Did you say you were sorry?” Mama asked.

“Yes, that’s not the problem,” Cymbeline said as she grabbed a cookie from the plate. “She said she was sorry and then she planted a kiss on him. On his cheek.”

I had to cover my mouth with my hand to hide my smile.

“His cheeks looked like an apple,” Delphia said. “I just had to kiss one.”

I caught Mama’s eye. She seemed to be trying not to laugh but kept it together enough to say, “Delphia, you mustn’t ever kiss a boy.”

“But why?” Delphia blinked her big blue eyes.

“Because it’s not proper,” Mama said.

I noticed Addie was shivering. “Come here, doll. I’ll warm you up.” I tucked her into the chair next to me and rubbed her cold hands between mine. Addie was quiet and serious like me. I adored her.

“Mama and Papa kiss all the time,” Delphia said.

“They’re married.” Cymbeline plopped into an armchair next to me. “You don’t understand anything about how the world works.”

“Cym, don’t say it like that. She’s just a little girl.” Fiona went to stand in front of the fire with her hands behind her back.

“I’m your baby,” Delphia said as she gazed up at our father. “Right, Papa?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to kiss boys.” Papa put his chin on her head and looked over at me with eyes that danced with humor. Mama always says it was his dancing eyes that drew her to him. I knew exactly what she meant. “You’re my baby, which means you can’t love any boy but me.”

“I won’t do it again.” Delphia let out a long-suffering sigh, as if all the fun in the world was taken from her.

“Besides the unfortunate incident with the apple cheek,” Mama said, “what else happened?”

“That ridiculous Viktor Olofsson was skating with all the girls, one after another.” Cymbeline shook her dark curls. “He had the nerve to ask me.”

“What did you say?” I asked, knowing the answer, but teasing her anyway.

“Jo, don’t be daft,” Cymbeline said. “I would never let that big oaf touch my hand.”

He was a large man but most certainly not an oaf. Although his shoulders were thick and wide like a Colorado mountain, he was a gentle, intelligent soul who I suspected had a deep and long-lasting crush on Cymbeline. “I think he’s like a hero in a storybook. Brave and strong.” I’d once seen him pick up a wagon off a man’s leg when the horse had bucked and broken free, leaving his owner under a wheel. With almost white hair and light green eyes, he looked like the Vikings in one of the history books I had in the library.

Cymbeline’s eyes flashed as she stuck out her plump bottom lip and scowled. Strangely, her sour expression did nothing to disguise her beauty. “He’s such a show-off, doing tricks on the ice.”

“You do tricks on the ice,” Fiona said, not unkindly but more as a fact. “All the same ones Viktor does.”

Her observation was correct. If Viktor learned a trick on the ice, Cymbeline practiced until she’d conquered it.

Mama had confided in me more than once that she was afraid Cymbeline would never be satisfied living in a man’s world as we do. If she’d been old enough, I had no doubt she would have volunteered to be a nurse in the war effort overseas.

“Well, be that as it may,” Mama said, “we have exciting news. Jo’s acquaintance, Phillip Baker, is coming to stay with us for the holidays.”

“The one who wrote to you about Walter?” Fiona asked.

“The same,” I said. “How did you remember?”

Fiona shrugged. “I remember everything about my family. Anyway, it wasn’t like I could ever forget that day.” Her eyes glistened. “I shouldn’t like to ever see you that way again, Jo.”

I held out my hand to her. “Come here, sweet sister.” She sat on the arm of my chair and I patted her knee. “You don’t have to worry. I’ll never give my heart to anyone else. I’m the spinster of the family.”

Chapter 2: Phillip

The train chugged up a slope so steep I was certain we would not stay on the tracks. Across from me, a baby in her mother’s arms cried. To distract myself from my fears of falling into the abyss below me, I pulled out the letter from Josephine. I breathed in the faint smell of her perfume that lingered on the paper. My imagination? Perhaps. Regardless, this one was to me, unlike the stack I’d read too many times to remember. Letters that were not written to me. By a girl who didn’t belong to me.

It’s a terrible thing to hate a dead man.

Yet I knew him for who he truly was. When I’d known him as a child in the orphanage, I’d recognized immediately how he used his charm to get what he wanted. Even the nuns fell for his act. When he ran away at age twelve, I genuinely think their hearts were broken. Women, even ones sworn to love Jesus, couldn’t help but fall for Walter Green.

Hope lurked inside me, goading me into this fool’s errand. After cheating death a second time by recovering from the Spanish flu, I would not rest easy until I came west and told Josephine the truth about the man to whom she’d pledged her eternal love. If not for me, I knew she would love a ghost, possibly forever. Josephine Barnes was a loyal woman. Nothing would deter her unless she understood what kind of man he really was under all that golden-haired, blue-eyed charm. I couldn’t bear the thought of a woman like her spending the rest of her life remembering a man who never really existed. Walter Green was not the man she thought he was. I was the only one left alive to tell her the truth.

He hadn’t loved her. There were other women who wrote to him. All who believed he would marry them when he returned from the war. All targeted for their wealth. Playing the odds, he’d said to me one time. The more he had waiting, the more likely he would marry into money. Those were to secure his future. Countless dalliances with nurses were just for fun.

Yes, I wanted her to know the truth. But it wasn’t for purely altruistic reasons. I wanted her for myself. As I’d convalesced after the flu, I’d read the letters she’d sent to Walter hundreds of times. I’d stared at her photograph until I memorized every detail of her pretty face. The stories of her close family and the beautiful mountains where she lived had moved me more than they should have. In truth, I’d fallen in love with her. Was I lonely? Yes. I’d been lonely all my life. This was something else entirely. In addition to my yearning for a family and my romantic nature, I had this odd sensation of a deep connection between the two of us. The idea of fate, even soul mates, had crossed my mind. Was there a reason beyond mortal comprehension that I’d been the one who ended up with the box of her correspondence?

Could I pinpoint the exact moment I decided to write to her and ask if I might come to visit? Not really. It was more of a gradual thing, an expansion in my mind of what might be possible. Even though I knew her affection toward me was unlikely, I had to try. A man like me didn’t win a rich, beautiful girl like her. I was poor and uneducated. My only skills were those of a cabinetmaker. Yet I had hope. I’d escaped the war and then the flu. I had to take a chance.

I glanced down at the letter, reading it one more time.

Dear Phillip,

My family and I would very much like you to come for a visit. Whether you decide to stay permanently in Emerson Pass or not, we’d be honored if you’d spend the holidays with us.

I hope you won’t find my large and somewhat obnoxious family too overwhelming. I’ve asked them all to be on their best behavior, but that’s not a guarantee. You’ll bunk with my twin brothers. They also served in the war. I’m sure you’ll all become fast friends.

Papa and my brothers will be happy to help you find employment if you decide to stay.

I shall look forward to meeting you soon.

Sincerely,

Josephine Barnes

I folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, then traced the letters of my name, written by her hand.

Walter, I thought, you lucky, conniving bastard. He’d held that hand in his own.

The train had made it to the top of the peak. I looked out the window to snow that sparkled under the sun. Josephine hadn’t exaggerated about the piercing blue hue of the sky.

The baby stopped crying. Her mother, a pretty blonde woman wearing a gray traveling suit and matching hat, apologized to me for the noise. “The altitude hurts her ears.”

“No need to apologize, ma’am. We were all babies once.”

She peered back at me with obvious curiosity. “Do you know someone in Emerson Pass? Most people who head our way either live there or are visiting family or friends.”

“I’m visiting the Barnes family.”

Her face lit up with a bright smile. “The Barneses. They’re very close friends of mine. I’m Martha Neal. I was the second schoolteacher in Emerson Pass, but now I’m married to the town doctor. He was an outsider who moved to town to take over the practice of our last doctor and somehow managed to make me his wife.” She indicated the baby with a dip of her chin. “This one is named Quinn, after our first teacher in Emerson Pass, who is now married to Alexander Barnes. But you know all that, I suppose?”

How much should I say? My natural tendency was to remain taciturn. When one’s lived the kind of life I have, sharing too much led to either pity or fear, as if being an orphan or poor were contagious. “I served in the war with Josephine’s beau, Walter Green. When he died he left a few items that I thought she might like to have. It’s taken a while to get out here. My name’s Phillip Baker.”

Her eyes widened. “You’re a friend of Walter’s?”

Not exactly a friend. “That’s correct. Did you know him?”

“No, no. I’ve only heard about him from Josephine. Those of us who attended school together are quite close. We meet for tea at least twice a month to discuss books and gossip. Oh dear me, where are my manners? I’m happy to meet you, Mr. Baker, and I’m terribly sorry about Walter. We lost one of our boys and the whole town cried for a week. What you must have seen, I can’t imagine.” Martha bounced Quinn on her lap. The baby babbled and chewed on her fist.

“Thank you. He wasn’t a close friend. We served together, that’s all.” The car jerked, causing both Martha and me to sway slightly. I gripped my seat with both hands.

“Our poor Josephine. His death broke her heart. We all hoped she’d move on, but so far she hasn’t.”

“How so?” I couldn’t help but ask. What luck to meet Martha. I’d gather as much information about Josephine as I could. The nuns often told us that the more we knew about a subject, the better we could make a decision or persuade others to our cause.

“She’s sworn herself to spinsterhood and running the library. Which is disappointing to the eligible bachelors in town. Given half a chance, most of them would snatch her up if they could. She’s remarkable. Did you know she brought the library to us with funding from Andrew Carnegie?”

I nodded. She’d written in detail about the building and opening of her library. As if Walter had cared. I’m not sure he’d ever read a book. “Yes, Walter mentioned that to me.”

“May I ask what you’re bringing to her?” Martha adjusted Quinn to the other knee.

“The letters she wrote to him. There are stacks of them, and I thought she might like to have them. I wanted an excuse to come out here, too. I’m thinking of staying.”

“I hope you will.” She smiled at me. “We’re friendly in Emerson Pass. I think you’ll love it as much as the rest of us do. And how kind of you to bring the letters. Jo walked to the post office every Monday and Friday with a letter in her hand. Without fail, even though he almost never sent one in return. Do you know why he wrote back so seldom?”

He was too busy sleeping with nurses to reply to Josephine’s heart-wrenchingly beautiful letters. “I’ve no idea, really. He wasn’t the writing sort, I guess.”

“Have you brought the books she sent, too?” Martha asked.

She knew about the books? “Yes, I wanted to return them to her for the library. They gave me such pleasure during difficult times. I wanted to make sure others could enjoy them.”

“You like books?” Martha watched me with a more serious expression on her face.

“More than anything.”

“And Walter?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did he like books? Martha asked.

“I can’t say that he did, no.” He’d always tossed them over to me the moment he took them from the box Josephine had sent. The candy he’d kept for himself. He’d had a terrible sweet tooth.

Her glaze flickered to the window. “How odd.”

“Ma’am?”

“Josephine told me he’d written to her two times about how much he enjoyed the books, even mentioning specific plots and characters. She was thrilled, of course.”

I flushed. I’d told him what to write in those letters so that she continued to think of him as a scholar. Both times he’d tricked me into describing the plots. I couldn’t help myself but to discuss books with enthusiasm.

Martha peered at me through narrowed eyes. “May I be frank about something?”

“Of course.” Where was she going with this?

“I’ve suspected there might have been others. Women, I mean.”

I bit back a bark of surprise. Martha was no fool. I almost smiled with triumph. “What makes you think this?”

“When my husband was courting me, he was already a busy country doctor, yet he wrote me love letters at least once a week, and we lived in the same town. All he had to do to say hello was walk over to my parents’ store. All of which leads me to believe that Walter’s feelings weren’t what he’d professed them to be. What’s the old saying? Actions speak louder than words.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s not for me to say.”

“You shouldn’t play poker.”

“Poker?”

The baby began to fuss. Martha reached into a bag by her side and came out with a hard-looking biscuit and handed it to Quinn. “I can see by the look on your face that there was more to this Walter than Josephine knew.”

I moved my gaze away from her, flustered by this interrogation, and looked out the window. We were now on actual ground, passing through a dense forest of fir and pine trees. If Martha was an example of what I was to face in Emerson Pass, then I better get my story straight.

Given that I was only four when they died of yellow fever, I had only a few memories of my parents. One of them was of my mother scolding me for lying about taking a cookie without asking. Tell the truth, Phillip, even when you know you could get away with a fib.

However, Martha was a stranger to me. I didn’t want Josephine needlessly hurt. If she were to learn Walter’s true character, it should come from me.

“Mr. Baker?”

I returned my gaze to Martha. “Men don’t speak often of matters of the heart.”

“But what about men who face death daily? Don’t they confess their fears? Their loves?”

I was starting to feel rather sorry for Martha’s husband. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“You are sure.”

I didn’t say anything.

“I’ll be clearer,” she said. “Was he in love with Josephine? Was he planning on marrying her as she thought?”

“Respectfully, Mrs. Neal, I’m not sure I know, even if it were for me to say.”

One eyebrow rose. “I see.”

I was afraid she did.

“May I ask,” I said, drawing the words out long, “if his intentions were not completely pure, what would you advise me to tell Josephine?”

She stared at me for a few seconds. Even the baby had stopped chewing on her cookie to focus on me. “I suppose that depends on your intentions. Have you come to hurt her?”

“Of course not. The opposite.”

She gave me a satisfied smile. “May I take a guess, Mr. Baker, about your actual intentions?”

“Of course.” Despite the chill of the train’s car, my shirt clung to my back.

“You’ve fallen in love with her photograph. And perhaps you’ve read her letters, which made you aware of her intelligence and good heart. You most certainly are the one who told Walter what to write about the books.”

I coughed and returned to the view of the landscape.

“You’ve come to get to know her,” Martha said. “To see if your instincts about her are correct.”

“What if I have? Will you rat on me?” I turned back to my interrogator.

She gave me another satisfied smile. “How fortunate that we were to meet today.”

I swallowed and waited for the blow. Was there any other way for her to interpret my actions? Traipsing across the country because I thought I was in love with a girl I’d never met would not be greeted with approval.

“Josephine is my dear friend whom I love very much. However, I also have excellent instincts about people, and I’ve thought from the beginning that something wasn’t quite right with this Walter character. Josephine has been practical and steady her entire life, but in this particular instance, I think she was taken away by the idea of love.”

“Don’t underestimate his charm,” I said drily. “He’d perfected it over time.”

“How long had you known him?”

I drew in a deep breath. I was in too far now. “I knew him for a brief time when we were children. We were at the same orphanage for a year or so. Until he ran away.”

Both eyebrows raised this time. “Ran away? To where, I wonder?”

“In all truthfulness, I don’t know.” He’d run away at twelve, unable to abide by the nuns’ rules. Even during all the hours we’d spent together during the war, he’d not filled me in on exactly where he went or how he survived during the time before he joined the army. I had a distinct feeling that he’d been involved in criminal activity.

“Were there other women? Is he a charlatan? Did he want her money?” Martha asked. “Please, Mr. Baker, tell me the truth.”

“I believe all those things to be true.”

“Believe or know?”

“Know.”

“And the others?”

“All from wealthy families. He was ensuring his future upon his return.”

She was quiet for a moment. Her cheeks had flushed red and she repeatedly tapped her foot as if she wanted to bore a hole through the floor. Finally, she turned to look at me.

“This is what you’re going to do, Mr. Baker. Give it a few days before you tell her of Walter’s true intentions. I’m afraid it’ll drive her away. Kill the messenger, if you will.”

“Yes.”

“Spend time with her. Maybe use a little charm of your own to thaw her out, perhaps show her how much life there is to live.”

“Being charming’s not really my strength. I’ve nothing to offer, really.”

“But you’ve come anyway?”

“Ever hopeful.”

“You’re handsome. That will help.”

I almost laughed. “I am?”

“Yes. Have you not seen yourself in the mirror? Strong jawline. High cheekbones. Sapphire-colored eyes. Enough hair for three men. My husband will be jealous of that, I can assure you.”

“Walter looked like the god of the sun or the like,” I said. “All golden.”

“Yes, I can imagine the type.” She wiped drool from Quinn’s chin with a handkerchief before looking back at me. “One piece of advice. If you win over her family, that’s half the battle. They’re as tight a clan as they come.”

I nodded. “That much was clear from the letters.”

She made a noise somewhere between a yelp and yap. “You did read them. I knew it.”

“I’m ashamed to admit it, but yes. He’d stored them all in a box. I took them with me after he was killed.”

“Did you not have letters of your own?”

“No. There’s no one. Never has been.”

“There should be.”

It was my turn to study Martha. “What makes you think I’m any different from Walter?”

“My parents own the dry goods store in town. I’ve spent my whole life watching people from behind the counter. I can tell an honest man when I see one.”

I had no idea what I’d done to make her think I was honest, but I didn’t ask. She’d figured out everything else rather quickly.

“Her family invited me to stay for the holidays,” I said. “Which astounded me.”

“Get ready, Mr. Baker. That’s just the beginning. In Emerson Pass no one’s allowed to be a stranger for long. Before you know it, you’ll feel like you’ve been here forever.”

As if the train agreed, it slowed as we approached the station.

“Welcome to Emerson Pass,” Martha said. “Where you can belong if you only ask.”

 

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Cymbeline Barnes declared Viktor Olofsson her arch-enemy when they were children. When he saved her beloved sister, she started to see him as a hero instead. Still, she can't let go of the idea that her destiny is waiting somewhere else in the world.

Viktor Olofsson has cared for Cymbeline his whole life. However, when she continues to rebuff him, he allows himself to entertain the idea of newcomer Emma.

Will Cymbeline come to terms with her life and wake up to the idea of love before it's too late?

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.”

 

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“Every time I read a Tess Thompson novel I think, it cannot get better, and yet this novel could possibly be her best work...Absolutely worth five glorious stars.” —Cecly Ann Mitchell, author of Three Rings

She's afraid to take risks. He's an incurable daredevil. When tragedy throws them together, will it spark a lasting devotion?

Crystal Whalen isn't sure why she should go on. Two years after her husband's death on a ski trip, she's devastated when a fire destroys her quiet Colorado mountain home. And when she can't keep her hands off the gorgeous divorcé who's become her new temporary housemate, it only feeds her grief and growing guilt.

Garth Welte won't be burned again. After his ex-wife took most of his money, the downhill-skiing Olympic medalist is determined to keep things casual with the sexy woman he can't resist. But the more time they spend with each other, the harder it is to deny his burgeoning feelings.

As Crystal's longing for the rugged man's embrace grows, she worries that his dangerous lifestyle will steal him away. And although Garth believes she's his perfect girl, the specter of betrayal keeps a tight grip on his heart.

Will the thrill-seeker and the wary woman succumb to the power of love?

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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:

Prologue

I was eight years old the summer I found home. I’d come to Emerson Pass, Colorado, sickly and pale from the Seattle mist and nagging gray to the land of indigo skies, deep rivers, and the sound of tall grasses rustling in morning air that smelled of wild roses and sunshine.

At the beginning of that summer, on a sunny day in June, Nan and I had already eaten our lunch, thickly sliced ham layered between pieces of homemade peasant bread slathered in butter. We’d washed them down with lemonade so cold it had made my throat ache. After we’d had our rest in the shade, Nan suggested we bring home a bouquet of wildflowers to decorate the kitchen table. My grandmother wasn’t one for lounging around. If the sun was up, so was she. A rule I’d learned after only a week in Colorado.

Nan and I walked along the bank of the river collecting brightly colored flowers that I had no name for in her worn wicker basket. I didn’t have a name for any of the trees or plants I saw. The trees seemed to come in many varieties here. There were some like the ones we had at home with green needles that smelled of the Christmas tree lot around the corner from our apartment during December. Here, my favorites of all the trees had leaves shaped like hearts. Breezes whispered through the leaves and made a sound like tiny hands clapping. They clapped for me.

Narrow as a board and strong as an ox, Nan wore a blue cotton dress that flapped around her long legs. A straw hat covered her silver hair, which she wore in a blunt bob cut just below her ears.

The river flowed gently and was a color of green I’d never seen before. “Why is the river so green?” I asked.

“Because the waters run deep. Like you.”

“Deep like me.” I didn’t know yet what that meant or how true it was. I hadn’t yet learned of metaphors or analogies. All I knew was that Nan talked that way sometimes and I loved it. I loved her.

Her arm, tanned to a golden beige from her summer work in her garden and alongside Pop in the horse barn, rippled with muscle as she dipped to clip a daisy for our bouquet. I looked at my own arm. Next to her, I was pale and sallow of skin. All winter and spring, I’d suffered from head colds and a recurring eye infection. I could not escape the chill no matter how much money my mother spent on the electrical bill in an attempt to warm our drafty Seattle apartment. Finally, blaming the cloudy, misty weather for my poor health, she’d packed me up and shipped me off to my Nan and Pop. I was to spend the entire summer on their small horse farm. Soaking up sun and my Nan’s hearty cooking, I’d come home transformed, Mom felt sure.

For the first few days I missed my mother. But Nan loved me fiercely and made me feel safe and known in her warm, sun-drenched kitchen. “We’ll dry you out and fatten you up before we send you back to your mother,” she’d said to me that first morning.

“Nan, what’s the reason Mom didn’t come here with me?” I asked now as I plucked a purple flower from the ground.

“This place makes her sad.”

“Why?”

“She loved a boy very much and when he broke her heart, she had to run away to the city to try to forget all about him.”

The idea of my mother loving a boy was impossible to picture. She raised me alone with no mention of why I didn’t have a father like most of the others in my second-grade class. “Did she forget all about him?”

“I don’t think so.” Nan set down the basket and squinted her eyes, looking at something across the river.

I followed her gaze. I couldn’t see anything other than the sparkle of the sun on the gentle ripples of the river.

“Did you know him?” I asked.

“Not as well as I thought I did.”

Another riddle. Later, I’d understand. At least I figured I would. Mom often said I was too young to ask some of the questions I asked her. Maybe I was also too young to understand everything Nan told me.

I observed her strong, broad hands as she adjusted her hat. My mother’s hands were the same, only they were always stained with clay because she made pottery in her wheel. She sold her pieces at summer art fairs, but most of our money came from her job at the department store downtown that smelled of rich ladies.

“Nan, will I ever grow strong like you?”

“Oh, yes. You’re a sunflower. Do you know about sunflowers?”

“Not really.”

“They start out from a small seed. But once they break through the ground, they tilt their face upward, and the sun makes them taller and taller until they explode with a glorious yellow flower as big as my hat brim. Then, after they’re all grown, they make hundreds of seeds. In that way, they make sure the next generation will also be able to grow toward the sun. Always tilt your face toward the light, my love, and you’ll be fine all your life.”

“Have you been fine all your life?”

“I’ve had the most glorious life of all. Do you know why?”

“Because of tilting your face up at the sun?”

“That, yes. But also because of your Pop. We’ve loved each other very well for forty-five years. That’s the most important thing, Crystal. The love of your partner. You must choose wisely. When he comes, the idea of love might scare you, but you must do it anyway.”

“Was my mom a sunflower?”

“The most beautiful one I ever saw. Like you will be someday.”

“Will you still be here then?” I asked. “When I’m beautiful?”

“I hope so. I’m already old. Did you know I was forty when I had your mother? We didn’t think the good Lord would bless us with a child. We’d been married twenty years by then. I couldn’t believe it when the doctor told me.”

“Is that old to have a baby?” I didn’t know anything about babies. All I knew was that my mom had only been nineteen when she had me. I’d overheard her tell someone that once.

“It’s pretty old but not impossible. I had a friend who had a baby at forty-four. We thought we should have a club for geriatric mothers of babies.”

“You won’t die soon, will you?” I didn’t even want to think about my world without Nan.

“I will eventually but not any time soon, God willing. Watching you grow makes me want to stay here as long as I can. I sure would love to live long enough to see you all the way grown. But whether or not you can see me here on earth, I’m always right there.” She tapped my chest. “In your heart. Whenever you need me, just call out and I’ll answer.”

A shadow passed overhead, covering the sun for a moment. Nan put her dry, warm hand on my arm. “Look up, Crystal. That’s a bald eagle.”

A bird with wings as wide as I was tall seemed to ride the wind. Mesmerized by her graceful flapping, I watched as she swooped low over the grasses that swayed in the breeze and made the music of the meadow.

“I’ve never seen one this close,” Nan whispered as she took my hand.

The powerful creature dived into the grass and came up with a small field mouse in its her beak. We squeezed each other’s hands as she soared up and into the blue.

“Isn’t she something?” Nan asked.

“Yes,” I breathed. The strength and power of the eagle reverberated inside my own body. I grew robust as I stood there in the aftermath. She was there inside me just as the deep river and wild roses were. From then on, they lived inside my body and soul. They were me and I them.

On the way home, the warmth in the car made me drowsy. Nan didn’t believe in naps. She said they kept a person from sleeping properly at night. I fluttered my eyelids to stay awake. “Nan, what’s it like here at Christmastime?”

“Magical. They put lights up in all the trees and the storefronts. And it’s all white with snow. The skiers come, of course, which we like because they bring money to the good folks who live here.”

I peered out the window at the northern mountain. The wire and posts of the chairlifts seemed lonely hanging over the snowless brown ski runs. I turned back to look at the quaint, orderly main street of town. Hanging baskets with purple and yellow flowers hung from the brick buildings. People roamed the sidewalks as if they had no place to be other than exactly where they were.

“Did you know that no two snowflakes are alike?”

“How do you know?” They were so small, how could anyone see the differences?

“They put them under microscopes. I think, anyway.”

A little girl with a golden braid sat on a bench outside an ice cream shop. Her cone had a scoop of pink ice cream. Next to her, a blond man ate one with chocolate. My favorite. I sighed, wishing I could taste that sweetness on my tongue.

Nan must have noticed my covetous gaze. “Should we stop for a scoop?”

“Really?”

“Sure. We’ll bring a bowl back for Pop, though, or he’ll be sad. He loves ice cream.”

“Who doesn’t?” I asked.

Nan parked on the street, and we hustled over to the shop and each ordered a cone. She got a weird kind called rum and raisin, but I went with chocolate. She asked the clerk to set aside a scoop of maple nut for Pop. “It’ll melt if we bring it out with us.”

I nodded, then licked my cone. My eyes widened at the creamy, rich flavor. “This is the best ice cream ever.”

“Everything in Emerson Pass is better,” Nan said.

We walked outside. The little girl and her father were still seated on the bench. The man called out to Nan. Everyone knew her here. “Joy, how are you?”

“Jack Vargas. I haven’t seen you in months.”

“I’ve been working in Denver during the week. The company has an apartment there.”

“Brandi, you’re getting so big,” Nan said to the girl.

The little girl ducked her head. Shy, like me.

“This here is my granddaughter, Crystal. She’s here all summer, Brandi, if you’d like to come over to the farm to play.”

Brandi raised her gaze to inspect me. “Where do you live normally?” Her voice was as creamy and sweet as the ice cream. She had round eyes like a doll. Her skin was tanned and her yellow hair had white streaks in it as though she spent a lot of time outside. A pair of jean shorts and a peach-colored tank top were probably a lot more fashionable than the overalls Nan had pulled out of a box of my mother’s old things. Brandi was pretty. Too pretty to be my friend.

“Seattle,” I answered between nervous licks of my cone.

“That’s far away,” Brandi said.

“I had to come on the airplane.”

“All by yourself?” Brandi asked.

“Yes, but they made me stay with a lady the whole time. She was kind of mean. She gave me a pin, like a pilot has on his uniform.”

“Really? I’d like one of those. I’ve never been on a plane.”

My earlier envy of her beauty lessened. I was a city girl who had been on a plane. That gave me a little something anyway, even if I was skinny and pale as a ghost. “You can come over and see it if you want.”

Brandi looked up at her dad. “Can I?”

“I’d have to check with your mother, but I don’t see why not.” Jack Vargas looked a lot like his daughter, tanned and blond. His hair was cut as if he’d be on TV delivering the news. Actually, now that I looked at him more closely, he kind of looked like a Ken doll. Even his tan shorts and blue T-shirt seemed like something I would dress my Ken doll in.

He turned to Nan. “She looks like Jennifer at that age. I think I remember those overalls.”

“You know my mom?” I asked, so surprised I almost dropped my cone.

“They were friends when they were little,” Nan said. Why did she have the “Don’t ask for another glass of water and it’s bedtime” voice?

“Sure, right.” Jack tossed the rest of his ice cream cone into the trash can next to the bench. “How’s your mom? Is she here?”

“No, she just sent me. Nan says this place broke her heart.” Is that what she said? I had a feeling I hadn’t quoted it quite right.

Jack Vargas looked down at the ground, as if there might be something on his shoe.

“All right, then. We have to go.” Nan motioned toward the car with her chin. “I’ll get Pop’s ice cream.”

I gave Brandi a shy smile. “Guess I’ll see you around.”

“Not if I see you first.” Brandi giggled. “My dad always says that.”

I walked away, still smiling. Maybe I’d made a new friend?

I’d had no idea then that Brandi would become my very best friend in the world. That first summer turned into many more with my Nan and Pop. They were killed in a car accident the year I turned twenty, just shy of their eightieth birthdays. Everyone in town said they went out together, just as they always had for most of their lives.

Four years after their death, the richest man in Seattle came into the restaurant where I worked and asked me out; I said yes. I’d said yes again when he asked me to marry him. Even when the trolls of the internet tried to take me down, I stayed tall and sure like a sunflower. I knew I had not married him for his money. He’d been my heart. My true companion. My soul mate.

Then he died. Then I lost our baby.

A part of me died with them.

I could no longer breathe in the city of grays and mists. So I went home. Home to Emerson Pass and its indigo sky and snowflakes and Brandi. If someone had told me what awaited me there, I wouldn’t have believed them. The secrets of the past rose from the ashes to change my life. 

Chapter 1: Crystal

What is it the Buddhists say? To live is to suffer? I don’t know if they’re right, but by the time I turned thirty, I knew three truths on which to base my life. To love greatly was a risk that could and often did lead to pain. There wasn’t enough money in the world that could cure a broken heart. The only antidote to a soul split wide open was service to others.

On a morning in November, I padded to the window of Brandi’s guest room and drew back the curtain. A frost covered the ground. Fallen leaves glistened under the late-autumn sun. I hugged myself, shivering from cold.

The sound of the garage opening was followed by Trapper’s truck backing out of the driveway. He and Brandi had a doctor’s appointment with their ob-gyn in Louisville. Twenty weeks. They’d learn the gender of their baby. She would be fine, I told myself. The baby too. Soon I would have a little baby who would be like a niece or nephew. Brandi had already asked me to be his or her godmother.

From behind me, the creaking of the bed drew my attention. I turned to see that Garth had wakened. His long legs tangled up in the sheets, he lifted up on one elbow and gave me one of his lazy smiles. His wavy dark hair had flattened on one side during the night. In combination with an imprint of the sheet on his cheek, he looked like a little boy. But this was no child. This was a man. A good man. Good folks, Nan would have said.

“Morning,” Garth said with that sexy drawl of his. He’d spent time in a lot of places in the country, but his accent came from being raised by a Texan. “City Mouse, you all right?”

He called me City Mouse because he’d watched me try to cut wood into kindling one day. Until the fire came roaring through the southern mountain and took both our homes, he’d been able to see my house and yard from his deck. The flames would have taken me, too, if not for Garth. My devastatingly handsome dark-haired neighbor swooped in like that bald eagle had snatched the mouse and gotten me out of there alive.

Garth Welte. My eagle.

He’d saved me, and I’d given myself to him. My body, anyway. In the dark, I came alive under his touch. I was free of memories of Patrick then. In the mornings, though, I returned to the shadows, ashamed and guilty. This was the last time, I’d assure myself. But then another night would come.

“Are you cold?” Garth asked. “You want me to get you a sweater?”

That was Garth—always asking how I was doing or feeling. The laid-back drawl and low timbre of his voice soothed me like a favorite song.

I sat on the side of the bed, careful not to touch him. If I did, we’d be right back doing what we did together all too well. “I’m fine.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Garth said. “That last night was our last time. I’m moving out, and we need to get on with our lives. Separate from whatever it is we’ve been doing.”

“We’re a broken record.” I peeked up at him from under my lashes. “I don’t know why we can’t seem to stop.”

“Could it be because we don’t want to?” He sat up, positioning a pillow behind his back.

“But you know the longer we do this, the harder it will be to stop.” I smoothed my hand over the cotton blanket.

“And neither of us wants to get involved emotionally,” Garth said.

“That was a statement, not a question, right?” Had he changed his mind? Was he starting to fall for me? I had no idea what went on in that brain of his. As concerned as he always seemed for my wellbeing, he kept his own feelings to himself.

“I know what you want me to say.” Garth ran a hand through his hair.

“You do?” I asked.

“I do, and I can’t say it anymore.”

“Garth.” What was he doing? The rules had been clear. Sex. Friendship. That’s where it stopped. There would be no talk of anything long term. No feelings allowed.

“I know. I know I’m changing the rules. Or I want to.”

I sprang up from the bed and wrapped myself around the bedpost. “No, you don’t just up and change the rules.”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t lie to you. I’m not made that way. Every time we end up in bed my feelings deepen for you.”

“Deepen?” I disentangled from the post and stepped backward toward the windows. Deepen was a verb, a changing thing. The deep green of the river. Like me. Isn’t that what my Nan had said on that day so long ago?

“I didn’t want to.” His eyes, the color of the apple-cinnamon tea my mother was so fond of, glittered at me from across the bed.

“I’ll never love anyone but Patrick. You know that.”

“That’s what you say,” he said softly. “And if that’s true, then you’re right. We have to stop doing this.” He stared at his hands. A muscle flexed in his cheek. He was gritting his teeth. Sometimes in the middle of the night I heard him gnashing them. He needed a mouth guard. But that’s the kind of thing a wife suggests, not a woman participating in a casual fling.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I said.

“I know that.”

“If you’ve decided you’re ready for more, I’m holding you back from meeting the right person.” If anyone should have all the family trimmings of life, it was Garth. He was kind and patient and so very good. I’d watched him with the children at the shelter where we’d set up a place where the families who’d lost everything in the fire could stay until their new homes were built. He had a gentleness about him that drew the children to him.

The money for the shelter had come from me, but Garth was the heart of the effort. Especially when it came to the kids.

“I didn’t think I wanted something bigger than this,” Garth said. “I came here to live without complications. My divorce was enough heartbreak for a lifetime.”

I nodded. Garth rarely mentioned his ex-wife. However, it didn’t take a genius to understand how hard it had been on him. His parents had divorced after his brother’s death, and he’d vowed to himself that he would never be part of a failed marriage.

I should never have let this get started. I hadn't planned on sleeping with him. But after the evacuation we’d ended up at the same campsite. We’d been emotional and in need of comfort and had fallen into bed. Or in this case, a sleeping bag. I’d had too many swigs of whiskey. When he invited me into his tent, my fear and loneliness betrayed my better judgment. To my mortification, the whole thing had been a disaster. Afterward, I’d cried in his arms. I’d have thought that would be the end of it, but when we both ended up homeless, Brandi and Trapper had invited us to stay with them. Our bedrooms were way too close. The very first night, I slipped into his room. From that night on, we’d tried to resist each other, but somehow our chemistry kept bringing us back to the same place.

“Clearly the Welte men aren’t lucky in love,” Garth said with a wry smile. “But that doesn’t stop my dad.”

His father had been married four times to progressively younger women.

“I’m very fond of you,” I said. “You’ve been a great friend. I’d hate to lose that.” The thought of walking out that door crushed me. Thinking of being here without him left me chilled to the core. Still, I had to let him go.

"You’re right,” he said, sounding so defeated that I inwardly cringed. I’d done this to him. “We can't go on like this. I'm not the smartest man in the world like Patrick was. But I know people. I know what it feels like when a woman loves me. I can feel it in my hands every time I touch you. So go ahead, Crystal, deny it to yourself. I know better. But until you’re ready to let yourself live again, there’s no hope for us.”

I started shaking. Garth had never spoken to me this way. The raw emotion and anger in his voice scared me. Not as smart as Patrick? Did he think I found him lacking because of who I’d been married to?

“This has nothing to do with you missing anything,” I said. “This is about me.”

He cursed under his breath. “You’ve got that right.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Stop saying that.” He plucked his boxer shorts from the end of the bed and threw back the sheet before standing.

I averted my eyes to keep myself from gazing at his spectacular form. He’d been a winning Olympic skier when he was young. Even in his midthirties, skiing and working out had kept his body in great shape.

Skiing.

A ski trip had killed Patrick when the private helicopter they’d rented had crashed. No survivors. That’s what they’d said to me. Not, your husband was killed. There were no survivors.

Even now, three years after his death, anger sparked in my chest. Why had he chosen that trip? I knew the answer. He lived for adrenaline. Garth was the same. He tore down the slopes with that same reckless quality that killed my husband. He’d been all about risk and living large with no thought to how his behavior might have heartbreaking consequences for the woman who loved him. There was no way I would ever go through that again.

“It’s not because of anything you’re lacking,” I said. “You’re a skier. A daredevil. Which means I cannot possibly fall in love with you, even if I wanted to.”

He turned slowly to look at me. “What do you mean?”

“As you know, Patrick died on a ski trip.” I said this flatly and without emotion, even though my stomach churned. “Do I have to spell it out?”

“I’m a skier? And you think that’s dangerous?”

I let go of the bedpost and backed up toward the windows. “Yes. I know how fast you ski down the slopes. You set the world record, for heaven’s sake.”

“A dozen years ago.”

“You could die.”

“But I’m not going to.”

“You don’t know that.” Supposedly that ski trip was perfectly safe too. Just last year a man died on the Emerson Pass slopes when he lost control and hit a tree. “There was that guy last season,” I said out loud.

“He was an amateur on a slope he had no business being on.” Garth spoke quietly and calmly, as if I were an animal about to charge at him. “That was completely different from anything I do.”

“You share too many qualities with my late husband. And I won’t be left alone again.”

“I’m not sure what we have in common. He was a brilliant billionaire tech guy. I’m a mediocre attorney and former Olympian.”

“It’s a quality. I can’t explain it. A recklessness.”

Garth grimaced as he grabbed the T-shirt hanging from one of the bedposts and pulled it over his head. “I’m not reckless. I’ve spent my whole life trying to find stability. Skiing is not reckless, it’s just something I love.” He sat on the edge of the ottoman. “My entire life was defined by my little brother’s death. I’ve had this feeling that I had to live for both of us. Every day I ski is with that in mind. I’m still here when he didn’t get to be. Racing down a mountain makes me feel alive.”

“I know. Which is why I would never ask you to give it up.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Not for me.”

He rubbed his chin. “We have a connection, even if you think it’s only physical. A closeness that doesn’t come along every day.”

“We have chemistry in the bedroom,” I said, defensive. I didn’t enjoy being the bad guy. “But we’ve both known this wasn’t a long-term thing.”

“You’ll be rid of me.” Garth took his jeans from the arm of the chair, but instead of putting them on, folded them over his lap. “My house is done.”

I looked away, unable to stand the look of hurt in his eyes and in the tone of his voice. “We’re friends. That won’t change.”

“Sure. That’s good.” The finality in his tone told me he’d had enough. I’d managed to successfully push him away.

As he tugged his jeans on, I slipped into my robe, suddenly aware of how thin my pajamas were. If I wanted us to stay apart, then I shouldn’t be running around half naked.

“I’ll see you later?” I asked.

“Probably not. I’ll stay at my house tonight.”

He sounded so grim I almost reached out to him but knew that wasn’t fair. If we were to stay apart, I had to be strong.

When he reached the doorway, he turned back to me. “Did you have the kind of chemistry we have with your husband?”

I blinked, surprised by the question. How could I answer truthfully and not give him hope?

“Tell me,” he said.

“He and I loved each other very much.” Despite what others claimed, I’d married him because I loved him, not because of his money. The press had gone for my jugular when we’d gotten married. Forty-four to my twenty-four, rendering me a gold digger according to Twitter. “We enjoyed all aspects of a good marriage.”

“Was it as good as us? Because I find that hard to believe.” His eyes glittered with intensity as he stared me down.

“The things we’ve experienced together—I’ve never had that with anyone else, no. Not even Patrick.”

He smiled again, this time a little triumphantly. “Yet you claim there’s nothing here worth exploring?”

“Sex isn’t everything.” I sound ridiculous, I thought. Like a child. No one had ever given me as much physical pleasure as Garth. Still, I couldn’t grant him my heart.

“True enough,” he said. “But you said yourself we’re friends too. What’s better than being friends with the person you go to bed with every night?”

The air seemed to leave the room. “I’m not there. I’m sorry.”

“Fair enough. At least now we know where we stand.”

He didn’t give me a chance to say anything else as he opened the door and disappeared into the hallway.

Discombobulated, I sat on the side of the bed. Why did I feel strange and shaky? I do not care about him, I told myself. He’s just really good in bed. That’s all this is.

Anyway, this is how it happened. Love had sucked me in once and convinced me that all the broken, missing parts were fixed, and then he died on me.

Had I worried about my husband’s ski trip? Not at all. Back then I was still so stupidly sure everything would work out. I’d found the love of my life. For three lovely years we were happy.

After I’d moved to Emerson Pass and bought a home from an elderly gentleman perched on the southern mountain, I’d contemplated opening a restaurant. I could afford it, after all. The amount of money I’d inherited from Patrick was more than a hundred reasonable people could ever spend in a lifetime, unless one was interested in buying small islands and that kind of thing. However, I was conservative by nature. Nan and my mother had taught me that simplicity was best. My needs were simple. I wanted a quiet, unassuming life in the place where I’d been the happiest as a child. Garth had not been in the plan.

I went back to my maiden name. Other than a few friends, no one knew I was the widow of a famous tech billionaire. I’d opened a kitchen shop as a distraction from my grief. Perhaps because I’d been raised by a potter, I particularly loved curating beautiful pieces from small artisans and businesses around the world. In addition, I’d started giving cooking lessons once or twice a month in the kitchen. They’d become popular with the tourists especially. So much so that I’d hired a young chef, Mindy, in need of work to take over some of the classes. She’d been such a delight that I’d ended up hiring her full-time as my manager. Recently, she’d asked if she could buy me out, and we’d worked out a deal between us. As much as I’d thought it was a good idea to have a passion project, it felt right to transition it to someone who needed and wanted the work more than I did. By the end of the month, the paperwork would be completed.

However, as I heard the shower start in Garth’s room, I had to admit I was not doing a particularly good job of understanding my feelings. I sat back on the bed, unsure of what to do or think.

I wished I could talk to Nan. I needed her clear-eyed vision to tell me what to do. I touched my fingers to the spot on my chest she’d tapped that day by the river. Nan, what am I doing?

 
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