Reading in 2021

I didn't read as many books this year as I usually do but I have excuses. 😊 

For one thing, we were blessed with a granddaughter. Another is the fact that I reissued an older book of mine, A RUSH OF LIGHT. I was also working on a new book and I had edits to do on one that will be published sometime in the new year. (I got the cover for it and it is spectacular!)

Below are the books I read. Actually, I had read two of them previously, but second readings are always even better in my personal opinion.

 

What books did you read this year? 

Sharing

 

This is a photo from Christmas 1953. That's me sitting on my mother's lap in the center of the photo. My brother is on the floor on the right. My paternal grandparents are on the left and I think the legs must belong to my uncle because I am sure my father took the picture.

I don't really remember the dollhouse or the baby carriage in the picture, but I'm sure I loved the doll my mother helped me unwrap. I enjoyed pretending to be just like Mommy.

Back in the fifties, gifts for children were always specific to gender. Fortunately for me, I happened to like "girl" toys. However, I was lucky because I had a brother close in age and I played with his toys, too. I got to run his trains, fill up his dump trucks with dirt, and shoot him with his own cap guns. :-)

Sharing is a good thing.

Indie Authors Giveaway for a $25 Gift Card

Make sure you check out the Indie Authors' Giveaway at https://www.nnlightsbookheaven.com/post/a-rush-of-light-iabe before December 15, 2021. 

You can read an excerpt of A RUSH OF LIGHT and enter to win a $25 gift card to Amazon. Don't miss out on this offer. 

Guest Post: PROTECTING ANNIE by Jodie Wolfe

My guest today is Jodie Wolfe who creates novels where hope and quirky meet. She is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW), Faith, Hope & Love Christian Writers, and COMPEL Training. She's been a semi-finalist and finalist in various writing contests. A former columnist for Home School Enrichment magazine, her articles can be found online at: Crosswalk, Christian Devotions, and Heirloom Audio. When not writing she enjoys spending time with her husband in Pennsylvania, reading, walking, and being a Grammie. Learn more at www.jodiewolfe.com.

Her latest release is PROTECTING ANNIE. It sounds terrific. Here's the blurb:

After twenty years of living along the trail as a deputy U.S. Marshal, Joshua Walker takes a job as sheriff in Burrton Springs, Kansas so he can be closer to his sister. Only problem, she no longer requires his protecting so he's unsure of his next step.
 
Annie McPherson needs a change after the death of her father. She accepts a position as schoolmarm, hoping her past won't catch up with her. Life is good, except for the pesky sheriff who continues to question her ability to adjust to life in the west and creates confrontations at every turn.
 
When the irritating schoolteacher's past and present collide, dragging him into the turmoil, Josh has to decide who he's willing to defend.

Enjoy the excerpt! 

Burrton Springs, Kansas

August 1, 1876

Death paced close enough for Annie McPherson to smell its rotted breath. A menacing growl rumbled in the beast's throat. The animal bared his teeth when she attempted a tiny step. Perspiration trickled between her shoulder blades. She cocked her head a fraction of an inch, hoping to spot a bystander, but only a small glimpse of a barren street stretched between the tight alleyway. Her heart hammered beneath her polonaise.

Not a single soul in sight. “Where’s help when you need it?”

Her movement and words caused the monstrosity to circle closer. If Annie’d been on speaking terms with God, it would’ve been a good time to send a plea for someone to come to her rescue. But she’d fallen out of practice of praying over the past years, ever since—

She released a silent breath, shifting her foot in the dirt. The deranged creature snarled and snapped, just short of capturing her wrist in his jaws. Annie tried to swallow but her throat muscles refused to contract.

The wolf settled on his haunches, two feet in front of her. A glistening tongue protruded from his face. His beady eyes stared at her, unmoving. Was the beast contemplating how she would taste, like the one in the tale of Little Red Cap she’d read as a child? A shiver ran down Annie’s spine. She had no desire to be wolf chow.

“Easy, fellow. Don’t eat me. I’m sure I’m not very appetizing.”

It was time to take charge of her fate since no assistance was coming. Annie took a step sideways. Her back scraped against the rough boards of the building.

Why had she chosen to saunter through the narrow passageway and follow the jumbled directions the blacksmith had given her after she’d exited the conveyance? The other townsperson she’d asked had stared at her as if she’d spoken a different language, as if the man didn’t understand English when he heard it. Annie hoped he wasn’t an indication of what type of people lived in town. She’d have to make the best of it since returning to New York wasn’t feasible, not after that louse—

An ominous snarl snapped her back to her current situation. How many times had Mama warned her about focusing on the situation at hand? While she’d been woolgathering, the wild animal inched his way closer. He leapt.

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King

This is an old photo of my sister and our dog, King. King was a mutt with obvious traces of husky in his genetic makeup. His house was a fifty-gallon drum, and he lived outside most of the time except during extreme weather situations like hurricanes and blizzards. My parents were of the opinion that dogs were dogs.

King was presented to my brother and I as a birthday present. I was six at that point and my sister was one, but as the years went by she loved that dog so much that at the age of three she proclaimed that she was going to marry him. :^)

The dog catcher incarcerated King when he was nine years old. We got him back, but he died shortly afterward. Dad buried him on the hill behind the house.

We had other pets over the years, but King lived the longest and was much loved. When I put dogs into my stories, I always think of him.

Guest Post: ARMS OF FREEDOM by Kathleen Neely

 

My guest today is Kathleen Neely, a retired elementary principal who enjoys time with family, visiting her two grandsons, traveling, and reading. 

She is the author of The Street Singer, Beauty for Ashes, The Least of These, Arms of Freedom, and In Search of True North. Kathleen won second place in a short story contest through ACFW-VA for her short story “The Missing Piece” and an honorable mention for her story “The Dance”. Both were published in a Christmas anthology. Her novel, The Least of These, was awarded first place in the 2015 Fresh Voices contest through Almost an Author. She has numerous devotions published through Christian Devotions. 

 

Kathleen continues to speak to students about writing and publication processes. She is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers. 

 

Kathleen's latest release is ARMS OF FREEDOM. 

With each page of the age-old journals, Annie discovers all that unites her with a woman who once lived in her farmhouse. One lived with wealth and one with poverty, but both knew captivity. Both longed to be free.  

Miriam yearns to escape her life as a super model. She drops the pseudonym and uses the name she gave up years ago—Annie Gentry. Then she alters her appearance and moves to rural South Carolina to care for her grandmother. Can she live a simple life without recognition? Can she hide a net worth valued in the millions? Love is nowhere in her plans until she meets a man who wants nothing more than Annie Gentry and the simple life he lives. 

Charlotte lived in the same farmhouse in the tumultuous 1860’s. The Civil War was over, but for a bi-racial girl, freedom remained elusive. She coveted a life where she wouldn’t bring shame to her family. A life where she could make a difference. As she experiences hope, will it be wrested from her? 

The journals stop abruptly with a climactic event, leaving Annie to search for information. What happened to Charlotte? Did her life make a difference?  Did she ever find freedom? 

Intrigued? Read an excerpt to find out more.

The key turned in the lock, but the attic door still required a strong arm to open it. Years of dried paint scraped the door jamb. The bottom rebelled against the threshold, clearly in need of a carpenter to sand it down or re-align it. She propped it open, hit the light switch and immediately met years of stagnant air. A musty smell caught in her throat activating a gag reflex. She coughed, then hoisted the cardboard boxes to shield her nose and mouth. As the still air began to dance in its new freedom, the disturbed dust mites floated in dull light beams. She’d have to deal with this sometime. She’d take the boxes and drop them upstairs. The attic needed a good airing out before she could look around. With the boxes held high in her arms, Annie climbed the steep wooden stairs. 

The dim light cast shadows, enough to know that the room wasn’t empty. Annie plopped the boxes down and felt along the wall for another light. Instead, she found a string dangling from a single bulb mounted on the ceiling. She tugged the string and the room came to life revealing a lightly-cluttered attic. Sheets covered surfaces in their attempt to protect them from years of dust. Her initial inclination was to leave this for another day. Or another year. Low priority with all she had to do. 

Yet something compelled her to stay. A few boxes and a storage chest. You would expect those in an attic. But a large section of the room held an air of familiarity. Children’s furniture had been stacked against one wall. A wooden table, four chairs, two turned upside down to nest on the other two, and a bookshelf. A carpet, about six-foot square, spread out on the floor in front of the furniture. Why was everything so familiar? She had only visited here twice when she was around five years old. And she was certain she’d never been in the attic. Eleanor would not have allowed it. 

Annie opened an old chest that sat on the carpet. She lifted the dusty lid and saw the toys, mostly wood and metal. A toy tea set, a sorry looking stuffed teddy bear, and wooden building blocks with faded alphabet letters. A smaller chest sat beside it. She picked up a yo-yo, the string discolored and stiff, marbles in a cardboard box, a metal spinning top, void of color. These were definitely old, perhaps antiques. She lowered the lid, puzzling over this discovery. Another box held two items, both wrapped in cloth. She lifted one and removed the flannel to discover a baby doll. An image formed in her mind. She had seen this doll. She was certain of it. She could see a vision of the doll sitting on one of the wooden chairs. She knew she’d find another when she unwrapped the other flannel—one with red, curly hair. 

As she unpacked the second doll, it all came back to her. A picture. She’d seen the items in a painting at Nana’s home, the home she had in Pittsburgh before she moved to Roswell House Assisted Living. The painting mirrored Andrew Wyeth’s style of down-home realism with rustic details. The table and chairs on the same carpet where Annie stood today, the tea set in the center, and two dolls seated with teacups before them. The gritty window in the background of the picture with its yellow-gold curtains matched the window a few feet away. The gold had faded to a drab shade and held years of dust, but it was the same curtain. The same window. That meant a child’s play area had been in this attic. Why would anyone set up a playroom in an attic? Or perhaps this space served as an artist studio, the dolls and tea set staged for a picture. But another thought marched to her brain. Her grandmother’s words. Those walls hold secrets.

 

 You can find Kathleen at:

 

Website – www.KathleenNeely.com 

Facebook – www.facebook.com/kathy.neely.98

Twitter - https://twitter.com/NeelyKneely3628

Instagram – www.Instagram.com/KathleenNeelyAuthor 

You can find ARMS OF FREEDOM at:

https://www.amazon.com/Arms-Freedom-Kathleen-Neely-ebook/dp/B09FKKTWCX

 

 

 

 

The Reissue of A RUSH OF LIGHT with a New Cover

One of the things I set off to do during the lockdown was to reissue A RUSH OF LIGHT. My inspirational romance was originally published by AweStruck Publishing at the end of 2005. When AweStruck folded, Mundania Press added the book to their catalog. After a while, I requested a return of the rights fully intending to add it to my other orphaned titles on Amazon. But I simply didn't get around to it. The pandemic provided the impetus for me to jump into this project, but--as always--I was distracted by other projects. I had edits to complete for Home Somewhere and I began working on another book. Meanwhile, A RUSH OF LIGHT got lost in the shuffle. 

But Taria Reed came through with a new cover and once I check for more pesky mistakes in the manuscript, A RUSH OF LIGHT will be available once more in both ebook and paperback. 

I am delighted. I love this book. Of course, I love all my books. Each one is very special to me, but this one has the distinction of being my longest book. I had a lot of fun writing it, too. 

It was given many wonderful reviews, but one of my favorites was from Faith Smith in Romantic Times Book Reviews. She wrote, "Marzec's book is sweet but strong in all the right emotions."

💕💕💕

 

Guest Post: NO LONGER A CAPTIVE by Carol James

My guest today is Carol James, an author of inspirational fiction. She loves creating Redemptive Romance. She lives in Lilburn, Georgia, a small town outside of Atlanta, with her husband, Jim, and a perky Jack Russell Terrier, Zoe.

 

Having always loved intriguing stories with happy endings, she was moved to begin writing to encourage others as she'd been encouraged by the works of other authors of inspirational fiction.

 

Her debut novel, Rescuing Faith, was an Amazon number one best-seller. Visit her website to sign up for her newsletter to be the first to learn about new releases: www.carol-james.com

 

Just recently, Carol allowed Zoe to start an instagram page with two of her dog friends. Follow them at 3DogsandtheirAuthors to learn the behind the scenes info about being a writer. 

 

Carol enjoys spending time with her husband, children, and grandchildren, traveling with friends, and serving in the production department at her church. And most days, in the late hours of the night or the wee hours of the morning, she can be found bringing her newest novel to life.

NO LONGER A CAPTIVE is the story of Ethne O'Connor. When her brother, Sean, tells her of father's unexpected death, he asks her to do something she promised herself she'd never do. Come back home. 

 

A victim of childhood abuse, Ethne left her father and the small Texas town of Crescent Bluff ten years ago on the night of her high school graduation. She's determined to end the cycle of abuse and believes the only way to do that is remain single. If she has no husband, she'll never have children that can be abused.

 

Then she meets Daniel Spenser, a handsome doctor with chocolate-kiss eyes. Daniel understands her past in a way no one else does. He's lived it. 

 

Will Daniel be able to help Ethne break the chains of captivity around her heart? 

 

And will God release her from her past, to be free to trust the man she comes to love?

Excerpt for No Longer a Captive

 

“So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.” 

John 8:36 

            The gravel crunched beneath the tires as Ethne O’Connor steered the box truck onto the shoulder of the narrow country road. Today would be a scorcher. The clock hadn’t yet reached nine in the morning, and already the numbers on her dashboard read ninety-two. The birth of another lovely summer day in Central Texas. 

            The heat waves rising from the pavement in front of her mirrored the waves of nausea that had steadily intensified since she’d left Fort Worth. She shifted the truck into park, flipped on the emergency flashers, and turned the air conditioning on high. Closing her eyes, she pushed her head back against the seat and begged the cold air to rush across her face and relieve her churning stomach. 

            She couldn’t believe she was doing this. One May evening ten years ago, with her suitcase already packed in the trunk of her car, she walked across the stage in the high school auditorium, received her diploma, and made a promise to herself, a vow that had never been broken…until today. Sean’s pleading phone call on Monday had changed everything. She was returning home. 

            The nausea somewhat under control, she shifted the truck into drive, pulled back onto the roadway, and turned off the emergency flashers. One last mile to go. Anticipation was a funny thing. When she wanted something to happen, it took forever to come. If she dreaded an event, it arrived before she knew it. These last several days had gone by way too fast. 

            Slowing the truck, she turned left and began the journey down a meandering river of asphalt. As she rounded the final curve and her childhood home came into view, she gasped. In the ten years she’d been gone, absolutely nothing had changed. The two-story farm house was still painted white with black shutters. Large Boston ferns hung from under the edges of the front porch and swayed in the ever-present Texas wind. Even the flowers waving in the pots beneath them were the same—purple petunias.

            Nine o’clock and no Sean, but she wasn't surprised. Punctuality had never been expected of him. On the other hand, Vaughn had always demanded she be on time. Even early. That requirement had served her well over the years, birthing in her the organizational skills that helped her successfully start and run her business. 

            She parked the truck at the top of the circular drive, and despite the heat, slipped on her sweater, and inched across the pavement and up onto the porch. She grasped the doorknob. As she expected, it was locked, and she didn’t have a key. Years ago, she’d thrown hers away because she would never need it again. If she’d kept it, she could have at least gone inside and escaped the heat. 

            She turned and walked toward one of the rocking chairs. A forgotten green turtle with a chipped front leg smiled at her from underneath one of the pots of flowers. She picked it up and slid back the door on its belly. A key fell out into her hand. When she was a little girl, she always believed the key was there for Sean and her—in case they got locked out and Vaughn was still at the office. That was certainly one of the reasons, but when she was eleven, she’d discovered another. 

            She returned the oblivious little turtle to his home and then inserted the key into the lock. Taking a deep breath, she turned the key and pushed the door open. Cool, silent darkness greeted her as she stepped into the spotless—Vaughn would have it no other way— foyer. 

            She set the key on the console table beside the door and then tiptoed, for some unexplainable reason, further in. She paused and glanced first toward the living room to her right and then toward Vaughn’s home office to her left. There was only one choice to make. She headed right and walked to the wingback chair next to the fireplace. Sitting, she nestled into the cushions. She pressed her nose against the fabric. Even after all these years, she could imagine the soft fragrance of Mother’s perfume lingering in the ivory brocade.

            Heavy draperies hung closed over the living room windows. A shaft of light shot out from the middle space where the panels failed to meet completely and illuminated a flock of dust motes as they floated in the bright morning sun. When she was five, Mother told her the particles were tiny fairies dancing in the sunshine, but they were usually invisible. Only the magic of the sun unveiled them. 

            One day, Ethne had asked Vaughn if she could borrow his magnifying glass to see the fairies, but he’d refused, saying Mother had filled her head with nonsense. Fairies weren’t real. 

            Turns out, that was one of the few truthful statements he’d ever made to her. She now knew the ‘fairies’ were nothing more than a combination of dead skin cells, fabric fibers, pollen, and dirt. He was right. Nothing magical about that. 

            As she walked over to the window and threw open the curtains, the fairies disappeared. 

            “So, the prodigal sister hath returned.” 

            She jumped and spun to face the foyer. Her little brother spanned the doorway. He had grown up. The last time she’d seen him at his college graduation three years ago, he was at that stage where the calendar said he was a man, but his body was trying to catch up. He had certainly filled out, and he now sported a short, precisely-trimmed, chestnut beard. His hair, unlike hers, had deepened from bright copper to rich auburn. 

            “Sean. You’re late,” she snipped. This was not the way she’d envisioned their first meeting after all this time. She took a deep breath, reined in her emotions, and smiled. “Or maybe I’m a little early. I have a reputation for that.” She pulled him into a sisterly hug. 

            His grin answered hers. “Early, late, whatever. I’m just glad you came. I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see you again.” 

            “The road runs both ways, you know.” 

            “Yeah. Sorry.” He held up the key she’d placed on the console table. “I see you remembered the turtle. I figured I’d find you sitting on the porch in one of the rockers.” 

            He set a small, black gym bag on the floor. “Where’s your suitcase? Need me to get it out of the truck?” 

            “I’m not staying here. I’ve got a room in town.” 

            “Eth, I can see how hard this must be for you.” Tears filled his eyes. “Believe me. I know.” 

            He really had no idea. The man he knew as Dad was not the same one she knew as Vaughn. 

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Our Pandemic Theater

 

Hubby and I don't watch television much at all, but we used to go to the theater to see movies now and then. The pandemic changed that. Daughter #2 helped us out by signing us on to Prime Video. We've watched several interesting historical shows, which both hubby and I enjoy. But we also watched a few insipid movies. Daughter #1 recommended the Tudor Monastery Farm, which was an in-depth view of life in the time of Henry VII. It is amazing how much work went into simply surviving in those times. 

Do you have any historical series you'd like to recommend?

All People Make Mistakes

Wooden Cross on the Beach at Ocean Grove, New Jersey

 All people make mistakes. Some won't admit their mistakes. Some make excuses for their missteps. A segment of the population seeks to blame their errors on others.

On the other hand, there are those who spend their lives crippled by guilt, which isn't healthy and there are people who are burdened with mental heath issues. 

A lot of us are in very sad shape. This makes it easy for a writer--in any genre--to find characters for their novels. The characters could be tortured heroes or depraved villains or anyone with a checkered past. 

But I find it rather satisfying to write Christian fiction because--in the end--there is hope. Christ died on the cross for everyone. God really does love us--imperfect though we all may be. 

If you're looking for a dose of hope, buy a Christian novel. Pelican Book Group publishes my books under their Prism imprint. but they offer many others, too. There is a large variety and there are plenty of sales as well. Many are available through Kindle Unlimited. 

Buy a good book today!

Unity

You can see it if you look closely. Printed on our United States currency you can find the Latin words, "E pluribus unum." Translated it means, "Out of many, one." In other words, despite our country's many states, races, ideologies, and regional differences, we are united. Most of the time, it doesn't seem that way. We proclaim ourselves as Republicans or Democrats, liberals or conservatives, Northerners or Southerners, white collar workers or blue collar workers, Christians, Jews, or Atheists. We divide ourselves with labels. Out of the tragedy of September 11, 2001, there was one big miracle. We were all united. The feeling did not last long, but it was there for a time. The churches were full, the flags were flying, we were all listening to patriotic music--we were all Americans. It is sad that we have since returned to putting ourselves back into our respective corners, keeping ourselves separated from each other and denigrating the other side.

Yes, I labeled myself into my little corner, too. However, I do mingle (as every writer should) and I do my best to be open-minded. As my father always said, "Live and let live." May we always strive for unity, for that is where our strength lies.

Sunshine in My Life

I became a grandma recently and I am quite delighted. I’ve been helping my daughter—mostly by holding the baby so she could do something else. I sing songs to my new grandchild when she’s alert, which isn’t often considering she mostly just wants to eat and sleep. But this tiny child has brought a ray of sunshine into my world. After eighteen months of COVID-19, it is a welcome shot of hope.

I haven't been writing much, but I'm sure I'll get back to it with renewed energy when things settle down. Perhaps I'll have a few new plot ideas as well. After all, I started writing in earnest when I was raising my own children so long ago. In my case, motherhood brought my artistic tendencies into full flower. 

But for now, I'm basking in the warmth of a bundle of joy. 

 

Letters

Once upon a time, a long distance phone call used to be a rare occasion due to the expense. So I wrote letters--real, handwritten breezy little missives--to my near and dear to keep in touch. I wrote to my brother and his wife. I wrote to my aunt. I wrote to my parents and my sisters when I was in Italy one summer. When I returned home, my mother handed me all the letters I had written to her. What a treasure!

Many years ago before she died, my mother found another letter tucked away somewhere and gave it to me. I had written to Mom and my sister when they were visiting my grandmother in western Pennyslvania. I had written it only a few weeks before my hubby and I were married. Using a fountain pen and my best handwriting, I rambled on about the bargains I had found such as my white, wedding shoes for $9.

I told them about the bedroom furniture arriving in the house hubby and I would soon share. I had spent the whole day waiting for the furniture to arrive and had met one of the neighbors.

Then I told them about the wedding shower hubby's family gave me in Brooklyn. I listed all the wonderful gifts I received, but I knew very few people in his family at that time and told my mother I felt like an orphan since none of my own family was there. (A few weeks later, my family threw another shower for me.)

Reading the letter, I realize now how young and naive I was. I have changed--a bit. 😁

Too bad very few people write letters anymore. E-mail is not quite the same.

The Deleted Prologue of IRONS IN THE FIRE

Initially, I wrote Irons in the Fire with a prologue. I like prologues, but some people don't. Evidently, most agents and editors hate prologues and consider them the mark of a rank amateur. However, my agent took me on as a client on the basis of that book with the prologue.

When I received a contract for Irons in the Fire from New Concepts Publishing, the editor told me to cut the prologue. Deleting my precious beginning hurt, but I did it and dropped the information throughout the rest of the story. Nevertheless, the Advanced Reading Copy contained the prologue and with it the book received a Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Award nomination.

Go figure.

I made the Advanced Reading Copy which I sent to Romantic Times for review. That copy was later put up for sale on Amazon.😀 I made it with my own two hands and decorated the cover with a sprig of yarrow from my garden. It was beautiful!

So for those who still think prologues can be a nice addition to a book, I give you the original beginning of Irons in the Fire.

Prologue
Catherine Mullaney knew she couldn't expect a party on her sixteenth birthday. Still, she walked home from school in a bleak drizzle dreaming of a frothy, white-iced cake with pink roses and blazing candles. And butter pecan ice cream, too.

Before she reached home, the drizzle changed to rain and soaked her jacket. Shivering in the hall outside the apartment, she stood with her hand on the knob and took in a ragged breath. Why couldn't somebody else's father have Alzheimer's disease? Why did it have to be her father who acted like a stranger? She never knew what to expect when she walked in the door.

Fighting back a wave of despair, she squared her shoulders, deciding that if Dad could simply remember who she was, that alone would make the day special. However, what she saw as she stepped into the room made her gasp. Their once neat and orderly home looked as if a burglar had ransacked it. Her backpack slid out of her grasp as her gaze swept over the destruction. A pain squeezed at her heart. Where was Dad?

Magazines, cushions and newspapers lay scattered in every direction. Even lamps and chairs had been overturned. Heart thundering, she picked her way through the chaos. When she heard a furious muttering coming from the corner behind the upended sofa, fear knotted in her stomach.

Barely breathing and moving with feline stealth, she inched closer to the sofa. When she peered around the edge and saw her father on the floor methodically ripping apart a wicker basket, a sense of relief flowed through her, though the little comfort she found in his presence was tinged with sorrow. Once he had been Ed Mullaney, the famous syndicated columnist, loved by the American people, a sensible voice in every crisis whether political or mundane. Now, weakened and sick, there seemed little left of him except the shell.

"Daddy?" She patted his shoulder, but he didn't look at her. He continued to tear the basket to shreds. Her throat tightened, and tears pricked at the back of her eyes.

"Witches," he muttered. "Witches and hands. Terrible bloody hands."

A shiver went up Catherine's spine. "Daddy, what happened?"

His hands stilled above the shredded ruin of the basket. He frowned and turned his gaze on her, his eyes wide and staring. "Fiona!" he roared.

"I'm not Mama!" Catherine backed away, tears spilling from her eyes.

Her father struggled to his feet and snatched at her hands, squeezing them until they hurt.

"Fiona!" He howled like a wounded animal.

"Stop it!" Catherine fought to get her hands free of his strong grip. "Let me go! I'm going to call Uncle Mike." She broke away and dashed for the telephone. Her father came after her. When she picked up the receiver, he lunged at her.

Dodging him, she ran out of the apartment. Despite the driving rain, she kept on running, not caring anymore, trying only to rid herself of the anger and hurt.

By nightfall, soaked to the skin and numb, she huddled in the shadows of an old pier. Across the Hudson River, the lights blinked and went out on the Jersey side. The rain stopped. She glanced up at the clouds racing along toward the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge. With the moon behind them, the clouds looked like blue ghosts.

She stared into the black gloom around her. Nobody. Even New York's homeless people had vanished with the rain. She felt tired, cold, and hungry; but she couldn't go back--ever. It hurt too much to know that Daddy would never be the same again. A fresh torrent of tears rolled down her cheeks. Uncle Mike would have to find someone to look after her father.

She rubbed her arms and decided to search for a better shelter. A few blocks away, she discovered a dumpy restaurant that still had all the lights burning. She reached into her pocket and drew out four dollars, enough for a bagel and a hot cup of tea.

As the only customer, she sat on a stool by the counter.

"You run away?" the owner asked in heavily accented English. The gaze from his almond-shaped eyes fastened on her.

"No." She smiled, hoping he couldn't heart her heart pounding. "I'm in a Broadway show."

"Broadway...hmmm." He wiped the counter top and grinned.

Her stomach tightened. The man didn't believe her. She moved over to the next stool, closer to the window that looked out onto the street. In the dim light she watched as another man slid a steel cover over the front of the pharmacy next door, closing up for the night.

With the hot tea warming her, she recalled her last visit to the clinic with her father. She had questioned the doctor about a new experimental drug for Alzheimer's patients. She'd read about the treatment in the New York Times. The doctor had informed her that her father had progressed too far in the disease and had refused to prescribe it.

To Catherine, even a little improvement in her father's condition would be a miracle. She couldn't understand why the doctor didn't agree with her. A risky plan of action began to form in her mind. It seemed her only hope.

When the restaurant owner lugged out his garbage for tomorrow's pickup, Catherine pocketed a knife from the counter and hopped off the stool. She dashed to the back of the restaurant. Pushing open the heavy steel exit, she stepped out into a small yard littered with debris. Sharp slivers of glass sparkled in the light streaming through the restaurant's back window.

She heard an ominous click as the door behind her automatically locked shut. Her knees went weak as a wave of doubt swept over her, and she leaned back against the door for support. She intended to commit a crime to get the new medication that the doctor would not prescribe. If she wanted her father to be well, she had to go against the law to help him get better.

She looked up into the midnight sky and fought back tears. "I'm doing this for you, Dad."

A chain link fence separated the restaurant's backyard from that of the pharmacy. Drawing in a deep breath and thankful that she'd worn her jeans, she climbed over the fence. She tugged at the back door to the drug store. Naturally, it didn't budge an inch. She stepped back to study the situation. There had to be a way in, and she had all night to find it.

The squeaky hinges on the restaurant door sent her pulse thundering. She scurried for cover behind a wall of cardboard boxes.

"Hey! Little lady!" The restaurant's proprietor called out. "Is not allowed to go back here!" The man muttered to himself in his native tongue. She heard the crunch of the broken glass and the rattle of the chain link fence. Curling up as small as she could behind the boxes, she held onto the Celtic cross around her neck and said a prayer.

When the restaurant door slammed shut again, Catherine peeked over the edge of her hideout. He was gone. Weak with relief, she heaved a sigh.

She began a thorough inspection of the pharmacy. The fire escape loomed way too high. She tapped the steel doors that covered the entrance to the cellar and smiled when they shook slightly. Kneeling down, she used the knife to try and wedge the lock open. However, the knife kept slipping in her cold hands.

Icy water from a small hollow in the doors trickled onto her fingers. Unexpectedly, the metal of the lock gleamed with an eerie brightness as the last of the clouds fled from the face of the moon.

Catherine turned to look at the glowing orb and felt a strange dizziness take hold of her. She turned back to the puddle, touched it with her hand, and saw the moon's reflection ripple in the water. An odd shiver ran through her with lightning speed, numbing first her hands, then her arms, until finally, her entire body froze in a rigid grip of terror. The world about her was replaced by a dark, empty void. A roaring filled her ears as she felt herself sucked backward through space.

Then the spinning stopped. Although Catherine couldn't see anything, she sniffed the aura of musty wool around her. Her pulse beat frantically. Where was she? She put her hand out and felt a stucco wall and the shapes of hanging clothes. She was in a closet. The closet in the cottage--in Ireland--and she was two years old.

She hated the closet. She hated the dark. And she hated Mama's screams. Frightened, Catherine wanted to cry, but Mama had told her to be quiet. A small stream of light came from a crack in the door and she knelt down to look out into the room.

There was a man in the room with Mama, but it wasn't Daddy. The man hit Mama and made her cry. He hit her again and again. Mama screamed and Catherine wanted to scream, too, but when she opened her mouth no sound came out. Then Mama's screams stopped.

The air in the closet grew stale. Catherine pushed her hand against the closet door. It opened a little and she saw the man with blood on his hands. He cursed and put his hand up against the side of his head. Part of his ear had been cut off.

The man cursed again, louder. Catherine sank deep into the closet. Through the crack, she could still see the man. He picked up Mama and carried her out of the house.

Everything became very quiet. Catherine wanted Mama. She cried but Mama didn't come. She crawled out of the closet. The floor was covered with red. And in a basket by the door, she found Mama's hands.

Wailing, like the high-pitched keening of the banshees surrounded her. Fear spiraled in her. She wanted to escape, to leave the horrible nightmare.

Then the vision faded. Blackness swallowed her up and hurled her back through the terrible void. She collapsed, weak and trembling on the cold, steel doors behind the pharmacy.

Confused about what had happened, Catherine thought she must be going crazy, too, just like Dad. Her stomach churned as a sob lodged in her throat. She bit down on her lower lip to stifle any sound. She had to get that medicine. If the drug couldn't help her father, maybe it could prevent her from coming down with the same horrible illness.

With a wildness born of desperation, she grabbed the steel bars that covered the window and shook them. They didn't budge. She yanked at the bars, and slammed her body up against them. Finally, she took the knife and hacked at the wooden sill.

The tinkling of glass warned her. She whirled around and froze. Her heart stopped as she stared down the muzzle of a gun in the hands of a very big cop.

"Put your hands up. Slowly," he said.

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