The Bubble Lady

Image by misku from Pixabay 

On Palm Sunday, since it was a beautiful day, hubby and I went to Sandy Hook. We parked in Lot A to watch the surfers. The surf was churning and the surfers had a tough time catching those huge waves. We watched for a while, worrying about the guys in the water and counting to make sure they were still there. 

There weren't many people at all on that stretch of sand. Then a woman without any shoes on her feet walked to the edge of the water and held up a bubble wand. She let the wind make bubbles—lots of bubbles. Her legs were bare and she wore a bright yellow skirt. The wind carried her bubbles over the dunes toward the bay. I wondered why she was doing that. Did she have a gallon of bubble juice she wanted to get rid of? Was she celebrating something? A divorce? Or was she simply trying to cheer herself and others and relieve their coronavirus anxiety?

I'll never know. It was chilly that day and after a while, hubby and I wanted to be warm again, so we walked back to the car. We passed a pair of lovely white sandals with iridescent straps. I figured the sandals belonged to the bubble lady.

A few days later, Sandy Hook--along with all the state and county parks in New Jersey--was closed. Maybe, when the parks open again I'll make bubbles to celebrate.

Who Loves You

I always felt like an ugly duckling. Added to that, I was shy as a youngster. By the time I got to high school, I was very self-conscious. I didn’t have the right clothes or the right shoes. My chin stuck out. My lips were too thin. I really didn’t need a bra. 

Other girls had boyfriends. I didn’t. 

At home, I frequently moaned, “Nobody loves me.” That really wasn’t true. I knew my parents loved me and my siblings loved me—sort of—I think. My grandparents loved me and my aunts and uncles loved me. But boys didn’t give me a second glance—except for the boys I didn’t want to be seen with. Those guys were scary!

My mother got tired of listening to my rant. One day, she handed me the small statue pictured above. That ended my whining. Mom was right. 

❤

Contemplating

I love this photo. Just looking at it makes me calmer--a bit. That's my father in 1985 at the bridge on the grounds of Eleanor Roosevelt's Val-Kill Cottage. My mother took the photo. My parents did quite a bit of traveling after my father retired. Eleanor Roosevelt was one of my mother's heroines--as was Amelia Earhart. My mother loved Eleanor Roosevelt's cottage. I have yet to see it. Hubby and I took our daughters to Hyde Park to see the Roosevelts' home when they were young but we didn't go to Val-Kill Cottage. We could only drag the kids around so much before all of us were exhausted and cranky.

Maybe after this current plague is over, hubby and I should make plans to see the Val-Kill Cottage.

Promises

The leaves on the rose bush are opening. Tender, delicate shoots emerge as the warm sunshine tempts them to unfold and grow. Soon buds will form and then burst into the scented blooms I love. Spring is here--arriving as it always does and returning the dull brown earth into a rich green garden.

This spring, though, is different. This year a silent invader, the virus labeled Covid-19, has swept across the globe and there is nothing to stop it. No vaccine or antibiotic is capable of destroying it. Our natural immunity to disease can crush the intruder in our bodies, but there are many of us living with compromised immune systems and for us this virus could be deadly.

In a last ditch effort to delay the spread of the virus, everyone has been instructed to use social distancing. Everything is cancelled. Children are being schooled at home. Churches have closed their doors. Workers who can telecommute are doing so. But doubt and unease are constant companions as the number of victims increase.

Hubby and I spend our days enjoying our hobbies and doing our usual chores. On sunny days, we sit outside and enjoy the bright rays of spring while the bright yellow daffodils wave in the breeze and the hyacinths perfume the air. We keep in touch with our loved ones by email, phone, text, or video chats. It's a slower pace than usual for us, which is rather refreshing.

But the enemy continues to march onward. So, we pray and trust in the Lord's promises.

May your mercy, LORD, be upon us;

as we put our hope in you.

Psalm 33:22 (NAB)

Dreamers

Here's an old photo taken probably in 1952 of the Abraham Lincoln Statue in Lincoln Park in Jersey city. I'm sitting at Abe's right foot. My brother is sitting at Abe's left foot. A bunch of dreamers!

The Irish In Me

My last name is Marzec because I married a man from Brooklyn whose parents came from Poland. So while he is definitely an American, he grew up in Greenpoint, Brooklyn—which is a lot like being in Poland. He went to a Catholic bilingual school (English and Polish). Marzec translates into the month of March in Polish. You can find it on a Polish calendar. 

I’m not Polish. On my mother’s side I’m Czech and Slovak. Those countries are close enough to Poland so that some of the words are similar. At the time my mother’s parents left their home country it was part of the Austrian Empire. However, my grandfather said he lived near Prague. Thanks to Ancestry, I know the name of the town where my grandmother was baptized and that she came to the United States when she was three years old. She and my grandfather met in this country and had seven children. My mother was Daughter #2.  

My paternal grandparents were Irish and German. This makes me a mere one quarter Irish, but as luck would have it, I resemble the Irish side of the family—except for my height which undoubtedly came from the German genes because my father’s relatives were all rather slight leprechauns.

With the exception of my German grandmother, all my predecessors were Catholic. Unfortunately, my Irish Catholic grandfather could not marry my German Protestant grandmother in the church. They were married in the vestibule. (That was a long time ago. Catholics can now marry non-Catholics in the church.) My Irish Catholic great aunts were responsible for making sure my father and his siblings received the sacraments.

Genetically, I’m a mongrel. My daughters are even more homogenized since they are half Polish.

Yet, somehow it is the Irish part of me that I feel most at home with—the Irish wit, songs, legends, and myths. That’s why I’ve written three books with Irish themes, Irons in the Fire, Prince of the Mist, and Kiss of Blarney. 

Hubby asked me to marry him on the eve of St. Patrick’s Day. Daughter #3’s birthday comes close to St. Patrick’s Day. 

Good reasons to celebrate! That’s why we always enjoy corned beef and soda bread at this time of year, but no kielbasi. :-)

Excerpt from SEA OF HOPE

Sea of Hope won EPIC's eBook Award for Best Inspirational Novel! If you get hooked and want to read more, there are links at the bottom of the page.

Excerpt from SEA OF HOPE:

Doria hummed an old sea chantey as she stirred the sauce on the stove. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt like singing. Evidently, her conscious effort to leave all her problems on the dock in Port Harbor had worked.

“So tell us about Ted,” George asked as he and Chad played rummy at the table.

The question didn’t bother her. Not at all. Ted could never reach her here.

“Ted is a cad,” Doria replied. “His veneer makes him appear to be a gentleman, but once you get to know him better, you find out he is nothing more than an ordinary, verbally abusive control freak.”

“Gee, now I feel bad about leaving Port Harbor,” Chad complained.

“Yeah, we could have dumped a load of nice, cold dead fish on him.” George smiled as he laid down a row of aces.

In her mind, Doria pictured the suave, debonair Ted surrounded by a mountain of fish. Ted, who could be obsessive about cleanliness, would go nuts. Doria smiled.

“Now you know it wouldn’t be right to do that,” Chad added soberly.

“Why not?” George asked.

Chad pulled a card from the top of the deck.

“They wouldn’t be just cold and dead. They would also be smelly—a few days old, perhaps,” Chad mused. “Maybe a week old.”

Doria laughed. The men joined her. The simple camaraderie warmed her.

Chad stopped laughing and laid down a king, queen, and jack. “Rummy,” he called with delight.

“I hate it when you do that,” George grumbled.

“Sorry.” Chad grinned. “But you know, this is my favorite part of the trip. Playing cards with you and winning.”

George shuffled the cards with a certain amount of vengeance and dealt them out. “I’ll get you this time,” he promised.

Doria turned back to her humming and stirring. She had forgotten how cozy and comfortable the Merrichase was. Brightly lit and clean, it had always been the best ship out of Port Harbor. A heavy feeling of regret seeped into her, crowding out the wonderful sense of freedom that had given her a brief respite of peace. She would never go out on the Merrichase again. This would be her last trip.

The timer on the stove startled her from her reflections. She had made a tangy orange cake that would taste like sunshine. As she removed the pans from the oven and set them on a rack on the counter top to cool, she sniffed the fragrant layers. Her mother had taught her this recipe a long, long time ago. A tear eked out of the corner of her eye.

“That smells great,” Chad commented.

“It isn’t anybody’s birthday,” George said. “Is it?”

“I thought we’d celebrate Murray’s first trip out as full-fledged captain of the Merrichase.” Doria hastily dashed away the tear before anyone could see.

“Let’s just eat the cake,” George muttered. “And skip the celebration part.”

“Why?” Doria asked. She intended to draw a ship’s wheel on the cake with mocha frosting.

Chad put his cards down on the table and rubbed his eyes. “George is right. It wouldn’t go over well with Murray.”

Doria frowned. “Because Dad died?”

“Murray’s been acting captain for about three months,” Chad answered.

“Three and a half months,” George corrected as he laid down a row of tens. “Your father spent a couple weeks in the hospital. From that point on, he stayed in his cabin a lot. Unless it was nice outside. Then we’d set him up on deck in a chair. He liked that.”

Chad picked up his cards again. “He ate better those days.”

Doria held on to the counter top. She suddenly felt sick. Worse than sick. Guilt pressed down on her. Her father had needed her and she hadn’t been there for him. The memory of her father’s last few hours haunted her. That day, she had driven into Port Harbor unannounced. She had found her father in bed in his cabin with Murray standing guard. She had called an ambulance. Murray had yelled at her. Her father had begged her to let him die on his boat. He had died in the hospital.

She shoved the nightmare away and took a deep breath.

“Well, all right. We could celebrate the fact that Murray owns the Merrichase now.” Her tone took on a hard edge but neither Chad nor George seemed to notice the rancor in her voice. They didn’t look up from their game.

George shrugged. “He’ll probably put it up for sale in a few weeks.”

“He doesn’t have much time before the trial,” Chad said.

“What trial?” Doria wrinkled up her nose.

The two men lifted their heads and gave her puzzled frowns.

“Don’t you know?” George asked.

A cold shiver ran up her spine. “What?”

“Murray’s been accused of murder,” Chad explained. “His trial is on January 6th.”

Doria stared at them as her mouth went dry. She was out in the middle of the ocean with a murderer. “W-who did he kill?”

“He didn’t do it,” Chad informed her.

“Who?” her voice rose.

“He was set up,” George stated.

“Who died?” Doria pounded the counter top for emphasis.

“A former fiancée of Murray, Kelly Morris,” Chad said quietly. “Didn’t you read about it?”

Doria shook her head.

“It was in all the papers,” George said. “On the television news, too.”

She drew her arms around her body. “Somebody broke into my apartment and stole the TV.”

“It happened at the hospital,” Chad stated softly. “Murray is accused of injecting Kelly Morris with the wrong medication. After breaking her engagement to Murray, Kelly became engaged to a man named Alex Kuhlman. She wound up in the ER after a supposed fall in her home.”

Doria could barely breathe. “A murderer? And he took care of my father?” Her lips started to tremble as she remembered how Murray had yelled at her when she called the ambulance for her father. Then she looked down at the bandage covering her burn and her body started to shake.

“He didn’t do it.” Chad got up from the table.

Doria ran to her cabin, slammed the door, and locked it.

Chad knocked.

“You can’t possibly believe Murray would commit murder,” his voice sounded muffled over the constant rumble of the engine. “His only mistake was leaving Kelly alone for a few minutes. He suspected that she had not fallen down the steps but had been pushed instead after Kuhlman battered her first.”

“Hey, what do I do with this sauce stuff?” George pounded on the door. “It’s boiling over.”

Doria reached for the doorknob but stopped herself before she opened it. “Turn the heat down.”

“Please,” Chad begged. “Have some faith in the man. He was so kind and gentle in caring for your father. If only you had been here. You would understand.”

She let out a sob and crumpled to the floor. Chad kept calling to her for a few more minutes but she didn’t listen to the words. She wallowed in her misery, wondering how much it would cost to have a helicopter pluck her from the deck and get her back to dry land. Or maybe they would pass by another fishing vessel and she could make her escape with the lifeboat.

Murder. The word caught in her throat. She had nearly been killed on a New York City street by a deranged madman. He had held a gun to her head while other pedestrians gawked at the spectacle as if the event had been staged for their entertainment. Only one man had the presence of mind to throw his attaché case at the criminal and shout for the police.

But Murray had committed his crime silently, with a thin, slender needle and deadly poison. The thought chilled her to the bone. What kinds of medicine had Murray given her father? Could her father have bestowed the Merrichase to Murray under the influence of some mind-altering drug?

If he did, would there be some kind of evidence?

Doria dried her eyes on her sleeve and got up from the floor. This cabin had been the one her father used. Modern and utilitarian, it didn’t offer many hiding places. There were three bunk beds and six small cabinets to stow personal gear.

She sniffed and headed for the cabinets. After a quick inspection, she found one locked cabinet. Logically, it must contain her father’s personal effects but the possibility existed that some significant clue resided in there as well. A scrap of paper, a prescription bottle, a needle. She fought against the queasy feeling in her stomach.

She needed a key. She tore through her backpack and found a pair of cuticle scissors. Jamming them into the keyhole, she concentrated on trying to spring the lock. She didn’t even hear the cabin door open. When Murray spoke she jumped.

“You were the one who wanted to come on this trip and cook for us,” his deep voice rumbled. “So get out in the kitchen and finish the meal.”

Her heart hammered in her chest but she drew herself up to face him with her scissors clutched firmly at her side, just in case. He stood casually, leaning up against one of the bunks with his gaze fixed on the floor.

She wavered in her defensive stance. He didn’t look like a murderer. She stiffened her spine. Hah. What was a murderer supposed to look like? They committed their inhuman acts in moments of rage, like the man who had held a gun to her head. 

For some unknown reason Murray went off the deep end one day and slipped a deadly needle into his ex-fiancé’s arm. The question was whether he executed her father in the same way.

“W-what medications did you give to my father?” she stuttered.

He lifted his head and sighed. Doria realized his eyes were the same shade of green as the ocean on a bright day. She blinked and stared in wonder for a moment.

“I can give you a list,” he stated. “But perhaps you should talk to the pharmacist since you won’t believe me anyway.”

She shivered as she noticed the scar above his right eyebrow. It lent him the air of a pirate. Greedy and ruthless, he had taken everything from her.

“I want the key to this cabinet,” she demanded.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys. Slowly, he worked one off the ring. He held it out to her. Doria picked it out of his hand. His skin felt warm as she touched it. The key held the same warmth.

“We aren’t going back until we have our limit of porgies in the hold.” He turned and left her in the cabin.

≤≥≤≥≤≥≤≥≤≥≤≥

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Deep in the Pine Barrens

Deep in the Pine Barrens

I finished writing Home Somewhere. I spent an inordinate amount of time fussing about the title and even asked friends on Facebook to help me. In the end, I decided to stick with the original idea. Now I have to write a blurb and a synopsis. Then I'll send it out and see if anyone wants to publish it.

It took me a longer than usual to complete this story. At one point, I went for a critique to help me fix the plot, which was going off in too many directions. In addition, I had plans to reissue Sea of Hope and Heaven's Blue, which I did but that was time away from writing. I also wrote Clear as Ice, my Christmas novella.

And, of course, life--as always--provided more distractions for me. But the book is complete with a beginning, a middle that doesn't sag, and an ending.

Part of the story is set in New York City and part of it is set in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey. Many people who do not live in New Jersey see only the Turnpike as they are passing through the state, which is unfortunate. New Jersey is more than beautiful beaches and oil refineries. The Pine Barrens is unique and important to the ecosystem. A large area of the Pinelands is protected. You can read about that HERE.

I've camped in the Pine Barrens and gone to the annual Cranberry Festival. I went swimming in the cedar water. I've heard the screech of the Jersey Devil. (Well, I think it was him.) So, I decided to include the Pine Barrens in Home Somewhere. 

At any rate, I am really happy I got to the end of the story. I hope I don't spend an inordinate amount of time wrangling with the blurb.

💕😊💕

Happy Valentine's Day!

I love love. I love happy endings. I believe in love.

So, I write romances. And I read other authors' romances. Romance novels are the BEST!

💖

Down With Acronyms!

I hate acronyms. English is littered with a mind-boggling and confusing collection of shortcuts. These seems to proliferate most in the medical field where people are labeled with an endless list of capital letters like this: https://www.nlm.nih.gov/medlineplus/appendixb.html

But it seems every group has its own personal set of acronyms. Writers, who one might imagine love to hear the flow of nice long, genuine words all spelled out are noted for a long list of abbreviations. You can read some of those here: https://kathysteinemann.com/Musings/abbrev/

In my teaching career I found plenty of alphabet soup: http://images.pcmac.org/uploads/nyecounty/nyecounty/divisions/documentscategories/documents/acronyms_1.pdf

Then there's the political world where nothing is sacred: https://www.allacronyms.com/political/abbreviations

Can't we stop this?  Can't we take a little more time and say Post Traumatic Stress Disorder instead of PTSD? Or Work In Progress instead of WIP?

Please stop the flood of acronyms!

Phantasmagoria

Marlu Lake, Thompson Park
January 25, 2020

Phantasmagoria (from Dictionary.com)

noun

a shifting series of phantasms, illusions, or deceptive appearances, as in a dream or as created by the imagination.

a changing scene made up of many elements.

an optical illusion produced by a magic lantern or the like in which figures increase or diminish in size, pass into each other, dissolve, etc.

I thought of this wonderful old word when I snapped the photo above on Saturday. It rained hard most of that day, but just before evening it stopped. Though it wasn't dark yet, the clouds had not cleared away and mist swirled around everywhere, which gave everything a spooky, shifting appearance. If a giant fish leaped out of the lake while I was there, I probably would have screamed. If a large blue heron flew by, I'm sure I would have been shaken as well. The dream-like scene conjured up illusions in my mind. Anything could have risen from the water: a dinosaur, a mermaid, or a talking frog.

I haven't written a paranormal in a while, but viewing the lake with the fog drifting around on the water had me thinking about it. What kind of story does that lake summon up in your mind?

Sing Old Songs

In The Cowboy's Miracle, Seth finds a battered, old guitar in the guesthouse and strums chords while singing classic western tunes. Mentioned in the book are songs like "Goodnight Ladies," "A Man Without a Woman," "Buffalo Gals,"and "Oh My Darling Clementine." Those songs are cultural gems--a link to our country's past history. Music chronicles historical eras in a very succinct manner. It is another way to bring past times into focus and make them easy to remember.

As a retired teacher, I have worried about the future of music education. Often, the arts are the first thing to go when cuts are made in education. I always included music as part of my curriculum when I taught--especially in a closed classroom situation. My own daughters took piano lessons for years, but in addition our home is packed with music of all types.  

As a family, we sometimes sit around the fire and sing old songs. Once, my younger sister questioned this habit. 

"You're singing the same songs you sang forty years ago," she said. 

I informed her that the old songs are the best songs. They've stood the test of time, but there's more to it. Those songs are references to our national cultural heritage. We should not allow them to fade into dust. 

Teach your children well. Sing old songs. 

Buy THE COWBOY'S MIRACLE! It is now available for free with Kindle Unlimited! 

Unfortunately, reviews for the book were lost in the process of switching to Kindle Unlimited, but you can read some of them HERE! 

Bittersweet--Looking Back and Moving Forward

The photo above is a picture I took of a bittersweet vine. It's an invasive species introduced into this country in the 1800s as an ornamental. From there it took over, spreading by roots and seeds, suffocating plants and felling trees, which is rather impressive when you consider it is only another plant. It takes a lot of work to get rid of bittersweet vines. They are not easy to defeat.

But the bright berries are pretty, even though they are poisonous. So while the vine is delightful to look at, it can be deadly, which is why bittersweet is a very apt name for it. There's pleasure, but there's also regret.

Life is like that. There's the wonderful times and the sad times. With another year gone and a new one just begun, I get anxious. Scary things have happened in the past, and there's no doubt in my mind that some events in the future will be just as bad if not worse. Life comes with no guarantees.

But there will be good times, too. There always are. The bitter and the sweet mingle together. The happy moments, the sad moments, the highs and the lows. One day might be filled with tears. The next might be filled with laughter.

And sometimes, there will be boring days. I've come to appreciate those mundane times where drama is noticeably lacking--except in the pages of a book. I enjoy trudging along in the familiar routine and accomplishing some of the tasks I've set for myself. It's those humdrum times when I seem to achieve far more than I thought I could--when I race along like those bittersweet vines, climbing toward the sun without anything to stop me.

So here's to 2020. I'll move forward and pray for plenty of uneventful days.

Do You Write During the Holidays?

As the sun set on December 21, the shortest day of the year, I took this photo in a nearby park. Fewer hours of daylight can be depressing for some, but I've always enjoyed sitting quietly in the evening and writing, which I can easily do as long as there is electricity. I've written without electricity, too.  See that post HERE. 

However, the Christmas season involves a great deal of energy--cleaning, decorating, singing Christmas carols, buying gifts, wrapping gifts, cooking, and baking. In all that flurry of activity, there's little time to summon up my muse and write so I don't even try. There are those who insist every writer must write every day. But I believe there can be extenuating circumstances, and I count Christmas as one of those times when it's better to give my full attention to things other than writing. Once the holidays are over, I return to my regular routine and write every day while allowing the dust bunnies to multiply.

How about you? Do you think a writer must write everyday without exception? Do you write during the holidays? If so, how do you manage with everything else that needs to be done at Christmas?

Oat Shortbread for Lazy Cookie Bakers

It's that time of year when many people turn to baking cookies. I'm a lazy cookie baker. Life and writing leave me very little time for dropping teaspoons of cookie dough on a baking sheet. I found this recipe in The New York Times New Natural Foods Cookbook. However, I changed one thing. Rather than use 3/4 cup of butter, I used 1/2 cup of butter and 1/4 cup of Canola oil. It worked.

This is a terrific recipe. It's quick, there aren't many ingredients, and it's delicious. :-)

3 1/2 cups rolled oats
2/3 cups brown sugar
1/4 cup unbleached white flour
1/2 cup butter, softened
1/4 cup canola oil
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 teaspoon vanilla extract

1. Preheat the oven to 325 degrees.

2. Place all the ingredients in a bowl and work thoroughly together with both hands.

3. Press mixture into a greased 13x9 pan.

4. Bake for 30 minutes.

5. Cool for 10 minutes.

6. Cut into squares.

Enjoy!

Thanks to My Author Friends

via GIPHY

I am very grateful for my author friends. They buy my books and review them. They post interviews about me and my books on their blogs and then retweet my tweets. They are extremely supportive. I try to do the same for them.

Other authors know exactly how difficult it is to entice people to read books. Other authors know there were 675 million print books (https://www.statista.com/topics/1177/book-market/) sold in our country last year and getting anyone to notice a new one that is not on the NY Times list of bestsellers is far more troublesome than using a metal detector to find coins on the beach. 

Other authors know how disappointing it is to get rejections or bad reviews. They know what's it's like to have poor sales on a book. They understand what's it's like to have a publishing house go out of business, leaving them with orphaned books.

Other authors are helpful and encouraging. They will applaud another author's success and offer comfort to an author who is having a bad time.

I want to thank all my author friends who helped me launch CLEAR AS ICE. I wish them all the best of luck with their books in 2020. 

A Devotional Moment inspired by CLEAR AS ICE

Pelican Book Group made a special #videvotion inspired by CLEAR AS ICE.

Guest Post: Lisa Lickel and CRAZY CREEK CHRISTMAS

My guest today is Lisa Lickel. A Wisconsin author who loves books and dragons, she writes inspiring fiction. Besides writing inspiring fiction, she also writes short stories, feature articles, and radio theater, and loves to encourage new authors through mentoring, speaking, and leading workshops. She is an avid book reviewer and blogger, and a freelance editor. Find more at LisaLickel.com.

Lisa's latest release is Crazy Creek Christmas. The story is about a town that saves Leah Hanes's life. Running on fumes and bald tires, she thanks heaven for Cookie and Jeanette Wimmer who send her to the Rocking J Ranch as a winter cook. Leah arrives to discover the ranch and the people need more than a cook.

Noel Johansen, heir of the Rocking J, happily left for the big city years ago. When he loses his family in a terrible accident, the best thing for everyone is to sell the place, ditch the memories, and move on. But his brother-in-law has other plans, and the beautiful new cook they've hired for the season threatens Noel's desire to remain detached.

The ranch represents Noel's future and selling it becomes more important than ever when one more tragedy leaves him with nothing. But memories can't be bought and sold, nor can a broken conscience heal itself. Home, heart, and future are irrevocably tied in Crazy Creek.

And now for a bit of an excerpt to tempt you:

Noel pushed through the passage into his mother’s dining area.

“Did that woman get here yet? I don’t want to have to haul someone’s…”

It was Gil’s voice Noel heard, but definitely not Gil’s face across the big table. Noel amended his language and raised his arms to brace himself against the sides of the doorway. 

“Ah…vehicle…out of the ditch.” 

Cupcake was a liar. 

The vision before him was not some hardened woman used to ranch life and the lonely, harsh conditions of a Wyoming winter.

Jeanette and Cupcake sent a woman several years younger than himself, younger even than his sister. How could she have experience cooking? Noel stared. She was very pretty in a pinched, inexperienced way, with dark blonde hair pulled back from her face in a loose ponytail. She seemed startled, maybe even confused. The opposite of Carolyn in every way. 

The folder with the contract was on the table. To one side, Marty rested on the table. To the girl’s other side, Gil huddled in his wheelchair. He’d obviously slid downhill since coming home from rehab last month. It didn’t look as if he’d done anything to keep himself or the place up in the weeks since Noel brought him home. Marty had been sick, Noel knew, but a visiting nurse was supposed to check in on them. 

Mom would never have allowed this. Jeanette should have known better. What had she been thinking? The situation had clearly gotten out of control.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” Gil said.

“Clearly.” Noel snapped himself upright and walked in. “What’s going on? The place looks like it’s falling apart. I only left a few weeks ago.” 

Gil gave a sideways eye-roll toward the young lady. “What are you doing here?” 

“Jeanette and Cupcake sent a message.” Noel hedged. “Where’s the nurse?”

“After the first two weeks I told her she didn’t have to come back,” Gil said. 

The young lady turned her face from their 1 exchange. Noel set his hands on his hips. “Excuse me. You’re…you’re Lady…Laney…La-something?” 

The woman raised a brow at Gil, who had turned red. 

“This is Leah Hanes. Leah, meet my brother-in-law."

*******

Buy links:

Amazon UK https://amzn.to/33IusE4

Amazon Canada

 Pelican Book Store

Barnes and Noble https://bit.ly/2BpBRfl

Amazon https://amzn.to/2MYmoYW

Guest Post: Lillian Duncan and ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS JOHNNY ROCKER DEAD

My guest today is Lillian Duncan. She has a new release coming up which is part of the Pelican Book Group Christmas Holiday Extravaganza. Hers is a bit different though. I love the subtitle, "A Rock 'n' Roll Romantic Suspense." Doesn't that grab you? It really grabbed me. 😊 

This is Lillian Duncan…turning faith into fiction. 

Even though her books cross genres, they have one thing in common, faith-based stories that show God’s love—and lots of action. OK—that’s two things. She believes in the power of words to change lives, especially God’s Word.

And here's Lillian's latest release--just in time for Christmas!

Johnny Rocker believes he's doesn't need anyone or anything—especially God because after all he is a rock & roll god. When the floor beneath his feet crumbles—literally—he hurtles toward a different truth.

Since the death of Maddie's family, she's run from life and love and become the best bodyguard she can be. But, with God's help, she's ready to step out of her comfort zone and into a different life. When her boss asks—no begs—her to take on one last job, she finds it hard to refuse. Someone is trying to kill mega-star Johnny Rocker. It's Maddie Cotton's job to make sure that doesn't happen.

Even under Maddie's protection the threats continue. As Christmas approaches the danger escalates—someone doesn't want Johnny Rocker to see the new year, and they are willing to kill Maddie as well. Johnny and Maddie will have to set aside their differences and learn to lean on each other and God if they want to see Christmas day.

 Murder, Mayhem & Christmas?

Murder, Mayhem & Christmas? Really? 

On the surface, it may seem that murder and mayhem doesn’t necessarily go with Christmas, but I love weaving a Christmas story in with suspense and romance. I have several Christmas stories available—The Christmas Stalking; The Christmas Angel Thief; No Home for the Holidays; and A Christmas Stolen.

My new Christmas novella is ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS JOHNNY ROCKER DEAD! How’s that for a title filled with murder, mayhem, & Christmas? 

I won’t tell you the plot but I will tell you the story is about how much God loves each of us—no matter what we’ve done. And isn’t that what Christmas is really all about?

Speaking of Christmas, one of the things my husband and I do every Christmas is to clear out our enclosed porch and then we put up Christmas trees. Yes, I said trees as in many trees. 

Last year, we had 14 or 15 trees up. In all sizes and shapes— even a snowman tree. We don’t have any young children or grandchildren around, but that doesn’t stop us from celebrating the season and honoring Jesus’s birthday.

Merry Christmas to all!

Download the book now at Amazon, Barnes&Noble, Kobo, Google Books, and Apple.