Where Did That Idea Come From?

When hubby's parents first retired they left Brooklyn and moved to a home in Greenville, NY--upstate as New Yorkers say. Compared to Brooklyn, it was rather quiet. However, there were things to do. Next to them was a small resort complete with a small lake where we would go boating. Not far away, was the Catskill Game Farm where our daughters enjoyed feeding and petting the animals. (The Catskill Game Farm closed in 2006.)

Most interesting to me was the town of East Durham, an Irish enclave. In the evenings, hubby and I would drive to East Durham and enjoy the entertainment at the Shamrock House. During the daytime, we browsed through the small Irish shops where I found books on Irish legends.

That's where the idea came to me for PRINCE OF THE MIST, which is set in the Catskills of upstate NY. In Ireland, the Sidhe are the human-sized fairies of legend, but there are other countries in the world with similar legends. Why couldn't human-sized fairies live in upstate NY?

The misty Catskill mountains made the perfect setting for my story and Wildon became THE PRINCE OF THE MIST.  I had a great time writing this story. It makes me long to go back to the Catskills! :-)

IRONS IN THE FIRE $0.99 for a Limited Time

Irons In The Fire is $0.99 for a limited time. 

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The book was a nominee for the Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Award for Best Small Press Paranormal. It is a contemporary paranormal romance in which Irish legends revolve around a contemporary plot set along the Jersey shore. The heroine, Catherine, has been told she is a descendant of fairies but without her uncle’s ancient book of spells, she cannot harness her powers and though she can foresee the future, she can do nothing to change it. But when her uncle is murdered, she must depend upon Britt Jenkins, her uncle's neighbor, to help her solve the murder.

In the following scene, Britt and Catherine are returning to his house after being questioned by the police. 

Jenkins' sports car had a stick shift, a clutch, and very little room. When he shifted gears, his hand brushed Catherine's thigh and set off a tremor inside her. She edged closer to the door of the sleek vehicle and sought to blot out the vision she had just endured.

With him as a distraction, eliminating the illusion wasn't as difficult as she thought it would be. The engine roared and the strong, callused hand on the gearshift slid along her thigh again, creating another earthquake in her system. She swallowed hard, turning to gaze out of the window as they sped along Main Street. 

She recognized the small business district of Gull Haven. A crowd had gathered on the street outside of one of the pubs. As the car cruised past, a fight broke out on the sidewalk. She flinched when one drunken man slammed another with his fist.

“Did you see that?” she gasped.

“Yeah. Another fight at the ‘Happy Sailor.’ That's a nightly ritual.”

She frowned at his lack of concern. The light from a street lamp illuminated the grim set to his mouth. She supposed exhaustion weighed as heavily on him as it did on her, but she didn't doubt he was furious with her as well. She had told the detective about that slip of paper. While she didn't regret it, because she knew her uncle's scrawl contained an important clue, she didn't enjoy causing a rift between them. He had, after all, saved her life.

The car rolled by another pub that had at least twenty motorcycles parked outside. Catherine knew the nightlife in Gull Haven left a lot to be desired. If any residents wished for something more cultured than beer and pretzels for an evening out, they went to Rivershire, over the bridge on the mainland.

They left the business district behind and headed north. The rest of the town was quiet. Too quiet. With the solid rock wall on the right, dark houses on the left, and her mysterious, unpredictable companion, loneliness crept over her.

The Taylors’ brooding gothic came into view and served only to make her more uneasy. The thought of staying in that house by herself gave her the creeps.

He turned the car into his driveway. “So where's your aunt?”

She started at his curt tone. “I don’t know. At some spa, I think. We don't—I mean, we've never really been close.” A deep stab of pain shot through her heart. The loss of her uncle could only make the situation with her aunt worse.

“What about Mike's stepson, Drew?”

“He had a sailing race this weekend in Maryland.” Catherine's throat tightened. Drew had always gotten along well with Mike. He would be as devastated as she was at the loss. Although Drew wouldn't be back until tomorrow, perhaps she could share her grief with him and patch up the old animosities.

Her companion stared at her for a minute, his eyes as hot and piercing as a laser. Then he got out of the car.

She slid out and followed him as he stalked into his house. Inside the back door, he flipped the switch to turn on the lights. She covered her eyes until they could adjust to the blinding gleam. Dangling from the ceiling, a bare bulb sent glaring rays bouncing off the stark white ceiling and walls.

It had been a long, terrible day and her tongue turned acerbic. “This reminds me of a blizzard I attended once,” she said.

He stopped pulling the plastic drop cloth off his refrigerator to scowl. “You don't like it?”

“It's dazzling.” She smiled as he glowered. Not only was he egotistical, he was monochromatic.

“Now wait a minute, Mullaney.” He wagged a finger at her.

“You may call me Miss Mullaney or Ms. Mullaney or even Catherine, but I'm not one of your old chums from the pub, Jenkins.”

His eyes widened in surprise and then narrowed threateningly. “I'll call you anything I please.” His voice took on a menacing edge.

Catherine rolled her eyes. Where did this fellow come from? The Stone Age? He could keep his pizza. “Look, I'm grateful you saved my life today, but I'm totally exhausted. Thanks for offering to feed me, but I can take care of myself.” She didn't feel hungry, anyway. 

She spun, snagged her foot in the plastic drop cloth, and let out a startled cry as she pitched toward the floor. With lightning reflexes, he caught her before she connected with the solid tile. The strong grip on her shoulders set her heart racing. His face hovered over hers and her knees went weak.

“You are going to sit on my couch and you are going to eat my pizza, because I am not going to be responsible for you fainting in my kitchen.”

His cold tone acted like a bracing splash of water, bringing her to her senses. “I wasn’t going to faint. I simply tripped.”

“It looked like fainting to me.” He searched her face with his scorching gaze. His breath fanned her skin, sending a tingling sensation over her limbs. She decided she really would faint if he came any closer. She closed her eyes as she felt the flush blooming on her cheeks.

He freed one of her arms and passed his hand across her brow. “Are you feverish?”

Terrific. What could she say to him? No, I'm just blushing because you are sending these crazy shivers up and down my spine. She didn't say anything.

“All right. Come into the living room.” He ushered her to the sofa. “Put your feet up. I'll get a blanket. How about a glass of wine?”

She tried to shake off his solicitous hands. “There's nothing wrong with me. I'm fine.”

“You've had a shock. Maybe I should call an ambulance,” he muttered.

“I'm okay,” she protested.

Ignoring her attempt at bravery, he swung her feet up on the couch, covered her with a blanket, and handed her a glass of wine. Then he busied himself zapping pizza in his microwave.

She soon regretted her comment about his kitchen. After a few sips of wine, she suggested it would be perfect if he added some plants and a collection of plates, perhaps, or old copper molds. She complimented the living room with its gleaming oak floor. After several more sips of wine, she even volunteered to help him choose his furnishings.

He handed her a personal-size pizza and refilled her wineglass, then sat cross-legged on the floor and munched on his own meal.

“So you think the house has possibilities?” he asked.

“It's charming,” she reassured him. “With the right touches, it would be a real showpiece.”

He shook his head. “Your uncle told me the same thing.”

For a few minutes she had put all the day's events out of her mind, but his words brought it all back. Determined not to cry, she swallowed against the ache in her throat and listened as he told her how her uncle sold him the house, gave him advice on repairs, and bought him a set of tools. Reclining against the pillow, she enjoyed the rich timbre of his voice and watched as the softer side of her rescuer took shape. The words he chose made him seem quite intelligent, she decided. And when he wasn't glaring at her, he presented a rather handsome appearance.

Taking another sip of wine, she closed her eyes, just for a minute. She wouldn't fall asleep on him. No, she just felt delightfully warm and safe. She wished she didn't have to go back to Aunt Evelyn’s house.

     Oblivious to the late hour, her rescuer droned on, describing how to spackle sheet rock and strip old wood. Her head nodded and she fell asleep.

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Chapter One from KISS OF BLARNEY

It's almost St. Patrick's Day! Below is the beginning of KISS OF BLARNEY, my story about Ula, an Irish princess hidden in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. Shay, the hero of the tale, is burdened by geise, a set of personal rules which must be obeyed. Otherwise misfortune or even death could result.

Chapter One 

Shay could swear someone was watching his every move. A prickly sensation lingered along his shoulders, and he rubbed the back of his neck while standing at the bar in Paddy’s Pub in Green Creek, New Jersey--a half a world away from his birthplace in Ireland.

He now called Green Creek home, but he often felt as though his Irish heritage had followed him there. No doubt, the blame lay with his geise. His da had insisted that as a descendent of the Irish kings, Shay must be given geise--even though he happened to be living in the twenty-first century. All the legendary Irish kings had been given geise, a set of rules tailored for the individual, which must be obeyed. 

If a man did not conform to the geise, it was said that misfortune or even death could result. 

Most of the time, Shay considered his situation absurd. Being related to a bunch of illustrious, long gone--as well as bloodthirsty--Irish kings did not put bread on the table. Becoming a mason had been a far more lucrative career for him. Nevertheless, his father had ingrained the geise into his mind and Shay could not rid his thoughts of them. Since there was a blizzard outside, and he was in a pub, one commandment in particular came to mind. 

Thou shalt not drink strong liquor when snow blankets the sod. Shay wiped the cold sweat from his brow as the echo of his father’s warning kept him on edge despite the fact that he opted to drink beer. 

However, he decided his unease could also be due to the current situation at the pub. Tonight, stranded parade marchers jammed the largest Irish pub on the Jersey Shore. Green Creek’s famous St. Patrick’s Day Parade had been cancelled at the last minute due to the major snowstorm. As the white stuff continued to pile up, the marchers bided their time drinking whatever Paddy had to offer while his supply dwindled with each passing moment. The town’s electricity had gone off at one in the afternoon and everything had come to a standstill. Shay noted that several of the patrons were completely plastered, and he knew drink could bring out the worst in people.

...misfortune or even death could result. 

Taking a small sip from his beer, he narrowed his eyes and glanced around at the tables now illuminated only by candles. 

“What are you dreaming about, man?” Shay’s buddies, Trevor and Liam, slapped him on the back--none too lightly, but Shay’s muscles had been fused into steel by his years as a mason so it did not hurt. 

“I’m dreaming of my one hundred twenty chimneys,” Shay lied. “Aye. I’d be out there now laying the footings if it wasn’t for this rotten weather.” 

“You’ve a guaranteed fortune.” Trevor brightened. “It’s only fair you’ll be remembering your old friends with another round of beers--we who knew you when all’s you had was a shabby suitcase and a cockamamie story about being a descendent of kings.” 

Shay glared at his friend and hardened his tone. “You’ll not be making fun of my father’s tale.” 

From his stricken look, it appeared Trevor realized he had ruined his chances for a free beer. “It’s not everyday we have someone walking into this pub, getting drunk and telling us he’s related to royalty.” 

“I was down on my luck that day and a wee bit homesick as well,” Shay admitted. “I’m thinking now you didn’t mean to get me drunk that day, but I hadn’t had a bite to eat.”


Liam shoved a bowl of pretzels right under Shay’s nose. “We were only helping out a newcomer to our fair town.”


Shay reached for the pretzels. His father had been an honest, hard-working man--and if he liked to tell fairytales he wasn’t much different from the rest of the Devlins. They all liked to think there was magic hidden beneath every blade of grass in Ireland. There were those in his clan who even claimed to be descendants of the Tuatha De Danaan. Funny thing was, most of the old Irish families believed the same nonsense. 

Still, some nights here in New Jersey, so far from Ireland, when the moon was full and the air was soft with mist, even Shay longed for a bit of that old enchantment. However, there was no mist outside tonight--just snow--tons of it. The nerves bunched up in his shoulders. 

“Too much time in the pub and we’ll all be seeing leprechauns.” Trevor gave a hearty laugh. 

“Shay’s worked hard these past two years and a hard working man deserves to get drunk now and then. Especially, when he’s got his fortune made.” Liam grinned. 

“You’re right.” Shay raised his glass toward his friends. “We’ll be forgetting the tough times today. Paddy, another round.”

Paddy, the owner of the pub, shoved a mug toward him. Shay glared at the green liquid inside. Squinting, he held his drink closer to the pale light coming from the battery lantern on the bar. “And what are you doing giving me this evil-colored potion?” 

“That, me boy, is in honor of the day,” Paddy announced. “It’s green beer.” 

Shay detected a stony look in Paddy’s eyes. However, with the feeble lantern light, the flickering candles and the two beers Shay had already consumed, his eyesight could be suffering from more than simple strain. 

“I’ll be asking for a hearty pint of Guinness, if you want to be celebrating good St. Patrick.” 

“In America, green is the color for everything reminding us of the old sod.” A note of annoyance came across in the pub owner’s words. To be sure, his reserves must be getting low.

“They’ll not be knocking back such a putrid looking beverage in Ireland today.” 

“Then you can be going back there if you’re not liking the customs here.” Paddy’s jowls vibrated with an ominous tremor from his frayed nerves. The storm continued to rage while all the candles on the tables melted into small stubs that would soon burn out. Still, none of the patrons took the opportunity to leave. 

“It tastes the same as any cheap lager,” Trevor licked his lips after downing a bit of the brew. “Close your eyes and you won’t be noticing any difference.” 

“I’ve got some green bagels to stave off your hunger before you’ll be heading home.” Paddy’s meaning couldn’t be missed. “I’m having a sale on the bagels. Three for a dollar.” 

“Must be getting stale,” Liam muttered low. 

Shay shrugged his shoulders. His dog, Bran, would be wanting some company on this bitter evening and a hearty blaze in the fireplace would provide a great deal more warmth than the vile beer in Paddy’s Pub. At any rate, he’d be keeping himself out of harm’s way. 

He turned, intending to bid his buddies goodnight when the door to the pub opened, letting in a blast of wind that blew out some of the candles and sent many of the others wavering. A cry of protest went up from some tartan-clad customers nearest the door when they were left in darkness. 

Shay let out a laugh. “Maybe we have a banshee coming to haunt us for drinking such a foul brew.”


Clad in a long cloak, a petite figure moved toward the bar. The face of the stranger lay in shadow under a capacious hood, and at her side she carried a large, old-fashioned tapestry bag. Upon nearing the bar, her pale hand reached up and swept off the hood, unleashing a mass of rich red, curly hair that glinted in the candlelight. Dazzled by the sight, Shay blinked. 

“I don’t think she’s a banshee,” Liam whispered with a note of awe in his voice.

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