{"title":"Women's Fiction","description":"","products":[{"product_id":"always-with-me-9781944417543","title":"Always With Me","description":"\u003cp class=\"p1\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e“Riveting and consuming—I loved it and anxiously look forward to the next book in the series!” \u003cem\u003e—Goodreads \u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003e\u003c\/em\u003eAfter 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eZach 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAnd suddenly the past feels a lot closer...\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eZach 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?\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAuthor Bio:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBarbara Freethy is a #1\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cem\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/em\u003e 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\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cem\u003eNew York Times\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/em\u003eand\u003cem\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/em\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003eBestseller 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\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cem\u003ePublishers' Weekly\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/em\u003eand\u003cem\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/em\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003eand has also received six nominations for the RITA for Best Single Title Contemporary Romance from\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cem\u003eRomance Writers of America.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003eShe has won the honor twice for her novels\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cem\u003eDaniel's Gift\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/em\u003eand\u003cem\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003eThe Way Back Home. \u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ca href=\"https:\/\/bublishbooks.com\/search?type=product%2Carticle%2Cpage%2Ccollection\u0026amp;q=%22whisper%20lake%22*\" target=\"_blank\" data-mce-href=\"https:\/\/bublishbooks.com\/search?type=product%2Carticle%2Cpage%2Ccollection\u0026amp;q=%22whisper%20lake%22*\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eShop the Whisper Lake Series\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ca href=\"https:\/\/bublishbooks.com\/search?page=2\u0026amp;q=barbara+freethy%2A\u0026amp;type=product%2Carticle%2Cpage%2Ccollection\" target=\"_blank\" data-mce-href=\"https:\/\/bublishbooks.com\/search?page=2\u0026amp;q=barbara+freethy%2A\u0026amp;type=product%2Carticle%2Cpage%2Ccollection\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eShop all Barbara Freethy books\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Fog City Publishing, LLC","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716164100266,"sku":"9781944417543","price":14.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_dcc8d9c2-bd96-427a-a6b4-d61ba71023f7.jpg?v=1636991351"},{"product_id":"haint-blue-a-tipsy-collins-novel-9781647043261","title":"Haint Blue: A Tipsy Collins Novel","description":"\u003cp class=\"p1\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003cspan class=\"s1\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e“Haint Blue\u003c\/em\u003e 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.” \u003cem data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e—Readers' Favorite,\u003c\/em\u003e 2021 Gold Medalist for Paranormal Fiction\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\"Charleston's favorite ghost-talking divorcée returns in Alexander's latest supernatural mystery.… A well-told, deeply felt addition to a ghostly mystery series.\"\u003cem\u003e —Kirkus \u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eClairvoyant 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eA 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAs 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\" data-mce-fragment=\"1\" data-mce-style=\"font-weight: 400;\"\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eSCROLL FOR SAMPLE!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAuthor Bio:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eStephanie 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eBook Excerpt:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cu\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAlmost 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eLike most women in their thirties, Tipsy had plenty of experience with the behavior of \u003cem\u003eliving\u003c\/em\u003e men, but she only understood that \u003cem\u003edead\u003c\/em\u003e 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOn 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHenry 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?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eDropping them at summer camp.\u003c\/em\u003e Tipsy spoke in her mind. Henry would hear her as clearly as if she hollered through a bullhorn.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eWhich chapter now?\u003c\/em\u003e 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’m \u003cem\u003enearly \u003c\/em\u003efinished with chapter two!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAnother 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. \u003cem\u003eIt’s taken him a year to finish two chapters, \u003c\/em\u003esaid Granna. \u003cem\u003eHe 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?\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eI don’t know, Granna, but if he wants to hang around haunting this place, that’s his choice\u003c\/em\u003e. She looked at the eccentric ghost like her own errant offspring. \u003cem\u003eBesides, I’m used to him at this point, bless his crazy ass heart.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Y’all have a nice day now,” said Henry. “I’ll take the basket of clean clothes to your room.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy gave him a subtle thumbs up. Henry’s telekinetic powers definitely came in handy around the house.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eHe’s more helpful than Big Ayers was,\u003c\/em\u003e said Granna, in reference to Tipsy’s famously self-centered ex-husband.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eIf I have to live with a man, I think I prefer a dead one. Living men drive me to drink.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eStill getting the heebie-jeebies from Will?\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eThat’s as good a way as any to describe his vibes lately.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Stop it,” said O-liv.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Ayers, stop it. Hold onto the ball. What’s that song? I don’t like the sound of it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“It’s the clean version, Mom.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHe’d lately switched from \u003cem\u003eMama\u003c\/em\u003e to \u003cem\u003eMom\u003c\/em\u003e, reminding her that there was a lot more YouTube in her future.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy helped Mary Pratt sling her camp backpack over her shoulders. “Your bathing suit and towel are in—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Where’s my lunchbox, Mama?” asked Mary Pratt. “Did you put fruit snacks in there?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Ayers, \u003cem\u003estaaaaap\u003c\/em\u003e!” 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Ayers Lee! You’re almost ten years old, for heaven’s sake. Leave your sister alone!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“She started it! She called me a poophead!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Oh lord, are we revisiting poophead? O-liv, \u003cem\u003eno more poophead.\u003c\/em\u003e” 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Damnit!” she yelled. “Shit!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe kids shut up mid-complaint.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You okay, Mom?” Ayers flipped his shaggy blond hair out of his eyes.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHer 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?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Sorry,” said Ayers. “Sorry, O-liv.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“S’okay,” said Olivia Grace.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I don’t need fruit snacks,” said Mary Pratt.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“All good, y’all. Please get in the car.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThey meandered out the front door, chatting and laughing with the abrupt conviviality of children, while Tipsy grabbed her purse. She looked at her phone.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWill Garrison Text Message (2)\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eIt’s about time\u003c\/em\u003e, she thought. He’d been distant the past week and hadn’t texted a good morning. She swiped across the text.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWill: Did you go to Pamella’s about the commission yet?\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy: No, I told you, I have to drop off the kids first. Driving to Sullivan’s after.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy: Why do you keep asking?\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe swiped across Will’s next text.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJust let me know how it goes. And can I come over tonight to talk?\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy’s heart sank. Will Garrison was no chatterbox. If he wanted to talk, it couldn’t be good.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWill 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWhen 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAs 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eMaybe we’ll never be able to make each other happy\u003c\/em\u003e, she thought.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHer 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eLastly, 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eAm I settling or expecting too much\u003c\/em\u003e? 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe 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!”).\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eI tend to agree with Shelby,\u003c\/em\u003e said Granna.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy pondered as she drove past Sullivan’s Island Baptist Church into the historic district known as Moultrieville. \u003cem\u003eIsn’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?  \u003c\/em\u003eFrustration roiled in her midsection. \u003cem\u003eI’ve been divorced for going on two years. Shouldn’t my life be sorted out by now?\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eGranna 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 \u003cem\u003eSteel Magnolias\u003c\/em\u003e 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWill had told her that Pamella Brewton— Pam-ella, with two l’s, don’t forget— was a little eccentric.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eFrom the looks of this place\u003c\/em\u003e, said Granna, \u003cem\u003ehe wasn’t telling tales.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eEverything 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eHaint blue\u003c\/em\u003e? Tipsy asked Granna.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eLooks like it, but my word, someone got a mite carried away\u003c\/em\u003e.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIt 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAs 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eGood decision. He threw the ingredients in the pot\u003c\/em\u003e, said Granna. \u003cem\u003eLet him stew a while.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe pulled the jasmine away from the weathered gray sign on the trellis. \u003cem\u003eTrue Blue Cottage.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe 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. \u003cem\u003eIf I didn’t know how such things worked, I’d think there were spirits moving around in there.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eSo silly! \u003c\/em\u003esaid Granna. \u003cem\u003eImagine trying to cram Henry Mott’s lanky behind into one of those itty bitty bottles.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe door swung open behind her. It banged against the exterior wall. “You \u003cem\u003emust\u003c\/em\u003e be Tipsy!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“That’s me, honey! Pam\u003cem\u003e-el-la,\u003c\/em\u003e 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Come \u003cem\u003eon in\u003c\/em\u003e. I am so beyond happy to meet you! When we spoke on the phone, I knew you were the \u003cem\u003eperfect\u003c\/em\u003e artist for this project. Will Garrison had so many nice things to say about you. So did May Penny!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“May Penny Collins?” asked Tipsy, surprised at the mention of her former mother-in-law.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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 \u003cem\u003eex-husband’s mother\u003c\/em\u003e.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yeah, well, we’ve had our moments.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePamella tugged her toward the threshold and then abruptly stopped. Tipsy bumped into her.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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 \u003cem\u003ereal South\u003c\/em\u003e.” 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 \u003cem\u003efricked up \u003c\/em\u003eversion of the witch’s house from Hansel and Gretel.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“It’s truly blue, that’s for sure.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Hopefully I’ll be able to change it soon, if this works out.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Oh, jeez. I don’t do exterior painting. Is that what—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Of course you don’t! You’re an artiste \u003cem\u003eextraordinaire\u003c\/em\u003e!” 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePamella 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yes. Or \u003cem\u003emaybe\u003c\/em\u003e the back. To get the marsh view? I’m not sure yet.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’ll do a bunch of sketches to give you some ideas.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’m sorry—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“She ran out on us when I was a baby. No biggie.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy’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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I can’t believe I don’t have a photo of me and Daddy outside!” said Pamella.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“That’s pretty cool. Will said you could paint \u003cem\u003eanything\u003c\/em\u003e, but I didn’t know he meant, like, \u003cem\u003eanything\u003c\/em\u003e.” Cue shoulder wiggle.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy shrugged. She had no way to explain her supernaturally inspired ability to replicate life with paint.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePamella 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I hope I’ll be able to display the painting here.” Pamella sipped from her Yeti. “But if I \u003cem\u003ehave\u003c\/em\u003e to sell the house at least I can take something of it with me.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You’re thinking of selling? The market on the island is sure hot.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I don’t need to sell it for the money. I need to sell it… because… \u003cem\u003eyou know\u003c\/em\u003e. The \u003cem\u003eyou know what\u003c\/em\u003e.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I do?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Will didn’t tell you?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“He told me I was coming out here to talk about a painting commission.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You are… and we did talk about the painting. Of course I want the painting. But he didn’t mention anything about my grandmother?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’m sorry?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePamella leaned back in her chair. “My grandmother haunts this house. Will told me you have \u003cem\u003esome experience\u003c\/em\u003e with such things.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe tried to eke moisture out of her suddenly parched mouth. Maybe she’d misinterpreted Pamella. “Will told you I have experience with what now?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Ghosts, lady. He told me you had a similar problem in your own house and you dealt with it.” Pamella snapped her fingers.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What else did he tell you?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Not much. Just that you’d found out \u003cem\u003ewhy\u003c\/em\u003e the ghosts in your house were stuck there, and then they moved on.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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?\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePamella 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—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I \u003cem\u003ereally, truly\u003c\/em\u003e do want the painting. But if you can help me with this other problem—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“How do you even know the house is haunted? Can you see ghosts?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“No, but I know she’s here. Things happen in this house. Objects move. Doors open and shut. Sometimes, when she’s angry—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“She gets angry?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I think so. When I was a teenager Daddy and I got in an argument about my curfew one night. He was \u003cem\u003eso strict\u003c\/em\u003e. I was kind of, like, a \u003cem\u003erebel\u003c\/em\u003e, but like in an eighties punk rock way that wasn’t \u003cem\u003ethat\u003c\/em\u003e 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 \u003cem\u003eexploded\u003c\/em\u003e. I still have a scar, where glass hit me.” She showed Tipsy a thin line on the side of her cheek. “It \u003cem\u003ewas\u003c\/em\u003e a loud argument. I suppose we were disturbing her peace.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“How do you know it’s your grandmother?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Daddy couldn’t see ghosts, so he never actually laid eyes on her either. \u003cem\u003eHis\u003c\/em\u003e grandmother, Ivy’s mother Alma More, somehow knew it was Ivy. Maybe she saw ghosts.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eDespite 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“So your grandmother—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“\u003cem\u003eMeemaw\u003c\/em\u003e. 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Meemaw. Okay. Pamella, listen. I’m sorry you’re dealing with this. I’m sure it must be annoying—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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 \u003cem\u003ebad\u003c\/em\u003e. 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 \u003cem\u003ewhole damn place\u003c\/em\u003e haint blue and set up all those frickin’ bottle trees. You know the old stories. \u003cem\u003eKeep the spirits at bay. Trap them in bottles.\u003c\/em\u003e Yada-yada-yada.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy glowered, her sense of justice offended. “He wanted to trap his own mother in a bottle?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Is she still his \u003cem\u003emother\u003c\/em\u003e? 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 \u003cem\u003ereal hope\u003c\/em\u003e something could be done about it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“It seems pretty quiet here now.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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 \u003cem\u003etell\u003c\/em\u003e. Two days ago, when I arrived, all the potted plants I’d set up on the porch were turned upside down. Dirt \u003cem\u003eeverywhere\u003c\/em\u003e. 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy filled her water glass again and sat down. “If she’s throwing things around and stuff like that, then she was a seer herself.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What do you mean?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eIt’s one thing dealing with your own restless spirits\u003c\/em\u003e, said Granna. \u003cem\u003eBut someone else’s…\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThat was enough for Tipsy. “I’m sorry. I hate that you’re having these problems, but I don’t think I can get involved.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Please,” said Pamella. “I \u003cem\u003eseriously\u003c\/em\u003e 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. \u003cem\u003eAtlanta\u003c\/em\u003e? Not a second thought. Sold it myself when he passed. This place, though—it’s \u003cem\u003eso special\u003c\/em\u003e. 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 \u003cem\u003eso\u003c\/em\u003e sad.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAs 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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? \u003cem\u003eSo tacky\u003c\/em\u003e. And potentially litigious.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I get it. But I didn’t give Will permission to tell anyone about my ghosts. It’s a private matter—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’ll make it worth your while.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“It’s not that—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Fifty thousand.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Excuse me?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Fifty thousand dollars.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy about fell out. “Are you serious?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Let’s say three thousand for the painting. Forty-seven for the exorcism!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“If you’re sure, and you really have fifty thousand dollars you can just hand over—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePamella 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ca href=\"https:\/\/bublishbooks.com\/search?type=product%2Carticle%2Cpage%2Ccollection\u0026amp;q=Tipsy+Collins+series\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"\u003e\u003cem\u003eShop the Tipsy Collins series\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Bublish, Inc.","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716161282218,"sku":"9781647043261","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_73bc2241-b18b-4644-8fde-e098e40036b3.jpg?v=1636991283"},{"product_id":"two-coins-a-biographical-novel-9780996384544","title":"Two Coins: A Biographical Novel","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cb\u003e“A powerful story with a vivid setting, compelling plot, and multifaceted characters.\"\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e2019 Kirkus Reviews’ Best Books\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e“5 Stars!\u003ci\u003e Two Coins, \u003c\/i\u003ewith its overtones to women's rights, is nothing less than a stellar and ageless novel.\u003ci\u003e\" —2019 Chanticleer International Book Awards Semi-Finalist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eDuring the Great Scandal of British Calcutta in 1883, newspapers were flying off the shelves in Calcutta, Edinburgh, and London.\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eThe Reverend William Hastie had charged \u003c\/span\u003eMary Pigot, lady superintendent of the Scottish Female Mission in Calcutta, with mismanagement and immorality. The headlines were damning. But Miss Pigot isn't taking the reverend's accusations sitting down. She decides to fight back!\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eAfter ten years of hard work growing the mission, raising funds and educating women, Miss Pigot's career is in ruins as a result of the scandal. With nothing to lose, she takes her case to the Calcutta High Court and sues Hastie for malicious libel. A woman publicly suing a man! It's just the type of scandal that sells lots of newspapers.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eBased on actual events, \u003cem data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eTwo Coins\u003c\/em\u003e takes readers into Justice William Norris' steamy courtroom in the middle of monsoon season as the scandal engulfs the entire missionary community—destroying almost everyone involved. Will Miss Pigot prevail?\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eMore Reviews:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p1\"\u003e\"\u003ci\u003eTwo Coins\u003c\/i\u003e portrays a nearly forgotten event in time where a determined woman fought the oppressive powers that be. Risking reputation in a time when that was all a woman had, Mary Pigot’s story is illustrative of staying the course to the bitter end.\" \u003cstrong\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p1\"\u003e“Sandra Wagner-Wright does a masterful job bringing the scene to life. Well-researched and colorful, readers step back in time and experience the trials and tribulations alongside her well-developed characters…a forgotten tale of power, corruption, and women’s rights based on a true story. Readers will be shocked and delighted.”\u003cstrong\u003e \u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003ci\u003eSeattle Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p1\"\u003e\"I don’t know that I could have enjoyed this book more, and I feel I learned a great deal. A work of historical fiction that is both entertaining and informative is a rare treat, and this is not one that should be passed by. Five Stars.\" \u003cstrong\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003ci\u003eManhattan Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p1\"\u003e\"Wagner-Wright's extensive research allows her to stay remarkably true to history while her creativity brings an outstanding story of courage and fortitude to life. A powerful story with a vivid setting, compelling plot, and multifaceted characters.\" \u003cstrong\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003e\u003ci\u003eKirkus Reviews\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cstrong data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eAuthor Bio:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cspan data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eSandra Wagner-Wright taught women's \u0026amp; global history at the University of Hawai`i. Rama's Labyrinth is her first work of historical fiction. When not writing, Sandra enjoys travel \u0026amp; practicing yoga. Sandra writes a weekly blog on history, travel \u0026amp; the idiosyncrasies of life.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cbr\u003e","brand":"Wagner Wright Enterprises","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716155678890,"sku":"9780996384544","price":17.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_6dad83ab-a7f5-4c41-b23d-71b757222f6a.jpg?v=1636991187"},{"product_id":"eighteen-winters-9781079270457","title":"Eighteen Winters","description":"\u003cp\u003eFrom \u003cem\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/em\u003e bestselling author Joanne DeMaio comes a beautiful novel about a little town you'll want to visit, and a love story you won't soon forget.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHarry Dane lives an ordinary life. From his days working alongside his father at a New England general store, to Harry's endearing and heartbreaking relationships, to sudden snowstorms, to quirky fiascos of found kittens and spilled jam jars, always...always there is a curious constant. \u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThrough it all, each and every winter, a Christmas card arrives at Harry's Craftsman bungalow from a mysterious woman named Sadie Welles. And when the two of them unexpectedly meet, Harry Dane soon finds himself in an intricate love story spanning Eighteen Winters.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAuthor Bio:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJoanne DeMaio is a \u003cem\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/em\u003eand\u003cem\u003e USA Today\u003c\/em\u003e bestselling author of contemporary fiction. The novels of her ongoing and groundbreaking Seaside Saga journey with a group of beach friends, much the way a TV series does, continuing with the same cast of characters from book-to-book. In addition, she writes Winter Novels set in a quaint New England town. Joanne lives with her family in Connecticut.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ca href=\"https:\/\/bublishbooks.com\/search?type=product%2Carticle%2Cpage%2Ccollection\u0026amp;q=joanne%20demaio%20the%20winter%20series*\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"\u003e\u003cem\u003eShop The Winter Series\u003c\/em\u003e \u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Independently Published","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716158234794,"sku":"9781079270457","price":18.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_27d8e715-6e99-4eba-afb6-e0d5864756c1.jpg?v=1636991221"},{"product_id":"little-beach-bungalow-9781090956859","title":"Little Beach Bungalow","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eNight Beach\u003c\/i\u003e comes a novel as alluring as a weathered cottage by the sea.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eThe cottage is nestled along winding Sea View Road, set back from the sandy street. Surrounded by swaying dune grass, it's a shabby little beach bungalow with an open back porch overlooking a sparkling Long Island Sound. A sign propped in the front window says: For Rent. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eWell, the cottage was For Rent ... until one particular lobsterman booked a summer stay there. As Shane Bradford settles into the New England beach town of Stony Point, he unloads more than boxes and duffels. With his arrival, he unpacks secrets, and entwined histories, among his circle of beach friends. Old loves surface. New ones emerge, too. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eLittle Beach Bungalow\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e follows Shane's simmering summer days back on the Connecticut shore, and much is in store.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Independently Published","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716158464170,"sku":"9781090956859","price":18.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_17d5a05f-a3f0-4fae-92e3-bf86bbde9f63.jpg?v=1636991227"},{"product_id":"blue-jeans-and-coffee-beans-9781479262779","title":"Blue Jeans and Coffee Beans","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e Bestseller\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003ci\u003eEscape to Stony Point, cuff your jeans and walk along the water's edge in this nostalgic story bringing old friends, and their lives, back to the sea.\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eAfter years of pursuing a denim design career, Maris Carrington never imagined trading her Chicago studio for a New England shingled cottage. But a forgotten home movie tucked inside a dusty attic box leads to an unexpected summer ... One of uncovering family secrets while settling her father's estate, one of inheriting a forlorn German shepherd, one of reconnecting with old friends on a weathered boardwalk, beneath starlit skies on a beach nestled in a crook of the Connecticut coast. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eHer design career had become a shell, curving around her like the intricate whorls of a conch, shielding her until now. Until fried clam dinners and carousel rides beckon a lost love. But can Maris ever really go back? Can these beach friends ever be who they were to each other all those summers ago? Now one of her circle is dead; another unemployed and struggling in a tenuous marriage; another regretting a fateful decision; while one is missing a mother, ever seeking a connection she longs for. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eTo the backdrop of seaside cottages and a boarded up beach hangout, to the soundtrack of whispering lagoon grasses and a vintage jukebox, \u003ci\u003eBlue Jeans and Coffee Beans\u003c\/i\u003e asks if we can really design our own lives, or if our fate lies somewhere in the stars.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eAbout the Author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoanne DeMaio is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary fiction. She lives with her family in Connecticut. To learn more about the author and her books, visit Joannedemaio.com.\n\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Createspace Independent Publishing Platform","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716158922922,"sku":"9781479262779","price":17.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_fc70d27e-98b3-4842-a4f4-0c4fc98a0580.jpg?v=1636991241"},{"product_id":"snowflakes-and-coffee-cakes-9781492933175","title":"Snowflakes and Coffee Cakes","description":"\u003cp\u003eFrom \u003cem\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/em\u003e bestselling author Joanne DeMaio comes an enchanting novel about love, family, and the delicate power of snowflakes.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eReluctant to leave her cherished New England hometown after her sister's winter wedding, former journalist Vera Sterling makes a sudden decision. She takes what's left of her severance pay and invests it in real estate...in one particular drafty colonial home and old timber barn set upon the pretty banks of Addison Cove. In that rough-hewn barn, she discovers a secret treasure left behind by the previous owner, the proprietor of the long-forgotten Christmas Barn gift shop.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWhile restoring her rundown, wood-sided home\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e—its creaking floors, broken bannister, and neglected widow's walk—that secret slowly unfolds like a bit of snowflake wonder, crystallizing hopes and dreams for many in this small Connecticut town. But mostly for Derek Cooper whose own tragic story has headlined Addison's news. And whom Vera has come to love.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWhen the first snowstorm hits during Derek's annual Deck the Boats Festival at the cove, residents become stranded. It is then up to Vera to not only bring the town together, but to mend one man's heart she fears she may have lost.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eSnowflakes and Coffee Cakes\u003c\/em\u003e is a heartwarming story, one that reminds us to look to winter's stars. Because snowflakes can grant very special wishes...if only we believe.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAuthor Bio:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJoanne DeMaio is a \u003cem\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/em\u003eand\u003cem\u003e USA Today\u003c\/em\u003e bestselling author of contemporary fiction. The novels of her ongoing and groundbreaking Seaside Saga journey with a group of beach friends, much the way a TV series does, continuing with the same cast of characters from book-to-book. In addition, she writes Winter Novels set in a quaint New England town. Joanne lives with her family in Connecticut.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ca href=\"https:\/\/bublishbooks.com\/search?type=product%2Carticle%2Cpage%2Ccollection\u0026amp;q=joanne%20demaio%20the%20winter%20series*\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"\u003e\u003cem\u003eShop The Winter Series\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Createspace Independent Publishing Platform","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716159414442,"sku":"9781492933175","price":16.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_837c61a8-6d6f-43b7-9cd2-472967f3f48a.jpg?v=1636991248"},{"product_id":"the-denim-blue-sea-9781505650747","title":"The Denim Blue Sea","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Joanne DeMaio returns to seaside Stony Point in this novel filled with beach friends, love, and the enchantment of a sandy boardwalk winding along the shore.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eDuring two August weeks, denim designer Maris Carrington and coastal architect Jason Barlow prepare for their much-anticipated wedding. Guests arrive early, turning keys in charming cottage doors to begin their New England summer escape. The wedding is a reason for old friends to gather again; to meet in their shabby beach hangout and get the jukebox cranking; to walk that weathered boardwalk beneath a starry sky; to breathe the sweet salt air. \"Cures what ails you,\" one of the friends, Neil, always said long before his life was sadly claimed. But his legacy was not. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eWhen Maris discovers Neil's long-lost journal, its passages reveal a heartbreaking secret. Can truths be found within its timeworn pages? Can this leather-bound journal unite the friends as their lives begin to fray? A bittersweet family reunion, a surprising encounter from a devastating accident, a shocking confession leaving one marriage shattered--all will test the once close-knit circle. Suddenly this safe haven on the tranquil Connecticut shoreline churns with emotional turmoil, threatening even the beach wedding just days before it is to happen. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eYet like a silver cap on a breaking wave, love and friendship wash ashore with hope, ever shimmering, in \u003ci\u003eThe Denim Blue Sea\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eAbout the Author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoanne DeMaio is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary fiction. She lives with her family in Connecticut and is currently at work on her next novel.\n\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Createspace Independent Publishing Platform","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716159774890,"sku":"9781505650747","price":17.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_825375c5-1486-45ca-8d26-0cc023ec3d8f.jpg?v=1636991253"},{"product_id":"snow-deer-and-cocoa-cheer-9781515120773","title":"Snow Deer and Cocoa Cheer","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/em\u003e bestselling author Joanne DeMaio delivers a delightful novel about following your heart on the snow-dusted journey home.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJane March's greeting cards have lost their jingle. While worried about her job at New England's Cobblestone Cards, she stumbles upon a forgotten box of her mother's nostalgic paintings. They depict small-town Addison's covered bridge and red barns and picket-fenced colonials. If only Jane's designs could capture the same heart. When her mother shows her how with a Christmas to-do list of memories in the making, Jane gets checking.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWes Davis has come home again, jilted and a little bitter. His autumn wedding's off, and so is his holiday spirit. Even seeing the rustic wooden deer his father whittles by lantern light doesn't help as he settles back into the shabby Victorian home of his childhood. It is only when Wes encounters the sparkling Jane March on his winding mail route that his cold winter heart begins to thaw.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAs the fall months turn wintry, and the season merry, a funny thing happens in this charming Connecticut town: Jane and Wes check off items on that Christmas itinerary, together. But falling in love wasn't included on the list. Or was it?\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eSnow Deer and Cocoa Cheer\u003c\/em\u003e is a treasured keepsake, reminding us that like winter's first snow, life brings a beautiful flurry of its own unexpected moments.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAuthor Bio:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJoanne DeMaio is a \u003cem\u003eNew York Times and USA Today\u003c\/em\u003e bestselling author of contemporary fiction. The novels of her ongoing and groundbreaking Seaside Saga journey with a group of beach friends, much the way a TV series does, continuing with the same cast of characters from book-to-book. In addition, she writes Winter Novels set in a quaint New England town. Joanne lives with her family in Connecticut.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ca href=\"https:\/\/bublishbooks.com\/search?type=product%2Carticle%2Cpage%2Ccollection\u0026amp;q=joanne%20demaio%20the%20winter%20series*\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"\u003e\u003cem\u003eShop The Winter Series\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Createspace Independent Publishing Platform","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716159873194,"sku":"9781515120773","price":17.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_ee5bc5a7-39cc-44f4-8666-e9be807da954.jpg?v=1636991257"},{"product_id":"beach-blues-9781532874697","title":"Beach Blues","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Joanne DeMaio invites you to spend the summer by the sea, in a quaint New England beach town where friends and love await just outside the cottage doors.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eCelia Gray finds herself house-sitting a silver-shingled cottage at Stony Point. She arrives with her guitar, a few staging jobs ... and a bit of summertime sadness. That is, until an unforgettable group of beach friends draws her in like a breath of salt air. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eSal DeLuca heard the words in a dream: Take me to the sea. So after a decade of demanding work, he takes his first vacation in years. Trading in his suit and tie for blue jeans and boat shoes, Sal unexpectedly arrives at his mother's shabby inn on the Connecticut shore, winding his way into the lives and hearts of the close-knit beach community. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eWhen Stony Point's two wash-ashores, Sal and Celia, meet, some say it's a match made in beach-heaven. And so begins a sweet seaside summer ... forging friendships, adventures and new love. But all is not at ease in the gentle sea breeze as a dark secret turns the tide for the Stony Point crew. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBeach Blues\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e is a novel bringing you right to its secluded fishing shack and weathered boardwalk, to its wooden rowboat and lantern-lit porches. A novel that welcomes you, as much as it may break your heart.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eAbout the Author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoanne DeMaio is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary fiction. She lives with her family in Connecticut and is currently at work on her next novel.\n\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Createspace Independent Publishing Platform","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716160069802,"sku":"9781532874697","price":18.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_1346cfc3-93b5-4440-8587-a9443ec2981e.jpg?v=1636991260"},{"product_id":"beach-breeze-9781543115277","title":"Beach Breeze","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of Beach Blues comes a novel of summers you never forget and friendships that never fade.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eAfter a heartbreaking summer on the Connecticut shore, a group of beach friends is as adrift as an unmoored rowboat. When a dismayed Jason Barlow drives as far away from the sea as he can, leaving behind his wife, Maris, as well as their stately cottage on the bluff, that news hits like a sudden wave. Gathering over an intimate meal in a coastal diner, the friends make a solemn pact to lean on each other and not make any more rash decisions. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eWhich is all well and good, until each friend wavers--testing relationships, commitments, and especially love in the little beach community of Stony Point. But can the magic of the weathered boardwalk, whispering lagoon grasses, and sweet salt air cure what ails them? \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eLike a swaying seashell wind chime, \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eBeach Breeze\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e is a book that leaves echoes of summer's sweetness and sadness, long after the last page is turned.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eAbout the Author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoanne DeMaio is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary fiction. She lives with her family in Connecticut and is currently at work on her next novel.\n\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Createspace Independent Publishing Platform","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716160135338,"sku":"9781543115277","price":18.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_c4081732-e5ce-457c-b6fa-123f03733c67.jpg?v=1636991263"},{"product_id":"the-beach-inn-9781544762814","title":"The Beach Inn","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom the \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of Beach Breeze comes a novel as sweet as the salt air by the sea.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eIt was going to be exquisite: a rambling, shingled New England cottage converted into a grand beach inn. Nestled among hydrangeas and swaying dune grasses, this seaside haven would welcome guests on the Connecticut shore. Except the little beach town of Stony Point is no longer feeling like a haven to its residents. Residents including a brooding Jason Barlow, the esteemed architect in charge of the inn's renovation--until a stubborn, grief-induced For Sale sign puts an end to that. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eBut with a little help from the beach friends, anything is possible. In an effort to save the inn and convince its cherished owner to stay, the friends band together to stage an inn-tervention, shaking up their own lives in the process. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eA new season of love, adventure, and heart-healing awaits in the quaint seaside village of Stony Point. So pull up a sand chair and book your stay for a page-turning getaway in \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eThe Beach Inn\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eAbout the Author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoanne DeMaio is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary fiction. She lives with her family in Connecticut and is currently at work on her next novel.\n\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Createspace Independent Publishing Platform","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716160233642,"sku":"9781544762814","price":18.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_1b865665-54b0-4657-84c1-c5937840ea1b.jpg?v=1636991266"},{"product_id":"cardinal-cabin-9781548161712","title":"Cardinal Cabin","description":"\u003cp\u003eFrom \u003cem\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/em\u003e bestselling author Joanne DeMaio comes a heartwarming novel as merry and bright as a red-feathered cardinal taking flight.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eFrank Lombardo's never been spontaneous. The closest he's come was accepting a side job chopping firewood for a lakeside community of rustic cabins. But with another lonely holiday season imminent, Frank's sister urges him to be spontaneous because, seriously, who does he ever expect to meet out in the woods?\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWith a suitcase in hand and a bit of reluctance, too, Penny Hart arrives at Cardinal Cabin on Snowflake Lake. It's only for a brief stay, though nobody knows where she is. Not her boss, not her friends...\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOnly Frank Lombardo. As the two unexpectedly meet at Addison's hidden hideaway, a spontaneous kiss sets everything amiss. But can the magic of this quaint New England town keep these snowy sweethearts together?\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eCardinal Cabin\u003c\/em\u003e is an enchanting tale about finding love where you least expect it. So come on inside. A cozy fire crackles, lights twinkle on the evergreen tree, snowflakes tap at the windowpanes, and little redbirds bring cheer this time of year.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAuthor Bio:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJoanne DeMaio is a \u003cem\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/em\u003eand\u003cem\u003e USA Today \u003c\/em\u003ebestselling author of contemporary fiction. The novels of her ongoing and groundbreaking Seaside Saga journey with a group of beach friends, much the way a TV series does, continuing with the same cast of characters from book-to-book. In addition, she writes Winter Novels set in a quaint New England town. Joanne lives with her family in Connecticut.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ca href=\"https:\/\/bublishbooks.com\/search?type=product%2Carticle%2Cpage%2Ccollection\u0026amp;q=joanne%20demaio%20the%20winter%20series*\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"\u003e\u003cem\u003eShop The Winter Series\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Createspace Independent Publishing Platform","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716160266410,"sku":"9781548161712","price":17.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_debb9495-ca6a-45e7-8400-df695120d560.jpg?v=1636991267"},{"product_id":"charleston-green-9781647040505","title":"Charleston Green","description":"\u003cp class=\"p1\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003cspan class=\"s1\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e“Charleston Green\u003c\/em\u003e is a charming and clever novel…. Eminently readable and quietly inventive, the novel’s unusual tone casts a lingering spell.” \u003cem\u003e—BookLife,\u003c\/em\u003e 2020 Quarter Finalist in Fiction\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p1\"\u003eIf Tipsy Collins learned one thing from her divorce, it's that everyone in Charleston is a little crazy\u003cmeta charset=\"UTF-8\"\u003e—even if they're already dead.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy, 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTill 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eSCROLL FOR SAMPLE!\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAwards:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e2021 Annie McDonnell Memorial Literary Award Finalist\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e2020 \u003cem\u003eChanticleer\u003c\/em\u003e International Book Awards Finalist for Paranormal Division\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e2020 \u003cem\u003ePublisher's Weekly BookLife\u003c\/em\u003e Prize Quarter Finalist for Fiction\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e2020 \u003cem\u003eReaders' Favorite\u003c\/em\u003e Book Awards Silver Medalist for Paranormal Fiction\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eMore Reviews:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p2\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"s1\"\u003e“An enchanting novel of a woman finding her way out of a midlife (and mid-death) crisis…. [In \u003cem\u003eCharleston\u003c\/em\u003e \u003cem\u003eGreen\u003c\/em\u003e], Alexander blends the warm humor of her characters with balmy descriptions of her Southern gothic setting.” \u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e—Kirkus\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p2\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"s1\"\u003e“…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.” \u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e—Manhattan Book Review\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p2\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"s1\"\u003e“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….\u003cspan class=\"Apple-converted-space\"\u003e  \u003c\/span\u003e[Audiences] will find \u003cem\u003eCharleston\u003c\/em\u003e \u003cem\u003eGreen\u003c\/em\u003e a thoroughly engrossing saga.”\u003cstrong\u003e\u003cem\u003e —Midwest Book Review\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p2\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"s1\"\u003e“\u003cem\u003eCharleston\u003c\/em\u003e \u003cem\u003eGreen\u003c\/em\u003e is a highly entertaining and enjoyable read for fans of women’s fiction; a cozy clairvoyant mystery and family saga.” \u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e—Readers’ Favorite\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p2\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"s1\"\u003e“\u003cem\u003eCharleston\u003c\/em\u003e \u003cem\u003eGreen\u003c\/em\u003e is the perfect read for summer.”\u003cspan class=\"Apple-converted-space\"\u003e  \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e—San Francisco Book Review\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p2\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"s1\"\u003e“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 \u003cem\u003eCharleston\u003c\/em\u003e \u003cem\u003eGreen\u003c\/em\u003e.” \u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e—BookTrib\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p2\"\u003e\u003cspan class=\"s1\"\u003e“Impressively original and solidly entertaining from beginning to end, \u003cem\u003eCharleston\u003c\/em\u003e \u003cem\u003eGreen\u003c\/em\u003e showcases author Stephanie Alexander’s genuine flair for deftly crafted fantasy fiction that will completely engage the reader’s full and appreciative attention.” \u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e—Small Press Bookwatch\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\"…once I started reading \u003cem\u003eCharleston Green\u003c\/em\u003e 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.\" \u003cmeta charset=\"UTF-8\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003cem\u003e—New York Times\u003c\/em\u003e bestselling author Elin Hilderbrand\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\"With humor, heart and a heaping helping of Southern Charm, \u003cem\u003eCharleston Green\u003c\/em\u003e 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!\" \u003cstrong\u003e\u003cem\u003e—USA Today \u003c\/em\u003ebestselling author, Kristy Woodson Harvey\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAuthor Bio:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eStephanie 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eBook Excerpt:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p1\" style=\"text-align: left;\" data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cspan style=\"text-decoration: underline;\"\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIf 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJimmy’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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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: \u003cem\u003eMy Tipsy, ain’t you all fancy now.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eShush, Granna,\u003c\/em\u003e Tipsy thought. \u003cem\u003eNot too fancy in the bank account department at the moment. Besides, this place has seen better days.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eGlass of tea, sugar?\u003c\/em\u003e 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\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003etold, 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. \u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBats 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eThat hair. Not blonde. Not brunette.\u003c\/em\u003e Granna’s sniffing laughter. \u003cem\u003eSo sweaty dark it looks like you had a run in with the wrong shade of L’Oreal. Like thirty-four years of hard livin’!\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eThanks, Granna.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eOh, 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.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eYou’re biased, \u003c\/em\u003eand then out loud, “Got to grow old gracefully.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Is someone there?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThat 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe’s dead, Tipsy thought. She doesn’t need to draw breath.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAs 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSomething 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe’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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBesides, 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Can I help you with something?” Tipsy asked. She raised her voice to be heard over the woman’s bawling.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe 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?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You can see me.” Still her fingers spun, as if she were raveling together fractured pieces of thought.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yes.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThat 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eUh, oh. Maybe I’ve popped the tab on a shook up can of Coke.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eToo late, now,\u003c\/em\u003e said the voice of Granna. \u003cem\u003eShe might be crazier than a stoned possum, but now she knows you can see her. You’re stuck with her.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe ghost’s mouth hung open, as if she needed a straw to draw meaning from Tipsy’s words.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I guess I’ll see you sometimes,” Tipsy said, “but I’m usually really busy. So if I don’t chat—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’m accustomed to being ignored.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Because no one sees you?” Again Tipsy felt the tug of sympathy.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“My husband ignores me. I ignore him. It’s to our mutual benefit.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Your husband is still alive?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJane 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eFor someone who wants to mind each other’s space, you’re asking a lot of questions,\u003c\/em\u003e said Granna.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy ignored her. Sometimes Tipsy and Granna ignored each other, too. It could get crowded with both of them inside Tipsy’s head.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“We don’t get on,” said Jane. “Haven’t gotten on in quite a spell of time.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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!\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Ninety-five.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“How can we \u003cem\u003epossibly\u003c\/em\u003e be \u003cem\u003econgenial”\u003c\/em\u003e—blink-pause-blink—“when he killed me?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eBoop-Boop-be-do!\u003c\/em\u003e said Granna.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy sank into an antique chair. “Well, shit.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJane 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…” \u003cem\u003eIs it polite to ask a ghost the details of her murder?\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yes, he did. Although he still denies it.” Jane balled her hands into fists. “But I \u003cem\u003eknow\u003c\/em\u003e he did it! And then he killed himself.” She hugged herself again and her black hair went smudgy. Tipsy saw right through her.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Wait!” she said, and Jane returned to focus. “I’m moving my children into a house that’s haunted by a murderer?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eGranna!\u003c\/em\u003e Tipsy thought as she stood. \u003cem\u003eIs she one of the bad ones?\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBut Granna said nothing. Tipsy knew that if Granna had the answer, she’d give it. The thought brought her no comfort.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe 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 \u003cem\u003eknow\u003c\/em\u003e he did it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Of course. I’m sure it was horrible—but I have to—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJane’s eyes filled with sparkly diamond tears. “Beg pardon. I’m frightening you.” The sobbing again. “I \u003cem\u003ebelieve\u003c\/em\u003e 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAnd with that, Jane Mott disappeared.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan style=\"-webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(0, 0, 0, 0);\"\u003e…\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe took a long swig of beer and it stuck in her throat. \u003cem\u003eI live in a house with a murdering ghost and his discontented, possibly deranged wife. Hey Julie, want to trade?\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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. \u003cem\u003eI know you’re in there, Glen! I know you’re in there!\u003c\/em\u003e And all the neighbors opening windows—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Wait—what?” Tipsy asked. “You lost me.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShelby 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy had first laid eyes on Shelby Patterson during a sorority rush skit at Carolina. Shelby’s portrayal of Sandy from \u003cem\u003eGrease\u003c\/em\u003e 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Glen’s ex-wife,” said Shelby, “y’all know she hates me—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShelby sniffed loud enough to drown out the cicadas. “Hell, I don’t hate her. But she is a tramp—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMovement at the other end of the porch caught Tipsy’s eye. Miss Callie’s joggling board bounced ever so slightly.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eDid you invite Miss Jane to your girls’ evening?\u003c\/em\u003e asked Granna.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAs 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Of course I was pissed. Who spends a whole Friday night with his ex-wife shooting at zombies?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Zombies?” Tipsy asked. \u003cem\u003eAren’t ghosts enough?\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eLindsey 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Oh. He took his son. You can’t get angry.” Tipsy sipped her beer and glanced down the porch again.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eA 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What are you looking at?” asked Shelby.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy cleared her throat. “The joggling board. It needs a fresh coat of paint.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Charleston green,” said Lindsey.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Mmmm, hmmm.” Shelby squinted at the board and tilted her head. “Nice shade.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Hand mixing always makes the best Charleston green,” said Lindsey.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWhile 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—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Pay attention. You’re about to send my train of thought off the rails and into a ditch.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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. \u003cem\u003eCome back to the light, sister.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSometimes, 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Honey, you must be so tired,” Shelby said. “Let me shut up about Glen, Sexy Fishing Charter Captain Extraordinaire.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You know with me it can be.” Shelby scooted closer to Tipsy on the wicker loveseat. “When is Ayers bringing the kids back?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Tomorrow afternoon,” Tipsy said. “I’ve got to set up their rooms.” She looked over her shoulder, but the redheaded man was gone.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“It shows,” said Shelby. “Your house is straight out of \u003cem\u003eArchitectural Digest.”\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Thanks, honey,” said Lindsey. “I had to get \u003cem\u003esomething\u003c\/em\u003e out of my ex—that pathetic old goat!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003etraded 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy’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!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eBe careful, sugar, \u003c\/em\u003esaid Granna.\u003cem\u003e 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.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eThat’s what I need to figure out. And I will. Sooner over later.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eTipsy, that man killed his own wife.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eWhat choice do I have?\u003c\/em\u003e Tipsy grabbed hold of the perpetual panic that lurked in her stomach before it could poke her heart. \u003cem\u003eIt’s this or a friend’s couch and blow-up mattresses for the kids.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eAin’t that the truth. What if Ayers wants the kids full time? Or his parents do? \u003c\/em\u003easked Granna.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eNo way. My children will stay with me, and I’ll make a home for them. I will make this work.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What’s the latest with the ex-husband from hell?” asked Shelby.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Okay, Shelby.” Tipsy handed over her beer. “That’s a bit extreme.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Screwing your wife out of her alimony qualifies as extreme to me.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Seriously,” said Lindsey. “Even Barker didn’t do me like that.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I know, but he’s having a really hard time. I’m trying to give him a break.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSometimes 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eLindsey 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.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy 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?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yes! He and P.D. were roommates at the College of Charleston, and they grew up together in Beaufort, too. He’s handsome—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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 \u003cem\u003enice to meet you\u003c\/em\u003e and \u003cem\u003egood-bye.\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“He’s so sweet, once you get to know him,” said Lindsey. “Wouldn’t it be fun? We can all hang out.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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…\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShelby clapped. “He’s a great dad, and he has a good job—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“And good hair!” Lindsey tapped her head.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShelby 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You think about it, sister,” said Shelby. “No hurry. Just think.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTipsy gave her a watery smile. As she wiped her eyes, a shiny black shoe and one trouser leg disappeared past the doorframe.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eWhen that ghost comes calling, you might as well ask him to set awhile and chat. \u003c\/em\u003eTipsy 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.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWhen 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, \u003cem\u003eSugar, maybe your talent serves you in other ways. Not just seeing ghosts. You find a way to use it. \u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe 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. \u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ca href=\"https:\/\/bublishbooks.com\/search?type=product%2Carticle%2Cpage%2Ccollection\u0026amp;q=Tipsy+Collins+series\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"\u003e\u003cem\u003eShop the Tipsy Collins series\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Bublish, Inc.","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716160528554,"sku":"9781647040505","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_9ddca89b-a28e-4f2a-a5be-f4f6f9ebb03f.jpg?v=1636991275"},{"product_id":"breezing-9781647040925","title":"Breezing","description":"\u003cp\u003eIn the world of high-stakes horse racing, is it training, money, or luck that gets the win? \u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eC.J. Jamieson is a young, gifted female jockey with a complicated past and a strong desire to break through in the competitive world of thoroughbred racing.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTrainer Ritchie Gallo, on the other hand, has spent half his life in the sport. He's at the top of his game, but he's never been lucky enough to train a world-class racehorse. Until now. He finally has the horse, but needs the perfect rider.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eCall it luck or fate, but when Gallo comes across C.J., he knows he might finally have his ticket to the winners circle.  \u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eFollow Gallo and C.J. as they compete in the turbulent world of thoroughbred racing in a beautifully told, fast-paced story of triumph, tragedy, and perseverance. From the tracks of Saratoga to the famous Churchill Downs, their journey together teaches them that winning races on fragile legs isn't so different than winning at life with fragile hearts. \u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eSCROLL FOR SAMPLE!\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\n\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e \u003cbr data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAuthor Bio:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eMichael Ferrara is a 1969 graduate of Syracuse University where he earned a Bachelor’s Degree in Political Science. During his senior year at Syracuse, Mike served as commander of the university’s Air Force ROTC cadet group. He then served for nine years as an Air Force officer. His time in the military included one year in Southeast Asia during the Vietnam War, four years in the military space program, and his final year at Air Force headquarters in Washington, D.C. Mike also earned a Master of Science Degree in Logistics Management from the Air Force Institute of Technology. A career change into the world of finance brought Mike to Wall Street where he founded and directed a wealth management team that served more than 300 individuals and businesses and managed $500 million in securities. Mike retired in 2014 from Morgan Stanley as a First Vice President and Senior Portfolio Manager. Never one to fully retire, Mike started a new career as an author. He and his wife of forty-three years, Catherine, reside in Charleston, South Carolina, where he is an avid golfer, gourmet cook, and supporter of the First Tee of Greater Charleston.\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cbr data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cbr data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eBook Excerpt:\u003c\/strong\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cspan style=\"text-decoration: underline;\"\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan style=\"text-decoration: underline;\"\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eRitchie Gallo sat on his track pony and watched the sun slowly rise. The mist and fog shrouding the Saratoga racetrack filtered the sun’s light and allowed him to look at the glowing orange ball without shading his eyes. This was his favorite time of day. The morning was still cool, so he could fully enjoy the muffled drumbeat of horses’ hooves hitting the dirt. Other trainers sat at the rail in front of the empty grandstands to watch their horses run. They measured speeds with stopwatches and made notes in their journals, detailing the progress their thoroughbreds were making in their exercise regime.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eGallo preferred to be mounted on a horse when his colts and fillies went through their paces. He was a horseman, and a horseman should be astride a horse.As he stared down the backstretch, a colt burst from the mist like an apparition charging down an apocalyptic battlefield. Backlit by the rising sun, the horse shot bolts of breath through its nostrils, creating contrails of vapor that streamed down its body. When the racer and its rider drew closer, the ghostly appearance faded, and the animal was once again a brilliant athlete sculpted for speed and endurance.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eGallo’s track pony, General Custer, stood perfectly still, even when the thoroughbred thundered by just a few feet away. The General was a gelding. The removal of his family jewels had done wonders for his personality, making him calm and docile around people and other animals. However, his bulk and strength prevented him from the speed desired in thoroughbred champions, so Gallo had purchased him eight years ago to be his mobile work platform. Together, they had spent countless hours observing some of the most expensive creatures in the world—thoroughbreds preparing themselves for the glory and riches that come with racing success.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAlthough Gallo now lived in Kentucky, he looked forward to these late summer races in his hometown of Saratoga. His family bred horses on a farm just a few miles from the track, so he’d been around thoroughbreds all his life, even dreamed of being a jockey as a child. His quest to develop the skills necessary to guide a twelve-hundred-pound animal around a one-mile oval at more than forty miles per hour began with a summer job working as an exercise rider. But those dreams were dashed when a growth spurt at age eighteen made a racing career impractical.With no prospects of earning a living in the saddle, Gallo decided to become a trainer. After graduating from college with a major in animal science, his father connected him with one of the nation’s top trainers at a farm in Kentucky. There, Gallo learned the art and science of developing racehorses.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHe endured long hours, hard work, and low pay for thirteen racing seasons before he was asked to join the team at a small breeding and training farm near Lexington. They were looking for a young man with a great eye for horses and a willingness to use technology and science to create the ultimate methodology for turning a talented horse into a winning racehorse.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eFor four tough seasons, Gallo and his staff of grooms and horse attendants travelled across the country, winning races at regional tracks and then major venues like Belmont, Santa Anita, Saratoga, and Churchill Downs. He earned a reputation as a trainer who could design the right regimen for select thoroughbreds and ethically prepare them to compete and win. Gallo took on several horses that other trainers and breeding farms passed over and trained them to run in the money at good quality races. Over time, his compensation grew to six-figures—excellent pay in an industry notorious for its demanding schedules and low wages. Despite his success, Gallo knew he still hadn’t been lucky enough to train a world-class racehorse, one that could compete and win at the highest level.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAt least, not until now.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eGallo pulled the reins to the right and walked General Custer down to the finish line. An exercise rider approached on a black colt that was covered in sweat and breathing heavily after a one-and-a-half-mile gallop. “How did he feel today, Hector?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Ah, he’s okay, Mister Gallo. He is a big, strong, fast horse, but el es un niño obstinado. He don’t want to do what he don’t want to do.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yeah, I know. He’s giving me some sleepless nights. Okay, take him back to the stable and let the boys cool him down, give him a shower, and feed him breakfast.”The rider guided the colt to the northeast corner of the track, where security guards waited to halt Union Avenue traffic at the crossing to the stabling area. The drivers didn’t seem to mind the wait, and never honked. Why would they? It was a chance to see these magnificent athletes at close range. Some horses were moving from the stables to the track, fidgeting in anticipation of the activity for which they are bred. Others walked from the track to the stables, drenched in sweat, muscles quivering, and blood vessels popping through their skin. It seemed to Gallo that people were always a little overwhelmed by this sight. When did you ever see humans give 110 percent effort in their daily lives? These horses didn’t know any other way to live.Five of the six thoroughbreds Gallo had brought to Saratoga had now completed their daily workout. The black colt that had just left the track was Tackle Tim Tom. He held tremendous potential but was difficult to train. Only two years old, the horse had already run impressive split times in his last four races. Gallo didn’t want to geld the colt because he still felt he could train him to compete effectively. He hoped he could find a jockey that could connect with the horse and ride him to victory. If Tackle Tim Tom found success on the track, he would be worth a lot of money as a breeding stallion. Gallo also had a hunch that this thoroughbred was that one-in-a-million colt who could compete and win in the highest stakes races. To win a Derby, Preakness, Belmont, Travers, or Breeders’ Cup Classic was only a dream for most trainers. More than twenty thousand foals were born every year, but only a handful could win the biggest races.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAs Tackle Tim Tom disappeared across Union Avenue and headed for the stable, Gallo’s other great hope moved across the street and stepped onto the track. Hit the Bid was one of the most beautiful horses Gallo had ever seen: a dark bay with white sox below her knees. Physically, she was the perfect horse—superb conformation from her head to her tail. She was big for a filly at 17.2 hands, and now that she was a three-year-old, she tipped the scales at 1,215 pounds. When she ran, she was what trainers referred to as an “A” mover: a low, smooth stride with no wasted energy. Her limbs moved forward and back on a straight line, and when she navigated the turns on a course, there was no lateral movement in her body. She carried herself with a sense of majesty and had a great personality—often playfully nudging the grooms that worked in the stable and entertaining the patrons at the racetrack with the prancing dance moves she made on her way to the starting gate. The only problem with this horse was that she loved to run too much. Unlike Tackle Tim Tom, who had to be in the right mood to run his fastest, Hit the Bid never wanted to do anything except breeze at top speed.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAs soon as she stepped on the racetrack, she began to dance, moving her hindquarters left and then right. Her head bobbed up and down, and her ears stood upright as though searching for the roar of an adoring crowd in the gallery. In the saddle was Jacinto Robles, a jockey that had never ridden the filly before and was scheduled to be in the stirrups for her first race at Saratoga just eight days away. Gallo wanted Robles to put her through an exercise run to see how she handled and to get a feel for her ability.Hit the Bid had already achieved substantial success as a racehorse, having won several Grade Two and Grade One races. She was on the industry’s radar as an up-and-coming star, and Gallo’s goal was to prepare her to race on the biggest stages against not only other fillies and mares, but colts as well.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Are you ready to go, Jacinto?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Sure, Mister Gallo. Boy, she is really a rambunctious filly. Is she always this excited when she gets to the track?”“Yeah, but it’s excited in a good way. Here’s what I want you to do: let her canter for a quarter-mile and then bring her up to a gallop. Don’t go faster than eighteen seconds per furlong. She doesn’t like to gallop—she wants to run, so she’ll fight it all the way. We have a heart monitor on her, and I don’t want her heart rate to get too high during the gallop. Once you’ve covered a quarter-mile at a gallop, back her up just before the three-eighth pole and let her breeze to the finish line. Make sure you get a running start at the three-eighth pole, because I want to see what her top speed is for the final three furlongs.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“No problem, \u003cem\u003ejefe\u003c\/em\u003e. I got it!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe jockey guided the horse away at a canter, moving in a clockwise direction around the outer periphery of the track where horses could walk, canter, or gallop. Once he had covered a quarter-mile at a canter, he eased up a little on the reins and stood in the stirrups, raising his butt off the saddle.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJust as Gallo had predicted, Hit the Bid wanted to run, and Robles had to use his hands, arms, and knees to hold her back. When the filly passed the finish line—where Ritchie Gallo and General Custer were standing—Robles let her gallop for another minute before turning her around and moving her down along the inside rail. He asked her to run just before the three-eighth pole. He didn’t have to ask twice; in a matter of five strides, Hit the Bid was at top speed, hurtling around the far turn and approaching the top of the stretch.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eGallo clicked his stopwatch when she was at the pole, watching her make the turn through his binoculars. Every time he watched her run, he was astounded by the athletic grace of this beautiful lady. As thoroughbreds run through a turn, they generate a force on their legs more than eight times their body weight. Despite this physical pressure, Hit the Bid maintained her line as she ran through the turn and kept a constant distance from the inside rail on her left. Her strides were straight, smooth, and powerful, and her head was in perfect alignment with her body.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAs she transitioned from the turn to the straightaway, she made a lead change to her right front foot and accelerated toward the finish line. When the filly crossed the line, Ritchie hit the stopwatch and immediately looked at the time. He shook his head and shared the good news with General Custer. “We got us one hell of a horse here, big guy. Three furlongs in thirty-four seconds after a mile-and-a-quarter gallop. Damn, she’s good!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eIt took a concerted effort by Robles to bring the filly to a trot after her breeze, but he finally got her to slow down and turn around, moving to the outside of the track. When he met up with Gallo, Ritchie bent over and hooked a rein to the filly’s bridal so he and General Custer could walk her slowly back to the stables, allowing the jockey to relax in the saddle.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOnce they got back to her stall, Gallo checked her nose for any traces of blood and then took the wraps off her lower legs to examine her knees, cannon bones, ankles, and feet. Everything looked good, so he had his grooms unsaddle the horse and walk her around a paddock ring to slow down her heart rate. After that, she would be thoroughly washed down, brushed, and given a breakfast of oats, hay, and a small amount of other grains.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“So, what do you think, Jacinto?” asked the trainer.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“At first, I think she got a problem because she dances so much, but once you ask her to run, she does everything right. She’s got heart—\u003cem\u003eun gran corazón.\u003c\/em\u003e I think she can win against the boys.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yeah, me too. Okay, she’s entered in the American Oaks on July 22. It’s a Grade One race for three-year-olds and up. As far as I’m concerned, you’re my rider. That work for you?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yes sir, Mister Gallo. Just close the loop with my agent and we’re good to go. If we win that one, it’s a big payday for both of us!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Thanks, Jacinto.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSatisfied that all six of his horses were being serviced by his grooms, Gallo made his way to a trailer that served as a temporary office for himself and several other trainers. Inside the trailer were a cluster of desks equally spaced throughout the interior with a couple of chairs at each station. It wasn’t an elegant workplace, but rather a functional one, where trainers could make phone calls to agents, racetrack officials, owners, and the farms where they each trained horses.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eNow that the athletic activities for the day were done, Gallo spent the rest of the workday completing race entry paperwork, lining up jockeys, and giving upbeat progress reports to the owners of the horses he trained and to his partners at Stone Fence Farms in Kentucky. He enjoyed the business side of his job, but sometimes he felt it took too much time away from the horses, forcing him to rely on his chief groom to be sure the horses were safe, healthy, comfortable, and properly fed. As he had become more successful, the commercial aspects of being a winning trainer became more demanding. Keeping up with the increasing value of the horses, as well as the size of the purses in the major stakes races, was a lot of work—but his love for the horses and the competition made it all worthwhile.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAt 4:30 p.m., he decided to call it quits. Since his workday began at five o’clock in the morning, he needed to be in bed early, which only left a couple of hours every evening to do something other than be a horse trainer. He liked to hit the gym several times each week, but tonight, he just didn’t have the energy for it and decided to enjoy a quiet dinner at one of his favorite restaurants in Saratoga Springs. After one last check on the horses, he got in his truck and began to drive towards the section of town where the eateries and nightclubs were located. Whether by accident or just drawn by nostalgia, he reached the street he considered to be his favorite in this small upstate New York town. Even though it was where he suffered the worst heartbreak of his life, he couldn’t resist its charm, so he made the left turn he had made so many times as a young man.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBoth sides of the street boasted large, older homes that screamed “old Saratoga money” to anyone that knew the grand history of this neighborhood. His pickup truck was the only vehicle on the street, so he slowed down to give himself time to admire the handsome and exquisitely maintained houses. Halfway down the block, he pulled over to look at a home he remembered all too well from his days as an exercise rider—over twenty years ago, now. He turned off the ignition and found himself just sitting there, looking at the soaring grey-shingled house with green trim around the windows and thick columns framing a porch that wrapped around the width of the dwelling.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe porch swing he’d enjoyed on cool summer evenings was still there, right in the same place—just to the left of the large mahogany front door. In his mind’s eye, he could see himself laughing with Channing Mellon. They used to tease one another and kiss when they thought nobody was looking. Dark eyes, olive skin, and long black hair framed an amazing smile that wouldn’t let him forget he was with the sweetest girl in the world. Gallo was only five feet seven inches in height, but he would still think about how tall he felt when he placed his arms around her petite frame and held her close. He still thought about her a lot, actually, if he were being honest with himself.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eGallo had taken the time to stop in front of this house many times over the last two decades, whenever he returned to Saratoga for the racing season. And somehow, whenever he did, he always thought about the lyrics of a song entitled Summer of ‘69:\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003e“Standing on your momma’s porch,\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eYou told me that you’d wait forever,\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eOh the way you held my hand,\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eI knew that it was now or never,\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cem\u003eThose were the best days of my life.”\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cbr data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eHe’d had some great moments since the days of holding Channing Mellon’s hand on that porch swing—but he always wondered how his life might’ve looked if she’d been his partner through the years, rather than a memory. Life imitated art as the story of his love for this young woman unfolded. He was the farm boy and exercise rider who thought the greatest place in the world was on the backstretch of a racetrack among the horses, stables, and horsemen. She was the daughter of a Wall Street scion who truly believed that horse racing was the sport of kings, and he wasn’t about to let his princess commingle with the help.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eGallo kept his eyes on that porch swing. It swayed in the breeze, as though still pushed by the ghosts of his memories. He fought off a frown, thinking about how Channing’s father had felt he’d made a mistake allowing her to pursue her love for horses by working at the racetrack—even though it was only during the summertime, when they resided at their Saratoga home. Perhaps it had been a mistake, but not for Gallo. That’s when he’d met her.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eShe was mucking stalls, helping the grooms with the thoroughbreds, and walking the horses in the cooldown ring. It didn’t take long for him to find out she’d considered him handsome, funny, and a person whose work ethic and love for the racetrack had earned him the respect of everyone working behind the scenes. He’d introduced her to several trainers who paid her to exercise the horses. Her father was appalled when he’d found out about that. He didn’t mind her wearing riding britches, a black jacket, and a helmet with a visor if she was jumping over fences that were only three feet high and competing in equestrian dressage. Breezing racehorses, to him, just seemed so blue-collar. It was a job carried out by small men with foreign accents or white trash who couldn’t do anything else for a living.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eThis time, Gallo couldn’t fight off his frown. Channing’s father had eventually insisted she bring her relationship with him to an end and shipped her back to Manhattan as quickly as he could.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eThat was another thing he’d never forget: Channing tearfully telling him goodbye in their final moments together. She’d promised she would be back after graduation from Wellesley, as an independent woman who would take control of her life. He’d waited hopefully for that event, but over time it became clear that she wasn’t going to keep that promise. Whenever he drove by this house, he wondered if her family still owned it and if she continued to summer in Saratoga. He had never seen her or her father again. He guessed that she’d chosen to put a love affair that lasted two summers in her past, moving on toward a very different future—one without him.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eGallo started up his pickup truck and pulled away from the curb. As he drove to the downtown section of Saratoga Springs, he knew that in his future, he would always compare every horse he trained to Hit the Bid and, hopefully, Tackle Tim Tom. Trainers measured potential by comparing a colt or filly to a benchmark. He also knew that he had never married because when it came to women, Channing Mellon had always been his benchmark.\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Bublish, Inc.","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716160594090,"sku":"9781647040925","price":14.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_569ab692-2210-4528-bf9a-3556a067e360.jpg?v=1636991276"},{"product_id":"every-summer-9781670298188","title":"Every Summer","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Joanne DeMaio comes a novel of one unforgettable week at the shore -- during a summer that changes everything.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eEvery summer has a story. That couldn't be more true for Jason and Maris Barlow, the Bradford brothers, soon-to-be innkeepers Elsa and Celia, and the rest of The Seaside Saga cast. But this particular summer is leaving its mark on the New England beach town of Stony Point. As lone lobsterman Shane settles in for another week at his rented bungalow by the sea, emotional tides turn. Relationships come unmoored; secret love affairs surface; family bonds are tested. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eSo head under the trestle, walk the cottage-lined streets, sit on the sandy boardwalk, and spend \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eEvery Summer\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e with your favorite beach friends. They're waiting for you.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Independently Published","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716161511594,"sku":"9781670298188","price":18.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_b6453192-b740-424c-b2e1-9114f11c1014.jpg?v=1636991292"},{"product_id":"an-uninvited-quest-9781707853755","title":"An Uninvited Quest","description":"\u003cb\u003eAn oddly dressed corpse turns up in an unexpected place, and Charlotte fears that the small midwestern town of Elm Grove has a much darker side than she had ever imagined.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eEnter the Divine Wrath-who are certainly not to be taken lightly but are they really as frightening as their name suggests? Or are the residents of Elm Grove just an unwitting PR machine for the group? \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eHypocrisy, both institutional and personal, comes under the microscope, forcing Charlotte to confront her own version of it when events start to hit all too close to home. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eCharlotte and Detective Barnes, along with the usual assist from the ever-supportive Elm Grove community, work tirelessly to solve the mystery of the victim's death and the onslaught of crimes that follow it. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003ci\u003eAn Uninvited Quest\u003c\/i\u003e is the fifth installment of the Charlotte Anthony Mystery series: \u003ci\u003eAn Uncollected Death, An Unexamined Wife, An Undisclosed Vocation\u003c\/i\u003e, and \u003ci\u003eAn Uncharted Corpse.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Independently Published","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716161904810,"sku":"9781707853755","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_483f5f69-59b9-417b-9a15-304c4026b5b7.jpg?v=1636991306"},{"product_id":"castaway-cottage-9781717066213","title":"Castaway Cottage","description":"\u003cb\u003eFrom \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author Joanne DeMaio comes a novel that knocks on a shabby cottage door, opening to an unforgettable summer.\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eEvery cottage tells a story. It's a saying Jason Barlow returns to as an architect designing New England beach homes. The latest cottage story he hopes to tell rises from the Stony Point sand: the last-standing cottage on the beach. It's the sole survivor--something Jason can relate to--as surrounding cottages washed out to sea in long-ago hurricanes. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003eThe owners aren't budging, though, keeping Jason's proposed renovation at bay. But with some help from the beach friends, the tide turns for Jason's new venture. Problem is, that weathered cottage on the beach? It holds secrets darker than its gray seaworn shingles. And secrets don't stay buried in this little Connecticut beach town; they wash ashore or get dug up from the sand. \u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eCastaway Cottage\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e reunites the beloved Stony Point crew for a surprising summer by the sea, one that will leave you wanting more with the friends by the shore.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003eAbout the Author\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJoanne DeMaio is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of contemporary fiction. She lives with her family in Connecticut and is currently at work on her next novel.\n\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Createspace Independent Publishing Platform","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716162003114,"sku":"9781717066213","price":19.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_72e7111e-53a6-4765-afb5-89d782d953af.jpg?v=1636991309"},{"product_id":"first-flurries-9781723467981","title":"First Flurries","description":"\u003cp\u003eFrom \u003cem\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/em\u003e bestselling author Joanne DeMaio comes a novel snow-dusted with love and possibility.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eLindsey Haynes' father once gave her a snow globe with the note: \"Unsure where to go? Give a little shake...and your heart will always know.\" On a whim, those words lead her to the quaint New England town of Addison. It's a place straight out of a storybook with its twinkling town green, decorated Main Street, and secluded lakeside cabin community.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBut an encounter with a dejected doctor named Greg Davis turns Lindsey's days upside down, much like a snow globe in motion. With a little nudge from endearing townsfolk, and a few chance meetings of their own, a magical flurry of emotions suddenly swirls around them.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003eFirst Flurries\u003c\/em\u003e is an enchanting story about finding love and home when you're not even looking. So cozy up and settle in with a tale that will simply capture your holiday heart.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAuthor Bio:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJoanne DeMaio is a \u003cem\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/em\u003eand\u003cem\u003e USA Today\u003c\/em\u003e bestselling author of contemporary fiction. The novels of her ongoing and groundbreaking Seaside Saga journey with a group of beach friends, much the way a TV series does, continuing with the same cast of characters from book-to-book. In addition, she writes Winter Novels set in a quaint New England town. Joanne lives with her family in Connecticut.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003ca href=\"https:\/\/bublishbooks.com\/search?type=product%2Carticle%2Cpage%2Ccollection\u0026amp;q=joanne%20demaio%20the%20winter%20series*\" target=\"_blank\"\u003e\u003cem\u003eShop The Winter Series\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Createspace Independent Publishing Platform","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716162035882,"sku":"9781723467981","price":17.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_31885288-d5e5-4eae-981e-6e4b7c6ec83f.jpg?v=1636991310"},{"product_id":"a-thread-so-fine-9781733848503","title":"A Thread So Fine","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eShortlisted for the 2020 US Selfies Book Award\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eShelf Unbound's \u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003eShelf Unbound's #2 Top 100 Notable Indie Award - 2019\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\"Irish twins navigate late-1940s Minnesota and their turbulent relationship in debut author Welch’s genuine story of family loyalty, misfortune, and potential. Welch steadily traces the two young women’s desire to forge their own lives, often hindered by shame, silence, guilt, and the stifling confines of societal expectations. Readers will be inspired by Shannon and Eliza’s persistence and heart.\" \u003cem\u003e—Publishers Weekly\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cbr data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\"In \u003cem\u003eA Thread So Fine,\u003c\/em\u003e Susan Welch has written a beautiful story of sisters, history and love.\" \u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\n\u003cem data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e—\u003c\/em\u003eTara Conklin, NYT Bestselling author of \u003cem\u003eThe Last Romantics\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003cbr data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cbr data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cspan data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eSt. Paul, Minnesota, 1946: Introspective Shannon Malone and her more popular sister Eliza are Irish twins and best friends. As little girls, they relied on each other for companionship and affection as their mother remained distant, beating back the demons of her own mysterious childhood. As womanhood approaches, both look forward to promising--though different--futures. But when tragedy rocks the Malone family, secrets bloom and one sister leaves, possibly forever. The other, physically and emotionally scarred, vows to hold the invisible thread that runs deeply between them. In the course of her journey, she discovers a child with a hidden past, the love of a good man, and the true meaning of family. 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And the residents of Stony Point must tread the darker water Shane brings to their \u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003eNight Beach\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Independently Published","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716162396330,"sku":"9781790577071","price":18.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_5d1d5c86-6122-4d86-81fb-8482c59ccee5.jpg?v=1636991327"},{"product_id":"after-the-rising-a-sweeping-saga-of-love-loss-and-redemption-the-centenary-edition-9781913588496","title":"After the Rising: A Sweeping Saga of Love, Loss and Redemption - The Centenary Edition","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003e\"One is immersed in this epic story immediately and effortlessly... 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Or with Rory O'Donovan, the only man she ever loved, who still lives there.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eThen, she reads her mother's will. \u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eHer inheritance is a chest full of letters and journals, written by her grandmother and great-aunt. In them, Jo discovers a legacy of poison and hatred that has laid waste to the lives of four generations of women. \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e \u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eIt began with a simple yearning for Irish Freedom that exploded into a horrific and bloody civil war. 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The Bookseller ORNA ROSS is an award-winning Irish novelist and poet--and an international advocate for independent authors. She writes and publishes a wide range of books: inspirational poetry, literary-historical fiction, and publishing guides. A vegan, mindful runner, daily meditator and f-r-e-e-writer, Orna lives and works in London. 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Threads that run through her work are the search for beauty and meaning, and the artistic female character—whether she is a painter, a gardener, or simply someone who lives creatively and seeks connection.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMahkovec was born and raised in a small town in Illinois. She then spent several years in the San Francisco Bay area and Seattle, and for the past thirty years has lived in New York City. She has a PhD in English, specializing in Victorian literature. She has previously published as Agnes Irene.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p1\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eBook Excerpt:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cu\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda awoke to the darkness of early morning. A barely-there breeze softly swelled the curtains, causing the sheers to billow as if in slow motion. Before going to bed, she had opened the window and parted the curtains, to better hear the sounds of the night and the morning birdsong. But at this hour all was hushed, except for the rhythmic breathing of her husband. The troubling sense of yearning, that of late had kept her company, had awakened with her. She slipped off the comforter, and walked to the window.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe lightly rubbed her bare arms. In the garden below, only the white flowers were visible\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003econe-shaped hydrangeas, discs of Queen Anne’s lace, full-blossomed peonies\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003edream flowers of night. They appeared weightless, as if they hovered in timelessness, and would not attach to the stems and root until the fuller light of morning connected them. Further down, the garden house loomed out of the darkness\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003elike the flowers, not yet anchored, still in silent communion with the night. As she rested her eyes on it, almost imperceptibly it shifted\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003efrom pale gray to the beginnings of white, gaining in shape and substance as dawn gave way to day. Now she could make out the blue trim, the window boxes. Soon it would stand firm in the bright light of morning.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eEverything was right there\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003ein the tenuous linking of night with dawn, in the garden house full of memories, in the flowers and paths of the garden, in the longing that spilled out into it all. It was as if she were looking at a puzzle, and almost had it pieced together while it lingered at the edge of night\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003ebut then it completely disappeared with the morning light, as if it had never existed.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBreakfast. She would make breakfast.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe dressed quietly, washed up, and went downstairs. As she got out the eggs, milk, and butter, she tried to brush away the webby sense of discontent that clung about her. A nudging that she should be doing something more now. That her old role had changed and she must also change, or risk slipping into vagueness.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eInto a large blue bowl she cracked the eggs, and added milk, vanilla, a touch of sugar. Then she began dipping slices of bread into the mix and placing them in a pan sizzling with butter.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWhile they browned, she turned on the tea kettle. She reached for the coffee press, and opened the bag of coffee\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003elifting it to her nose and taking in the rich aroma before measuring it out. The scent alone warmed her to morning, made her eager to begin the day. She took out several oranges and began slicing them to squeeze for juice. While she prepared breakfast, she heard the shower running. She smiled. The scent must have drifted upstairs.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eCooking grounded her, rooted her, in the same way gardening did. And Ben. And the kids. She caught the spray of citrus mixing with the aroma of fresh coffee, and moved more briskly as she began to set the table.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe filled a few ramekins with jams and sour cream, and poured maple syrup into a small beaker. Then she took out a bowl and filled it with strawberries and blueberries. She looked at the table and wanted it to be fuller, richer. She lifted the bright pink kalanchoe from the window shelves, and set it on the table. Too bad the kids weren’t there to enjoy  it. Clara  would  love  the  way  the  flowering plant matched the quilted placemats. And Michael would appreciate the mound of French toast dusted with powdered sugar; he had his father’s love of big breakfasts.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWith one hand on the counter, she gazed at the table, secure now in the routines of her kitchen, of good food, of color and light, a prettily laid table. She leaned her head to one side and studied the setting as if it were a painting, and briefly imagined herself sitting at the table, wearing a long kimono-like robe\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003epeacock blue, or perhaps a pattern in pinks and orange.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe glanced down at her sweat pants and t-shirt. Well, they were more practical for cooking, she told herself. Still, she wished she blended more with the arrangement\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003ethe one of the table, as well as the one in her head.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda smiled at Ben’s quickness of step coming downstairs. She could always count on his appetite.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Smells wonderful!” Ben said, entering the kitchen and giving her a quick kiss. He stared at the table. “All this for us? On a weekday?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda lifted and dropped one shoulder. “I was up early so I thought I’d make breakfast.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’m not complaining.” Ben took his seat at the table and poured the steaming coffee into their cups.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda sat down and looked at the ceiling-to-floor shelves behind Ben, a sort of small green-house that jutted out into the garden. It always filled her with happiness\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003ethe photos of the kids among the flowering plants, painted boxes and vases and tiny candles scattered throughout. But this morning, as a backdrop to the breakfast table, it filled her with melancholy.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe took a slice of French toast and poured some maple syrup over it and added a few strawberries. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to cooking for just two.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“It’ll just take some time,” said Ben, as he drizzled syrup over his French toast.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I suppose so.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBen looked over at Miranda, her tone at odds with the enthusiastic breakfast spread.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I think I’ll get started on the cupboards and closets,” she said. “Paula has been asking me to hand over any of my old pieces that are gathering dust. I told her with the kids gone, I was going to clean house and get rid of things. She seems to think my old paintings and sculptures will sell at her stores. You know how she can make anything look good. I doubt if they’ll sell, but I guess it’s worth a try.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’m sure she’s right. Your work is great. I always tell you that, but you never believe me.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“That’s because you’re partial, Ben.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Can’t fault me for good taste.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Hmm,” Miranda responded with skepticism. “I guess I’ll show her my old stuff, but what I really want to do is set up the studio and get started on some new things.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Oh, that reminds me,” said Ben. “I think I found a renter for the garden house for the summer.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda put her fork down. “I thought we decided against it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBen looked up. “We did? I thought the plan was to rent it out until we were ready to put up that wall, make some of those changes we talked about.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Ben, that was months ago. I told you just last week that I wanted to use it as a studio this summer. I want to finish that screen, for one thing. And I haven’t done any painting in years.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Miranda, I cut the boards for that screen two years ago.” Ben’s hand hesitated over the berries. Berries or jam? He decided on a few mixed berries and sprinkled them over another piece of French toast.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I know. And now that I have some time, I can finally finish it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“So I’ll tell the guy it’s not available.” He lifted the coffee press and refilled his cup. “Oh, remember to set out Michael’s camping gear if you come across it. He wants us to take it to him the next time we’re down. Apparently, his new girlfriend\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003eCasey?\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003eis a hiker and camper.” He raised his eyebrows at Miranda and grinned. “He sounds pretty happy. Portland was definitely the right choice for him.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Caitlin,” said Miranda. She placed an elbow on the table and rested her chin in her hand, lightly tapping her lips with her knuckles. She took a deep breath and resumed eating. “No. Don’t tell him.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBen raised his head. “Tell who what?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“The tenant. The guy.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Oh. You sure? I thought you just said – ”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“No. That can wait. The rent will help with the renovations.” She took another slice of French toast and spread on some sour cream and raspberry jam. “So who is he?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Somebody Doug knows. Or his wife, rather. A teacher or journalist or something.” He looked up, trying to remember if there was anything else he knew about him. “From out East. New York, I think,” he said, as if that summed it all up.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda made a small sound of exasperation. “Is that all you know about him? How old is he? Is he married? Kids? What’s he like? What does he teach?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBen drew a blank at each question.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What’s his name?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“William. Something. Been teaching for thirty years. I don’t think he’s arriving until next week. I’ll find out more today and let you know.” He tried to read the expression on Miranda’s face\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003efar-off look, slight frown. He had been sure that his news of a tenant would make her happy. “What?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Nothing. It’s just that\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003eI thought that\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cem\u003eif\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/em\u003ewe rented it out, it would be nice to have a woman. An artist. Maybe someone with a small child or two. Wouldn’t that be nice? To have kids down there? Just on a temporary basis.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You can always turn it into a daycare center if that’s what you want.” His suggestion, as he knew it would be, was met with a sharp glance from Miranda. “I mean it,” he continued. “The kids are gone, and now you finally have some time to do what you want to do. If it’s a daycare you want – ”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I don’t want to run a daycare.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Well,  you  did  a  few  years  ago.  Don’t  you remember? You had plans to – ”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Well, I  don’t  now. That’s  the  whole  point, Ben. I want to start doing some of the things I’ve been putting off for the last twenty-five years.” As soon  as  the  words  were  out, she  regretted  them. Ben  would  think  she  was  blaming  him  for  why she hadn’t pursued her dreams, even though it had been her idea to leave school when they got married and work while Ben finished his degree.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBen looked down at his plate, and then up at Miranda. “I know. I’m behind you on that. Just\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003etell me what it is you want to do, and I’ll help you with it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda’s eyes filled with worry. “That’s just it, Ben. I don’t know. I really don’t. How can I have gotten to this age and not know what I want to do?” She glanced about as she searched for an answer. “What if all those things they say about middle age are true? What if I get foggy-brained and too tired to accomplish anything ever again? And I just keep gaining weight and – ”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBen laughed and leaned over to rub her shoulder. “Aw, c’mon. What are you so worried about? You just keep getting better and better. I never could keep up with you.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Ha!  You  haven’t  gained  a  pound.  While I – ” she shook her head at the unfinished thought. “Though  I  do  think  the  dry  cleaner  is  partly  to blame\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003eeverything comes back smaller. More coffee?” she asked, preventing any chance of a rebuttal.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBen smiled and held up his cup. “Take your time and think about the tenant. You can always say no. It’s completely your call.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe watched him fix another piece of French toast. “No. It’s a good idea. I’m not quite ready to paint or whatever, anyway. It’s going to take me weeks, maybe months, to really clean out closets and organize everything. A tenant makes sense. I’ll work on the garden house today, get it ready for him. It needs a few things.” She heard herself and almost cringed, as if another delay in her plans was exactly what she wanted.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBen caught the wistful tone behind her words. “Hey – how about dinner tonight?” he asked. “At McMillans – watch the sun set on the lake. You’ll have your hands full today; this way you won’t have to think about cooking.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You know me well,” she said, stretching her legs and resting them on his lap. Miranda loved the restaurant’s seasonal menu and always looked forward to a new culinary experience\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003ea fresh way of preparing a vegetable, an unusual combination of herbs or spices, or a completely new dish that she would later try to recreate.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBen’s phone rang and he glanced at the number. “Sam.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHe chatted with his old friend, rubbing Miranda’s legs as he talked, stopping and starting in pace with the conversation.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda picked a few berries from the bowl, eating them one at a time, and watched Ben, always so  animated  and  energetic. After  all  these  years, she thought, I’m still wild about him. He doesn’t even  have  to  do  anything. He  can  just  sit  there and eat and talk on the phone and laugh\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003eand it all makes me love him so much. He was agreeing to something, raising his eyebrows at her at some good news. She just hoped it didn’t involve fishing.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBen  speared  one  last  slice  and  shrugged  at Miranda, as if it was so delicious he couldn’t help himself. He poured out some syrup, gave a chuckle, and  nodded  again. “Sounds  good.  I’ll  tell  her – she’ll love it. See ya, buddy.” He slipped the phone into his pocket.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What will I love?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“He invited us to his new place on the peninsula.  Another  month  or  so  and  it’ll  be  ready. Doesn’t  that  sound  great?” He  cast  an  imaginary fishing line.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eA weak smile formed on her lips.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Hiking, fishing, sitting around the fire pit at night. He said he’s discovered a local berry farm that you’ll love.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda smiled at the cozy vision. “That does sound nice.” Dear ole Sam, she thought. Always sure to include something she would enjoy.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBen took one last bite and scooted his chair from the table. Then he took his jacket from the hall tree and headed out the door.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda followed him outside, rubbing her arms against the chill. “I’ll make a reservation. What time should I say?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Better make it 8:00. See you there.” He squeezed her goodbye, intensifying his embrace until he got the laugh he was looking for.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eShe walked out on the flagstones and watched him drive off. A trip to the peninsula might be a good idea, after all. It would be beautiful there. She loved the deep forest walks, the smell of wood fire at night. And Sam was always good company. Though only ten years older than Ben, Sam was in many ways his mentor. She would always be grateful to him for helping Ben through a tough time. The memory of those years, of the stress Ben was under, still filled her with pain. At one point she feared he was heading for a breakdown. Long hours, corporate politics, an ever-increasing work load. It was Sam who convinced him to leave the firm and work with a smaller architect company. And it had changed their lives.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eA weekend with Sam would be good for them. She could walk along the shore while they fished. After all, she’d been wanting to exercise more, get back into shape. Here was her chance. Why did she always meet everything with such resistance? Like the idea of a tenant. That, too, might be a good thing. I used to be more open, more adventurous, she thought. When did that change?\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda lifted her face to the sun. She loved the way the garden smelled in the early morning, the earthy dampness from the light Seattle rain, the whiff of pine, the sun just beginning to release a hint of jasmine from the trellis. And if she leaned in close enough to the roses\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e – \u003c\/span\u003eshe cupped her hands around the dewy pinkness, buried her face in the flower, and closed her eyes at such sweetness. She often wished they could move their bed out here, sleep under the stars, put up a little canopy against the rain –\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Hey, neighbor!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThere was Paula, waving to her.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Good morning!” called Miranda, and crossed over to where Paula was planting flowers along her wooden fence.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePaula stood and held up a potted flower. “Just look at this clematis\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eit’s as big as a saucer.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda reached out to touch the pale purple flower. “It’s beautiful.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Just got it at the nursery yesterday. They still have some left.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’ll go this morning. I need to get flowers for the window boxes,” she said, gesturing to the garden house. “I think we’ve found a renter for the summer.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePaula inclined her head. “I thought you were going to use it as a studio.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“We changed our minds. I want to organize the house first. Then think about what I want to do with the garden house.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I  hope  that  doesn’t  mean  you’re  going  to postpone  your  plans  again.  I  remember  a  time when you were always working on some painting or sculpture or something.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yeah, well – that was ages ago.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What is it you’re afraid of? What’s stopping you?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda laughed at the ridiculous notion. “I’m  not  afraid  of  anything,  Paula. It’s  just –  I haven’t done anything for so long, and…”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePaula put a hand on her hip. “Does this have anything to do with turning fifty?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“No, of course not. No. Not at all. It’s just – I’m not sure if I can tap into that part of myself again. I think it might be gone.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I don’t believe that for a moment. It’s in there. You just need to dig.” And with that, she knelt back down and shoved the trowel into the ground. “So who’s the tenant? A young painter with a five-year old child?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda laughed at the details of her earlier vision. “No, an older man. A teacher.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Well,  you  can  still  move  ahead  with  your plans. No reason you can’t paint outside or in the garage.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“First I want to organize the house. Now that the kids are gone, I can clear out old stuff, get rid of things. And then think about painting or whatever.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePaula gave a skeptical raise of her eyebrows.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda pushed her foot at a clump of grass along the fence. “I think it will help me to focus, to start with a clean slate. I have so much stuff – old pieces I’ve held onto, half-finished projects. I want to lighten my load, and start fresh, you know? Then maybe by the fall or so I can be ready to really work.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Hmm.  Well,  don’t   throw   away   anything without letting me check it out first. The new shop opens  in  a  month. I  need  to  fill  it  up, and  your things would add just the right touch.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I doubt if there’s anything you can use, but I’ll start going through things.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You really should start on something new, as well. You’ll have the time now.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yeah.” Miranda nodded and looked around. “Well, I better get started with everything. See you later.” She began to walk back to the house.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Don’t wait too long, Miranda!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMiranda turned and waited for a final word of reprimand.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBut Paula was holding up the pale purple clematis. “They’re sure to go fast.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003ca href=\"https:\/\/bublishbooks.com\/search?page=1\u0026amp;q=Linda+Mahkovec%2A\u0026amp;type=product%2Carticle%2Cpage%2Ccollection\" target=\"_blank\"\u003eShop all Linda Mahkovec books\u003c\/a\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Bublish, Inc.","offers":[{"title":"Paperback","offer_id":41716164886698,"sku":"9781946229120","price":12.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":true}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/0440\/3626\/0000\/products\/img_df7bfea6-37d3-4141-b369-a8cfb8572c00.jpg?v=1636991363"},{"product_id":"angels-on-overtime-a-divine-romantic-comedy-9781948543200","title":"Angels on Overtime: A Divine Romantic Comedy","description":"\u003cdiv\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p1\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e \u003cstrong\u003e\"...so many laugh-out-loud moments....The whole message was so spiritually uplifting and inspiring...definitely recommend[ed].\" —\u003ci\u003eReaders' Favorite, Award Winner\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p1\" data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eIn this whimsical romantic comedy with a divine twist, Jack and Emily are two lonely hearts trudging through unfulfilling lives. Though meant to be together, life keeps getting in the way of them even meeting—that is, until their angels begin working overtime. As the angels work behind the scenes, what actually happens behind those scenes?\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p1\" data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003eAuthor Ann Crawford’s trademark humor, warmth and optimism shine through in this enchanting tale that reminds us it’s never too late to find love and for dreams to come alive.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp class=\"p1\" data-mce-fragment=\"1\"\u003e\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e\u003cem\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eSCROLL FOR SAMPLE!\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/em\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eMore Reviews:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\"I love this book! Such a quick, fun read—you won't even realize you've been enlightened!\" \u003cstrong\u003e—Diane Bishop, Editor, \u003ci\u003eSOM\/A Guide for Spiritual Living\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\"A warm, hilarious, otherworldly ride and a wondrous peek into what goes on 'behind the scenes' in our lives. If you ever wanted to know what angels really think about\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003ci\u003eus\u003c\/i\u003e, read this book!\"\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e—Patrice Karst, bestselling author \u003c\/strong\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\"A truly unique tale, filled with humor, a great cast of characters, and a comforting premise....The story will surely linger with the reader in a satisfying way, long after the last page has been read.\" \u003cstrong\u003e\u003ci\u003e—Feathered Quill\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\"...the funniest, most enjoyable, and most delightfully irreverent spiritual novel I've ever read. I couldn't stop laughing....\"\u003cstrong\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e—Mark Waldman, neuroscientist and world-renowned expert on communication, spirituality, and the brain\u003c\/strong\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv\u003e\n\u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\n\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: left;\" data-mce-fragment=\"1\" data-mce-style=\"text-align: left;\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eAuthor Bio:\u003c\/strong\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: left;\" data-mce-fragment=\"1\" data-mce-style=\"text-align: left;\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: left;\" data-mce-fragment=\"1\" data-mce-style=\"text-align: left;\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003cstrong\u003e\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: left;\" data-mce-fragment=\"1\" data-mce-style=\"text-align: left;\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003eAnn Crawford is a multi-award-winning and best-selling author as well as an award-winning documentary filmmaker. She believes in love at first sight, that good always prevails, and that we're here for those wild-wonderful-way-out-there visions of ours to come alive. When she's not circumnavigating the globe (70 countries\/territories and counting, plus all 50 states), communing with sea critters on the ocean floor (in her scuba gear), or climbing every mountain (on the back of her husband's motorcycle), or performing improv or standup comedy, you can find her writing. \u003cmeta charset=\"utf-8\"\u003eShe lives in Denver, Colorado.\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: left;\" data-mce-fragment=\"1\" data-mce-style=\"text-align: left;\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cdiv style=\"text-align: left;\" data-mce-fragment=\"1\" data-mce-style=\"text-align: left;\"\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/div\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan\u003e\u003cstrong\u003eBook Excerpt:\u003c\/strong\u003e\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e\u003cspan style=\"text-decoration: underline;\"\u003eChapter 1\u003c\/span\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOnce upon a time in a galaxy far, far away—oh, sorry, that’s another story. But it could be this one, too. Could be the beginning of a lot of stories. All stories, really. But actually the galaxy isn’t far, far away, because nothing is far, far away, really…everything is just a thought away. Everything.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSo in this galaxy that isn’t very far away after all is a very large room. Very large. Emphasis on very. And large. Oh, you wouldn’t believe the love and dedication that fills this room! This room spreads on for miles and miles and miles in every direction. You can’t even see its walls. But more about the room itself in a little bit. Right now we’re standing in front of an office. The sign on the office door reads MANAGER, ANGELIC AFFAIRS— which makes no sense at all, really, because everything, everywhere would fall under the category of affairs of angels. And we’d all be managers managing them. But anyway….\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHenry, a plump, balding angel sits behind his large, angelificial desk. Now you might wonder why this angel would choose to be plump and balding and sitting behind a large, angelificial desk when he can choose to be anything, anywhere. Well, what do you think of when you see a plump, balding man? Wasn’t your favorite uncle like that? How about your favorite, old art teacher in that frumpy, navy-blue cardigan with the frayed elbows? And didn’t you just want to throw your arms around him in a big, sloppy bear hug? Well, that’s why Henry chooses to be plump and balding, and why anyone would choose to be plump and balding—because it’s all a choice. All of it, every last bit—it’s a choice. Maybe the choice isn’t made consciously, top-of-mind, but it’s made. Not sure how many big, sloppy bear hugs Henry, your uncle, or that old art teacher actually got, but I’m sure lots of folks thought about it.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eNow as for sitting behind his desk, that’s another choice, because, as you now well know, anyone can be anything, anywhere. But Henry chooses to sit behind his large, angelificial desk to be of high service. And since he is a very organized angel and loves being an Angelic Resources Manager (you know, like the best Human Resources Manager in the best organization you ever worked for?), that’s what he chooses. And he chooses the angelificialness of his angelificial desk to weed out the ones who don’t really mean it. The chaff from the wheat. The angels from the, well, angels. Okay, the less-than-dedicated angels from the highly dedicated angels.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHenry looks to be about sixty-five—in Earth Time. Sitting in front of him is Brooke. Now Brooke is what you might picture an angel to look like...if an angel could be of Northern European descent, anyway: long, blond hair and big, blue eyes that soak in the worlds around her. She appears to be about twenty-five in Earth Time. But really, she’s as old as the universe. And so are you, by the way. Put in that perspective, you’ve been holding up very well. It’s truly amazing how wonderful everyone looks, considering.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eDo angels have wings? Well, they do if they want to. Brooke and Henry don’t have them, nor do any of the angels in our story here, but many an angel or two have donned a pair of wings for that special occasion or two or eighteen million when they wanted to look especially angelic.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Why would you want to do this?” Henry demands of Brooke. “It’s the hardest job in the universe!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“It’s all you hear about,” Brooke answers, “all over every single galaxy: Earth, Earth, Earth. I figure if I can’t get in as a human, I could try it this way.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“These humans can be as thick as wood. And just as pliable.” Henry looks at her over the top of his bifocals. Angels sometimes wear bifocals when they want to have that professorial look, too, just like humans. “Why don’t you go to Arcturus and just be content with peace, love, and instant manifestation?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“This is what I want. More than anything in the entire universe.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHenry sighs. “Alright then. Follow me. It’s not like we couldn’t use a willing volunteer down there.” But he smiles to himself, as if at some joke.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHenry leads Brooke out the door and through a tiny part of that seemingly infinite room. In thousands upon millions upon billions of cubicles, thousands upon millions upon billions of angels sit at their computer desks in groups of three, sometimes four, and sometimes two groups of three or four sitting side by side with numerous monitors in one bigger cubicle. The room has a distinct thrum as it hums with the voices of these thousands upon millions upon billions of angels. If you heard this thrum, you’d realize that, well, you do hear this thrum. All the time. The Earth has this thrum, the galaxies have this thrum, the universe has this thrum, and you have this thrum. The thrum is everywhere, resonating in one universal harmonic.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAt first glance, a first-timer—which would be you— might think that the room’s vibrant radiance comes from the monitors and other external light sources. But a second glance would inform you that the monitors are actually somewhat dim and there are no other light sources. Oh, what love and devotion in billions of angels can do. Just imagine what love and devotion in seven billion—well, we’re getting ahead of ourselves here.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHenry and Brooke pass two angels conferring over their computer monitors while the third in their triumvirate whispers softly into a microphone.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“No, no,” one angel says to the other. “You can’t have them meet yet. They’re supposed to have a child that’s going to be the Senator of Tennessee in 2067, and they can’t conceive her until after the accident, which can’t happen for another two years.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBrooke looks at Henry in surprise. If she were one of your teenagers, I believe she would be saying, “WTF?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBefore Henry can say anything, the second angel answers the first: “Okay, let’s send this schlub along. That’ll keep her occupied for a little while.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe first angel appears shocked. “Schlub?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Okay, okay,” the second angel replies, somewhat abashed, “a drop of divinity cleverly disguised as a schlub.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBrooke again turns to Henry. “They do this while their assignment sleeps?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Right. Their assignment is obviously a late sleeper. Could be a hooker.” And then, to the surprise on her face, “Not to worry, it’s all good. It’s all a divine path.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHe leads Brooke past a closed office door. RAINDANCERS, the elaborate sign announces.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Raindancers?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Oh,” Henry shakes his head, “you’d be amazed at how many humans want to rain on their own parade, keep worrying about nonsense, look at the bad side of anything. Raindancers only perform when asked, but they are in hot demand. You want to be extra busy, sign up for Raindancing.” And to her still-surprised expression, he adds, “It’s all good.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHenry and Brooke continue walking and arrive at a bank of elevators. While Henry presses the down button, Brooke notices a very serious angel nearby, closely watching graphs and trends appear on his computer screen. His piercing blue eyes, which peer out from under hooded eyelids, look like they belong in a bird of prey, not in an angel.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What’s his gig?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHenry puts his fingers to his lips, imploring that she keep her voice down. “Karmic enforcer,” he whispers. “A job nobody wants. They have to recruit from the dark side.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Dark side? There’s no such thing!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Tell\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cem\u003ehim\u003c\/em\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003ethat. Anyone in creation can believe anything he or she wants to and create that reality.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“But—”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“And he’s found a lot of people on Earth willing to participate in that reality.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yuck!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHenry leans close to Brooke’s ear. “Don’t tell him this, or the humans who want to participate, but karma can be changed the instant the intent to change it is there.” Henry stops for a moment to consider what he just said. “Actually, no, my mistake—your job is to tell humans that. It’ll save them a lot of time. If they can hear you, that is.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePing! The elevator arrives and they hop aboard. Out of two hundred and fifty buttons with different codes, letters, and numbers, Henry locates E.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“E for Earth,” he tells her. “But it’s not too late to choose A for Arcturus or S for Sirius.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’m good with E,” Brooke responds.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Just double-checking.” Henry presses the E button and turns to Brooke. “Love and remember. Love and wake up. That’s\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cem\u003eall\u003c\/em\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003ethese humans have to do. And you’d be amazed how many mountains they put in their own way.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe elevator departs from the enormous angelic hall—okay, it’s really part elevator, part rocket ship—and shuttles across the galaxies. Brooke gasps as the beautiful blue orb of Earth appears through the window. “Oh!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Beautiful, isn’t it? One of the finest creations in the universe. And they insist on decimating it, even though they have alternatives.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe shape of North America appears in the window, and in just a matter of seconds, California appears to be rushing up to meet them.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“But they’ll get it,” Henry assures her. “That’s their job—to get it—and they have eternity.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“They do?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“If not here, somewhere. But it would be a shame to waste this incredible creation. Do what you can about that, okay?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Absolutely.” Brooke gasps again as the Southern California coast is now right beneath them.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Are you ready?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yes.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yeah!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Yeah!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“YES!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You sure?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’m sure.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“You sure you’re sure?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“I’m SURE I’m sure!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eTHUD! The elevator lands on E. The elevator door opens and Brooke is too surprised even to gasp. They have landed in a small patch of grass by the 405 Freeway, somewhat near the Los Angeles airport. The trees, leaves, and grass shimmer and radiate with their own internal light. From Brooke and Henry’s vantage point, the veil has been lifted, and bending over every single blade of grass is an angel whispering, “Grow! Grow! Grow! Thank you for being here. You are so\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eloved. You are such a blessing. You are a miracle.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eAs Brooke looks up and down the freeway, she sees more and more areas of grass, and she marvels at the amazingly stunning sight of more and more angels becoming visible to her.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe freeway is completely clogged. The cars are lit up by the light of the human occupants inside of them. But the exhaust from each car and the smog that hangs over the city seems to move, even dance, in a demonic way.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“What—what are they doing to themselves? Can’t they see what they’re doing?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“It’s just wild how much denial humans can put themselves in. All of some can see, and part of the others can see, but they suppress it. It’ll be part of your job to help all of all of them see.” To Brooke’s confused expression, Henry adds, “You’ll see what I mean, all in good time.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHe gently takes her by the arm, and they float over the cars. “We landed a little too far east,” he tells her. “We have to cross over the freeway to that neighborhood over there.” The houses he points to are barely visible through the thick smog.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBrooke becomes aware of something that sounds like a beehive. And the beehive is growing louder and louder. As they glide over the freeway, she peers through the car windows. Inside each vehicle, accompanying but completely unbeknownst to the humans, are three angels—two are sitting beside their human and the third is in the backseat consulting a laptop computer.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eA seriously suntanned man with a seriously bad hairdo shakes his fist out the window of his BMW to the driver that just cut him off.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Goddamn son of a bitch! Where in the world did you learn to drive—on a farm?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Actually,” Henry chuckles to Brooke, “the answer to that is yes.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThey float over the car next to the boorish Beamer driver to find a woman who appears to be very composed—almost as if she’s about to step onto a ballroom dance floor. But inside her head, her thoughts are going a mile a minute.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Oh, why didn’t I tell him what I really wanted to say? Why did I say what I said? What was I thinking? Should I call him and tell him what I really wanted to say? Oh, how could I have done that? What should I do?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Ouch!” Brooke winces, although she can’t feel pain. But she feels compassion—that’s her job. “That must hurt!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Oh, yes,” Henry sighs, “it does. Quite a bit. Takes most of ’em a long time to learn that—if they ever do, that is.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe beehive, Brooke realizes, is really the cacophony of millions upon millions of thoughts drifting up to her.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBrooke and Henry float over the next car, where the driver is singing to his dashboard. “I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThey float over the next car, where the driver is doing the exact same thing. “I’m too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003ePuzzled, Brooke turns to Henry. “That sounded a little different.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“He was singing in Japanese. But you can understand everything, everywhere.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Why aren’t their angels talking to them, any of them?” Brooke asks.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“How in the world could they hear their angels if their minds are so overly overactive?”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThey float over another car and no thoughts float up to them.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“She must’ve meditated this morning,” Henry answers Brooke’s quizzical look. “And every morning for the past thirty years.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBrooke notices the woman has four angels sitting in meditation around her. “So why aren’t her angels talking? They could get through to her.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“No need,” Henry replies. “She’s on her right path. They speak to her from time to time just for a touch of guidance and reassurance.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eOne of the angels opens one eye to look at the graphs on her laptop and then returns to her meditation. One of the other angels breaks from his meditation to address the woman: “Thank you for all that you do. You’re such a blessing.” As the woman smiles, the angel returns to his meditating.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“See?” Henry says to Brooke. “Actually, every single person on Earth has an angel who says that, over and over, when he or she can get through all the noise of the TV, radio, and the human’s own thoughts. But, even then, so few hear it.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThey float over another car with two people inside and six angels accompanying them. The radio is blaring loudly. The angels have their hands over their ears.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBrooke notices one lone angel over one lone blade of grass growing through a crack in the concrete by the freeway.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Grow! Grow! Grow!” whispers the angel. “You’re a miracle. Thank you for being here. You’re such a blessing to us all.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThey float over the freeway wall, and Brooke sees an entirely different world as they glide down an attractive, tree-lined street of lovely, little homes with tidy, freshly mowed yards and well-tended gardens. Henry leads her to one particular house with requisite tidy yard along with innumerable angels talking to each blade of grass, each flower, even each leaf on a shrub.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“When it gets too much,” he tells her, “just fade them. You’re not even seeing all the dimensions. Even I don’t, when I can avoid it. It’d make you crazy if you did. But if you do want to see other dimensions, just choose. The choice is always there.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe angels in the yard fade away as Brooke makes that choice.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThe two voyagers float into the house. A pile of shoes greets them and piles of who-knows-what line the foyer. They float down the hallway and into a large family room off the kitchen. Now if you had just walked into the room, you would see a man playing with his young son and a woman potatoing on the couch to an early-morning quasi-news show. And if you could see like an angel, you would see the three humans and nine other beings in the room—a committee of three angels for each human. And that’s not counting the angels for the plants around the room, who are working even more intensely because their charges haven’t been watered in weeks.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eJack. Ohhhhh, Jack. He’s the man playing with the little boy. Yikes—you just want to grab him by those tightly hunched shoulders and shake him loose! The only thing tighter than his clenched fists is his jawline. Jack could be very handsome if he weren’t so sad. And even if you weren’t particularly sensitive, and even if it was a rare moment when Jack had a smile on his face,\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eyou’d still know he’s sad. You could feel it, even across the room. If you were to take one look at him, you’d probably want to close your eyes so you could reenvision him as a strong, beautiful, powerful man—what he\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cem\u003ecould\u003c\/em\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003ebe, perhaps what his original blueprint depicted about thirty-five years ago.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“But it’s kind of like someone came along and deflated the balloon of his being,” Brooke says.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“If someone else actually has that power,” Henry replies. “Which no one does.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThree angels surround Jack: Christopher, Sapphire, and Blake. Your quintessential computer geek, Christopher wears glasses over his sharp, black eyes (yes, as you probably already surmised, angels wear glasses, too, when they want to proudly present that intellectual look). His ebony skin contrasts against his red and blond Mohawk—even angelic geeks like to sport that alternative look from time to time. Christopher constantly studies his laptop to watch graphs, analyze trends, make mental notes from the running tick of information gathered from all corners of the universe, and calculate statistics. On occasion, he looks up from his computer, but it has to be quite the occasion—which you know will happen because you certainly wouldn’t be reading a book about a non-occasion. But basically picture an angelic actuarial services analyzer albeit from the very hip part of town, and Christopher’s your guy...well, your angel.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSapphire whispers into Jack’s ear. She’s the sweet librarian type—you remember that truly great librarian, the one you wondered about and asked your friends if they thought she had a life? At least a life that didn’t involve reference desks and card catalogs? Or for those of you younger ones who have never researched away from the Internet and are wondering what in creation a card catalog could possibly be, picture instead a woman who loves to look on her computer to see what wisdom is found where. At any rate, this librarian from your hometown library just loved researching things and helping you find information. She was born to work in a library, and you thought, wow, it’s\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cem\u003ereally\u003c\/em\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003egood we’re all interested in such different things, so it all gets taken care of. (And yes, everyone thought she had a very boring life, but oh how wrong they were—you wouldn’t\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003e\u003cem\u003ebelieve\u003c\/em\u003e\u003cspan\u003e \u003c\/span\u003ethe life she had!) Behind Sapphire’s thick glasses and tightly wound bun, she is actually very, very beautiful.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eThey’re all beautiful. Honestly, have you ever seen an ugly angel? Or, if you’ve never seen an angel, have you ever imagined an ugly one? Impossible. Just like humans. Maybe there are some less-than-attractive humans, but most are pleasant looking. A small percentage fall in the absolutely-breathtakingly-beautiful category and an even smaller percentage fall in the far-less-than-absolutely-breathtakingly-beautiful category. But they’re all beautiful—all angels, all humans. You know what we mean.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSapphire’s job is to whisper continuously in Jack’s ear, which is exactly what she’s doing now. And what does she whisper? A compendium that goes something like this: “Jack, you are so beautiful. You are loved. You are a blessing. Thank you for being here. Thank you for blessing us. Jack, you are such a wonderful being. Jack, you are loved. You are so dear. You are such a blessing. Thank you for all that you do.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eWell, you get the idea. 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There’s more for you to do, son.” He pats him again—if Jack could’ve actually felt that pat, he probably would’ve fallen over.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Hey!” Christopher exclaims, watching a graph on his computer. “Check it out—his awareness just went off the charts! I think he heard you. It looks like he might finally be getting it—no, no, forget it…just a passing thought.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Nah, he didn’t hear me,” Blake says. “His heart is open from playing with his little boy. You’ve seen this before—happens every day when he’s with him. With his baby girl, too. But it doesn’t stay.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eMeanwhile, Sapphire simply whispers in Jack’s ear: “You are so dear. You are such a blessing. Thank you for all that you do.”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003e“Jack, Jack, Jack,” Blake practically hollers to him, clapping his hands. He bends over next to him, hand on Jack’s shoulders, like a coach trying to pep up a reluctant-but-necessary player sitting on the bench. “It’s time to run with the ball, son. Time to know there’s even a ball in play. Time to know you’re even on the ball field. Time to know there’s even a game going on!”\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eHenry looks at the clock on the mantle. “He’ll be off to work soon,” he tells Brooke, “but he’s getting as much as he can of the most joyous thing in his life before he drops him off at preschool. One of the most joyous things, anyway. The other joy is his daughter. And this is Lacey, his wife,” he says, pointing to a form that has very successfully merged with the couch.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eBrooke glances over at Lacey, who’s still doing the most wonderful job of potatoing. Yes, well, everyone on Earth has his or her special talent, and if a higher talent isn’t cultivated and nurtured, the lowest common denominator talent tends to prevail. Lacey might have been prettier in her day, and she could be on this day, if she wanted to be. Nope, doesn’t want to be: the bulge is winning this particular battle, dark roots are taking over the blond in her stringy, shoulder-length hair, her hazel eyes have long gone slack.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eSurrounding Lacey are her three angels. If this team’s computer aficionado was from Earth, you would think she’s from Southeast Asia, and she’d be gorgeous if she weren’t so bored. She watches Lacey for a moment and then sighs as she starts to play a game of solitaire on her computer. There aren’t too many charts to watch when the human is so, well, uninvolved with life.\u003c\/p\u003e\n\u003cp\u003eA chubby, adolescent-looking angel plays paddleball while an even younger-looking angel plays jacks on the floor. Adorable? 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