The Roses of Prose

New Month, New Member

2012-02-01T00:01:00.009-05:00

My name is Jena Galifany and I am new to the Roses of Prose group. This is my first blog post and I hope I don’t disappoint anyone.

For the month of February, the theme is self-publishing. I’ve only had one experience with this twenty years ago and it was not a good one. I’d really rather forget I was taken in by the disreputable company that was to help me with self-publishing my first book. I have to chock it up to lesson learned and pay better attention next time.

Since that time, back in the late 80s, there have been many reputable companies emerge to aid the writer with this endeavor. They will legitimately help self-publishing writers but a person still needs to pay close attention to details and small print.

Years after my false start in the world of publishing, I was blessed to work for an online review site. Through the reviews that I wrote, I was able to see the quality of books coming from several online publishers. I had the opportunity to see who would be the most likely to publish the genre of books that I wrote and carefully put together the submission package for ShadowsForge 1: Three Times a Hero. I sent it off and, as I was taught by other writers, forgot about it while moving on to the next writing adventure.

Since I had readers at my day job, people who pushed me into publishing in the first place, who read SF1 and wanted to know what happened after the first book, I commenced to write two more books in the series. After two months, I received an acceptance letter and contract from the publisher for the first installment.

The contract stated they wanted to see any other books that included the same characters or continued the story. I contacted the publisher that evening to find out how to submit the next two stories, together or separately. She answered that she was going on vacation and if I could email them to her that night, she’d take them with her. Long story short, two weeks later, I was the proud owner of three contracts and doing the Snoopy Dance of Joy on the ceiling for about a week.

ShadowsForge, life on tour with an 80s rock band, is now available to follow in four of the six books in the series. Three Times and Hero, Trials on Tour, Retaking America, and The Long Way Home are available at Whiskey Creek Press.

Note: “ShadowsForge” is one word spelled with a capital “F” in the middle just to irritate my older sister who should have been an English teacher.

Since this beginning, I have added my first Western Historical Romance, Shyanne’s Secret, to my WCP portfolio.

Her Perfect Man, an Historical Paranormal, and a holiday short story, Love Lifted Me, are available at Red Rose Publishing.

I’ve thought about trying to self-publish but so far in my writing career, I’ve had such wonderful publishers helping me along the way, I don’t know if I could do as outstanding a job without them. But that’s just me. From research I’ve done, it sounds like a lot of work to self-publish but I do believe that there would be a lot of self-satisfaction that would come from it as well.

I hope that I’ve not bored you all with my humble beginnings. I am pleased to be a part of this wonderful group and hope that I will be an asset to the Roses of Prose. Thank you for giving me that chance.

Cheers!

_____________________________
Jena Galifany writes in the genre of sweet romance and adventure. She can be found at her WEBSITE, on Facebook, or writing book reviews on NovelSpot.net under the name of Marge _Anna Conrad.

Guest Linda Kage Reveals How Our Back Yards Tell A Lot About Us

2012-01-31T00:01:00.003-05:00

Have you ever noticed you can tell a lot about the people inside a house by checking out their backyard?

Let's do a little snooping and I'll show you what I mean.

In this backyard, you can decipher so many conclusions. With the police car parked there as if it belongs, you can safetly say a cop lives in residence. The swing set tells you a family mostly likely resides in this house. From the baby seat on the swing, you can guess this family has a young child, probably in the toddler years. The lack of flowers can pretty much mean no one inside that house has a green thumb.

But not only can this backyard reveal the people, it can tell you a little of when and where these people lived as well.

The tornado shelter probably means they live in Midwest USA, while the field surrounding the yard says country folk (unless you've seen a lot of haybales in some big city recently!!). Since the corn in the field surrounding this yard has been cut, that means the time of year is probably later than August. But the trees still have green on them, so it's most likely before December. The style of the police car means present day, contemporary times.

Are you catching onto my theme yet?

Just like a backyard can show you about the people inside a house, the back cover of a book can tell you about the characters inside. Is the story present day, or historical, or futuristic? Is it a sci fi, romance, or suspense? What do the main players do for a living, what kind of problem are they facing, what is the hook that makes you want to open the cover and take a glimpse inside their lives?

I had quite a time trying to come up with a back cover blurb for my story The Right to Remain Mine (which releases February 6th, by the way!!!). I needed it to spell out romance with some sizzle, yet sprinkle in a dash of suspense. I wanted possible readers to know it was present day about a man and a women who fought themselves into bed with just about every argument they started. And I wanted to give enough of the story away to fully cover what happens, but still leave enough mystery that a person might actually want to crack the cover and peek inside.

I pretty much wanted to accomplish what EVERY author wants to accomplish when writing her book blurb.

Well, for the backyard of The Right to Remain Mine, this is what I came up with:

You have the right to remain cherished. Anything you read or scream out in ecstasy can and will be used against you in the bedroom of Willow DeVane. You have the right to enjoy a big, sexy cop. If you can’t find your own, one by the name of Raith Malloy will be provided for you to enjoy and explore thoroughly within these pages.

Tempers flare from the first moment divorce lawyer Willow DeVane crosses paths with sheriff deputy Raith Malloy. Both too stubborn and controlling for their own good, Willow and Raith butt heads until anger turns to passion, and they begin an affair despite their brewing hostilities. But more than one force works against them when they learn Willow’s being targeted by a dangerous stalker.

WEBSITE - http://www.lindakage.com/

BLOG - http://lindakage.blogspot.com/

FACEBOOK - http://www.facebook.com/people/Linda-Kage/1415237991

TWITTER - http://twitter.com/lindakage

YOUTUBE - http://www.youtube.com/user/LindaKage

GOODREADS - http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3213942.Linda_Kage

AMAZON - http://www.amazon.com/-/e/B003ILJHKM

Dear Readers: What Do You Want?

2012-01-29T00:01:00.002-05:00

By Glenys O'Connell

Readers, what do you want?

In the words of the Spice Girls (which dates me, no doubt) tell me what you want; what you really, really want?

I mean, take books for example. We writers sit at our computers, or pens and notebooks, or chalks and slates, and we pour out our hearts and souls. Then we send those words out into the world, after fussing over them like mother hens, and wait. And wait. And wait. Sometimes there's a kind word from an editor or a publisher; sometimes there's a contract.

And all too often, there's a rejection.

Which, try as we might, we do take personally. Who could help but do so, after all we've given up – time with family, lazy days in the sun, movies and tv, reading other writers' books, dinner dates and trips out – in order to write those words that are so unappreciated.

And the worst of it is that those editors, publishers and agents that we rely on so heavily for a yeah or a nay, these people are only human. Stories are subjective – I might love a particular writer's work, someone else might hate it or worse, be indifferent.

Stephen King, my hero, was told his work was 'not commercial'. That not commercial writer has sold millions of books, and his work has been made into television shows and movies.

J.K. Rowling, creator of the breathtakingly popular Harry Potter books, was told that kids today weren't interested in dragons and wizards and magic. 'Nuff said.

Somewhere, out there in the Great Unknown, are editors or editorial assistants or publishers' purchasing committees who are crying into their beer for turning down the next great thing. At least I hope so.

So it seems these days that it is the readers who have the final say; the readers who spread the word about King and Rowling and many other bestsellers – once a publisher decided to take a chance on an unknown writer.

You see, readers know what they want.

There's a story about George Sands that says she began to write because she couldn’t find a book that interested her. The same is said of Louisa May Alcott, author of my girlhood favourite, Little Women and the sequel, Good Wives. But just like Rowling, they kept right on writing. The readers found them, and the rest is history.

So, readers, what do you want? What stories light up your lives, or leave you afraid to go into the dark basement alone? What inspires you? Makes you laugh, makes you weep? Lifts your mood and makes you feel better when your world is in chaos? A Love that makes your toes curl? What, in fact, would you say are the ingredients of that Next Great Thing? Or even a book that you'd love to read?

The Internet is full or how-to advice for writers. I'm as guilty as any other blogger or article writer; I teach creative writing to would-be writers. I'm glad to say that quite a few have gone on to be published.

But to me the burning question isn't what is selling today; not what formula works to make a book successful – the very existence of such a formula is a fallacy.

The real question can only be answered by you, Dear Reader: What do you want?

Right about now you may be wondering what this has to do with the current theme of this blog: Organization. The answer, of course, is absolutely nothing.

I always wanted to be a rebel!

Glenys O'Connell is the author of several mystery & romance novels with good reader reviews; her long-awaited (in her dreams) book based on her creative writing course: Naked Writing: The No Frills Way to Write Your Book, will soon be published. Her 'brand' is Romance Can Be Murder, which tells you a lot about her.... Learn more here.

Guest Liz Flaherty Chats About her Writing Process

2012-01-28T00:01:00.006-05:00

Liz Flaherty

When my friend Kristina Knight interviews for her blog, her first question is “Do you have (or do you aspire to have!) a writing process?” It made me feel so unintelligent to be stumped right out of the interview gate, but stumped I was. I’ve been writing most of my life, for heaven’s sake, so what is my process? On Kristi’s blog, I mumbled something about not having one but wishing I did, and then, of course, I couldn’t get the question out of my mind. It seemed to go right along with being—or getting—organized.

Process…okay, it’s a series of natural occurrences. That’s a definition I can live with.

· 1980s. I had these nifty coil-bound notebooks with lined yellow paper in them. I filled I don’t know how many of them before I could no longer find them and resorted to white college-rule paper. I sat in my chair in the living room and wrote while my family watched TV and made noise around me. I completed my first manuscripts that way, typing them later on the electric typewriter at the kitchen table.

· Later. The first Tandy computer entered the house. It sat on a little desk in the smallest bedroom in the house, sharing space with the ironing board and…I don’t remember what else, but it was a mess. There was a chair in one corner, and sometimes my husband or one of the kids came in and talk to me while I wrote. Other times, I interrupted the writing flow to iron whatever a kid wanted to wear on a date.

· 1990s. Everyone left home! Except my husband, that is. I had to learn to write in a quiet room without an ironing board. It was…different. And difficult. I thought my voice had been suffocated by the silence. But then I sold my first book. Always Annie came out in 1999. I bought a new computer.

· Later. I sold another book and a couple of more. Every time I sold a book, my computer died and I had to buy a new one. I graduated to laptops and gave up the quiet room because…well, because I was lonely in there.

· 2011. I retired from my day job, which I’d loved but didn’t miss for one minute after I left it, something I have yet to understand. I thought I’d write all day, every day, but the truth is that I want to do everything I didn’t have time to do for the 40 years I worked.

So here I am. I work at the dining room table, less than 20 feet from the living room television. I get up two hours before my husband and sit in pre-dawn silence and drink tea and write. And revise. And think, “What if…” As soon as the TV comes on, my writing voice is silenced. Common sense tells me to go back to the quiet room—I am, after all, portable. But I don’t want to. I want to sew and spend time with the boyfriend (yeah, we’re very married, 40 years worth, but boyfriend sounds so…young, don’t you think?) and do all those things I never had time for.

That’s the process. It happened naturally and in a series. And it’s organized. Best of all, it works.

Thanks for coming by. I hope you have a splendid year. The latest in my organized series of occurrences is ONE MORE SUMMER, from Carina Press. It is truly the book of my heart. I hope it finds a home in yours.

http://ebooks.carinapress.com/19C28077-E8B2-400A-ACBF-FAE0579EE2F0/10/134/en/Default.htm

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/one-more-summer-liz-flaherty/1107412429

http://www.amazon.com/One-More-Summer-ebook/dp/B006BE6HAG/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1324908781&sr=8-1

I’d love to have you visit my website http://lizflaherty.com or http://wordwranglers.blogspot.com/ where I hang out with some of my best writer friends.

Planning Ahead Can Be A Great Way To Organize

2012-01-27T11:03:00.002-05:00

Planning ahead is easy. Make a check list and stick to it. Mark things on your calendar--doctor visits, editing deadlines, family events. Oh, and blogging dates, too. One musn't forget those. I post regularly at four blogs: Vintage Vonnie, Voices of the Heart, Seven Night Writers and here at The Roses of Prose. Now, if I were truly a planner, I'd write my posts early and schedule them to self-publish on the specified date. Many do that, but not I. No, I don't plan ahead that well. You see, this post should have gone up at midnight, not at ten-twenty in the morning.

If I were such a planner, then at times like this when I'm not at my best, I could merely roll over and try to go back to sleep, knowing my post was already up. But I'm not. So after a night of coughing, hacking and sniffling, when I shuffle into the bathroom for more decongestant and something niggles at my cottony mind--like, what day is it???--I wouldn't go into an OMG panic.

It's just a bug of some kind, nothing earth-shattering, but I'm useless right now just the same. I see the doctor at three-thirty today, and he'll tell me what I already know: I have a virus. But thanks to the cancer scare I had three months ago, I now have a hovering husband who is calling the doctor every time I sneeze or get a headache. Pass me that box of tissues, would you, please?

Of course, if I'd only get in the habit of posting and scheduling my blogs a few days in advance, I wouldn't be in this "egg on face" predicament, stumbling and fumbling, trying to think of something witty to say. Perhaps that should be my goal for 2012. Post blogs early and schedule them to self-publish on time!!!

I do have something great to share. My cover for my novella, part of the Honky Tonk Hearts series is in. Somehow the artist was able to capture Evie's dose of attitude, but then I shouldn't be surprised. The Wild Rose Press has the best graphic artists.

Evie Caldwell hates her life. Five years ago, she gave up college and her dream of teaching to care for her ailing mother. Now, she’s trapped taking care of her worthless brother and the family ranch. Waiting tables to earn her way out of Texas, the last thing she wants is a muscleman with a macho Marine attitude complicating her life. But, oh, how that man makes her insides melt.

Wounded vet Win Fairchild returns to Texas to heal, find a piece of his soul, and open a ranch for amputee children. Finding someone to love is not on his agenda. But when he starts work at the Lonesome Steer Honky Tonk, a spitfire with violet eyes and a major attitude instantly captures his heart.

Evie just wants to escape, but now that Win knows what he wants, can he convince Evie to stay in Texas—and his bed?

My final galleys for Those Violet Eyes are in. As soon as my eyes stop watering enough so I can see the computer screen clearly, I'll get started on those. Until then, it's orange juice and hot tea for me. Let's add another thought to the list of things to do in 2012, shall we? STAY HEALTHY, EVERYONE.

World Organization

2012-01-26T04:00:00.000-05:00

No, I'm not trying to organize the entire Earth. I'm just trying to organize the world building going on in a futuristic series I'm writing.

This is a BIG series. The final 3 books in the series are out (Human Touch, Living Proof and Leap of Faith). Those 3 books take place 400 years after the start of the series -- which is what I'm writing now. In those 3 future books, they allude to things that happened in the past -- the past I'm writing now.

Confused? Nope, I'm not. I'm Organized. Or I'm trying to be organized. I am anticipating at least 7 books to be written for this multi-generational saga. That means I need to keep track of a lot of details. I tried computer organization -- calendar programs, address books, databases, but none of it was quite right and there was the problem of synchronization. I tend to write on many different computers in the course of one day, carrying my current files with me on a memory stick. It got too hard to remember what to update, what was updated, etc.

So I reverted to paper tracking and it's working out very nicely. I went to the local thrift store and found a bunch of old DayRunner organizers. Remember those? They were all The Thing a while ago. You could buy all kinds of nifty stuff to put in the organizers -- the kind of stuff I need to organize a world.

I have calendars (blank ones for the future that I can write in and set up my own dates), an address book (in which I keep track of characters, their names, their traits, their appearance), To Do lists, photo sleeves ... I have one MASTER planner for things like vocabulary, places, timelines, 'facts'. Then I'm keeping another planner for the current book and its details. I have a place to jot down ideas, a place

Some of this I do keep on my computer. My detailed character sketches for the main characters are on my memory stick, for example. I printed out a copy to put in the planner but whenever I update it with a new fact or event that affects that character, I jot a note on paper and then eventually I transfer it to the computer and I print a new version.

I've been doing this for a year now (this is a BIG series and it's going to be written over the course of several years, in between other projects) and I am calling it a success. I put this series aside for about 5 months and just came back to it. My notes made perfect sense to me and I can pick up right where I left off. My jotted notes make sense and I can see where they'll fit.

I think I may finally have this organizing thing figured out (at least for this world). Now if I could just get the socks all to match...

Guest Victoria Gray Talks About Blending Fact with Emotion in Historical Romance

2012-01-25T00:01:00.007-05:00

Why do I love reading and writing historical romance? The answer is actually quite simple. Historical romances transport me to another time and place and immerse me in a love story. Before I started writing historical romance, I never considered the skillful balance between facts and emotion in these stories, the delicate weave of details within a love story that creates a sense of time and place and brings the plot and the characters to life. Now, as a writer of historical romance, I know firsthand the challenge of blending facts into a story without creating information overload.

While the developing emotional relationship between the heroine and her hero is the central focus of historical romance, historical details serve to sweep the reader away to another time and place. Infusing facts throughout the story without sounding like a travel guide is a writer’s challenge. Research, layering details through multiple revisions, and a willingness to cut facts that don’t enhance the story are my keys to achieving balance between historical detail, story flow, and emotional intensity.

Of course, thorough research is a given. Historical inaccuracies pull a reader out of a story, while details about historical events, clothing, food, transportation, communication, occupations, and social structure—the list could go on and on— provide scaffolding for a believable story.

After I become familiar with the essential characteristics of an era, I map out the plot and research specific aspects of the time period that may factor into the story. What weapons were available? What historical events, landmarks, and people might have impacted the characters’ lives? What literary and artistic works were prominent during that era? In my new release, Surrender to Your Touch, the Union occupation of Norfolk, Virginia during the Civil War creates additional danger for the hero, outcast Rebel officer Will Reed, while the Union’s use of his family’s historical home, a James River plantation, adds to Will’s profound sense of loss. Angel in My Arms features Union spy Amanda Emerson’s visit to Confederate first lady Varina Davis and her mission to Richmond’s Libby Prison to rescue a double agent, while Destiny factors the heroine’s love of tragic romances into the character’s development. Research to identify popular authors of the heroine’s time provided details that fleshed out Emma Davenport’s actions and dialogue. These historical details add to the tapestry of the story.

How much historical detail brings a story to life without bogging it down? That depends on the story. Are historical events plot elements, or does the historical setting provide a context for the story? Surrender to Your Touch, Angel in My Arms and Destiny are set against the background of the Civil War, but the key plot events are entirely fictional. Historical details woven throughout the story create a sense of time and place, and references to historical figures can add to a character’s development, but historical name-dropping can result in detail overload. Your characters shouldn’t sound like Joan Rivers on a time travel adventure.

Every author develops a method that works best for him or her. To me, research, layering details, and revision are the keys to crafting a love story that transports the reader to another time and place.

Here’s a little about Surrender to Your Touch:

Will Reed is out to settle a brutal score. The disgraced Rebel officer's own men want him hanged, and an enemy has ordered him killed. Intent on clearing his name and evening the score with those who betrayed him, he begins with the woman he once loved—Union spy Kate Sinclair.

For years, Kate used seduction as a lure. She knew better than to let her heart get involved--until she fell in love with Will. Grieving his death, Kate's joy at discovering him alive shatters when she is confronted by a bitter, vengeful man—a man who'll stop at nothing to learn the truth of her betrayal. As danger pursues them, Kate fights to tear down the barriers Will has erected around his heart, but her most powerful weapon may ultimately destroy her—surrender.

I hope readers will stop by my website and my blog, www.victoriagrayromance.com ; www.victoriagrayromance.blogspot.com.

I’d love for you to friend me on Facebook:

http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=1819636616

and follow me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/VictoriaGray115

CONTEST: Based on the story blurb, who would you like to see portray Kate and Will if this were a movie? One lucky commenter will win a pdf of Surrender to Your Touch. Winner will be announced on Monday, January 27.

Surrender to Your Touch is available from Amazon.com: E-book or Print,

and

The Wild Rose Press: E-book and Print

When Organization Fails

2012-01-24T09:16:00.002-05:00

I'm not one to wish away time - even though this month has been like a stall in the continuum. It wasn't supposed to be this way. I had an organized plan. The house we bought in Arizona was scheduled to close on December 29th. We drove out from Minnesota to spend Christmas with the family. After New Year's, my would husband fly back leaving the dog with me. He had to finish working out the month in Minnesota and he would drive out the U-haul with our household goods. I would stay at my sister's.

The whole plan began to crumble when the closing date changed. And changed again. And changed again. The inspector found more things than met the eye. Frank went back and we still hadn't closed. It did eventually close but with a bit of a hassle since we are now residing in two different states.

Family got in the way of the rest of my great organized plan. And I knew they would which is why I worked so hard to have a plan. Without even trying they worked harder to disrupt it. If you are a writer, you will probably understand what I mean. They're very proud of my accomplishments, the books I've published, and they don't hesitate to tell everyone I'm an author. But understanding what that means - that I need to actually write - must be hard to grasp. Blogging is totally out of their realm.

And so, no I don't wish time away, but I'm a bit anxious to be in the new house the first week of February. In the meantime, I will enjoy the unorganized time with family fitting in my writing and blogging as I can. Breathe in, breathe out, move on.

Brenda's latest releases:

Buy Link print or ebook publisher

Buy Link ebook Amazon

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Buy Link ebook Amazon

Visit Brenda at www.brendawhiteside.com.

Or on FaceBook: www.facebook.com/BrendaWhitesideAuthor

She blogs on the 9^th and 24^th of every month at http://rosesofprose.blogspot.com

Her personal blog http://brendawhiteside.blogspot.com/

AUSTRALIA DAY FROM MARGARET TANNER

2012-01-23T00:01:00.003-05:00

AUSTRALIA

DAY JANUARY 26^th by Margaret Tanner

Hi everyone.

I know this has nothing to do with New Years Resolutions or a lead up to Valentine’s Day, but as I am an Aussie and my post is due on the 23rd January, and Australia Day is the 26^th January, I thought this would be a change of pace.

Captain James Cook (1728 – 1779) was born in Yorkshire, England. He was the man who discovered Australia. He led an expedition to the South Seas in command of the Endeavour. They sailed from Plymouth on the 26^th August 1768 with a compliment of ninety four, including the Botanist, Joseph Banks. Sailing via Cape Horn they reached Tahiti on the 13^th April 1769.

Cook had been instructed to determine the existence of a southern continent. He sailed to New Zealand in August, circumnavigated the islands, and charted the coastline and took possession of New Zealand for the British government.

On the 19^th April, 1770, they spotted land at the south east of the Australian mainland. Cook continued sailing north, charting the coast as he sought a safe harbour for repairs to the Endeavour. They landed at Stingray Bay on the 29^th April and renamed it Botany Bay. As he did with New Zealand, Cook claimed the great south land for the British government, who a few years later decided that this would be a great place to send their unwanted convicts, many of whom, because of overcrowding in the prisons because they could no longer be shipped off to America, were incarcerated in rotting hulks on the river Thames. Many were petty thieves, who were transported for what we would consider minor crimes – stealing a loaf of bread, shop lifting some hair ribbons. Others were political prisoners or innocent victims of an unjust and uncaring society, like Maryanne Watson, the heroine in my 1820’s novel, Savage Utopia, which is set against the background of transportation to the penal colony of Australia.

On the 26th January 1788 Captain Arthur Phillip, who guided the First Fleet to the island continent of Australia, claimed the Colony of New South Wales for the British Empire. He also became Governor of the colony. Slowly, a British society evolved based on the distinctions between convicts and free settlers.

The fledgling colony began to mark the anniversary of the 26th January 1788 with formal dinners and informal celebrations.

In 1817 when Governor Macquarie recommended the adoption of the name ‘Australia’ for the entire continent instead of New Holland, a new nation started to emerge. By the 1820’s, Australia began to prosper and Australian patriotism started to be expressed at gatherings. In the early days the colony was a small society of cliques, with severe social requirements and rigid class lines, but the stain of convict blood could not be completely obliterated even though many tried to hide their tainted past. Many ex-convicts prospered and their Australian born children began to see themselves as unique because of their upbringing and isolation from Europe.

Throughout the early nineteenth century, Foundation Day, as it was called, became known for sporting events. But the growing sense of patriotism was being expressed in by poets. On the 26^th January 1824, poet, Charles Thompson paid tribute to his native country with a collection of poems even though his father had been transported to Australia as a convict.

In the summer of 1836, a group of seafaring Sydneyites decided to celebrate the founding of their new nation with a sailing regatta. The Australia Day Regatta is still held on Sydney Harbour on the 26th January each year and it has become the oldest continuous sailing regatta in the world.

In 1838, fifty years after Captain Phillip landed, a number of celebratory events were organised and the first public holiday ever marked in Australia was announced for the 26th January. This started a tradition which lasts to this very day.

SAVAGE UTOPIA published by Whiskey Creek Press

On board the convict ship taking them to the penal colony of

Australia

, Maryanne Watson and Jake Smith meet and fall in love, but Jake hides a terrible secret that will take him to the gallows if it ever comes out.

On arrival in Sydney the lovers are separated. Maryanne is sent to work for the lecherous Captain Fitzhugh. After he attacks her she flees into the wilderness and eventually meets up with Jake who has escaped from a chain gang. They set up home in a hidden valley and Maryanne falls pregnant. Will Jake come out of hiding to protect his fledgling family? And how can love triumph over such crushing odds?

Margaret Tanner is an award winning, multi-published, Australian historical romance writer who loves delving into the past.

Her website is http://www.margarettanner.com/

Organization? Who Me?

2012-01-22T00:01:00.000-05:00

Photo courtesy of: OctanBearcat, DeviantArt

Happy New Year, Everyone!

2012 has begun with a crack of lightning for me. And by that I mean, it hit out of the blue, knocked me sideways, and I'm still trying to put out the fire in my hair.

I released two books on January 3rd: IMMORTAL HOPE (dark paranormal romance through TOR) and STRIPPED (erotic romantic suspense through Berkley Heat). For the first time in my publishing career, my future sales now depend on current sales, and that directly translated to I couldn't sit on my hands and simply focus on the next book. I had to put myself out there. Promote. Figure out how to promote.

I settled on a couple blog tours (dates available on my blogsite) and have been struggling to keep up with everything. Writing guest posts (over 50), doing interviews (10 or so), and trying to track give aways, not all of which I initiated, but were prompted by my publishing house, but I still need to make an appearance when they occur. Add in that I am in edits for the second Curse of the Templars book, the second Black Opal book, and the fourth Inherited Damnation book, plus I have four novellas due back to back through April, and chaos is my middle name.

Which means... my life is best stated as See the Cartoon Above.

I'm normally pretty organized when it comes to writing. My usual desk is fairly clean, with only the current project's notes stacked off to one side for easy reference. I have a couple post-its tacked right in front of my keyboard, a pen haphazardly tossed about, and probably the previous day's coffee cup waiting. But otherwise, save for a little cat drool from 18yr old writing companion, we're clean, tidy, and efficient. Everything else is filed in file cabinets or transposed to my hard drive so the paper can be tossed away.

HAH!

I wish that were true right now, as I look at the mail from last week on the opposite side of my table, the pile of books I have to sign and get in the mail, the stack of notes about stuff I'm pretty sure isn't current any more, and a good week's worth of candy wrappers cluttering the minimal space where my laptop fits. Oh and did I mention? At night I'm writing by the light of the Christmas tree.

What am I going to do to better organize? Pray for this month to whirr by in another couple days.

Then, I will probably take down the tree first, and organize my house once more. We started with the demidemons' playroom today. Holy cow that was frightening. But I can't really focus when I'm sidetracked by so many other messes. I'll write a paragraph or two, then notice the pile of dishes and have to get up to fix that before I can continue.

So first up, clean the house. Put the darn Christmas stuff back in the shed. Then file all this accumulated junk, and sit down to outline the next three novellas in Inherited Damnation.

I say that, and it gives me hope. In truth, I have a sneaking suspicion, the majority of the first part of 2012 is going to resemble Murphy's Law of Clutter.

We'll see when I come back on the 30th and the blog tours are over.

But speaking of! Do come and join me, please. Between the two tours I still have 50.00 in Amazon Gift Cards to award, and there's plenty of opportunity to win.


Chivalry Never Dies	Deception Is Part of the Game

~Claire

http://www.claireashgrove.com/

http://www.toristclaire.com/

TWITTER: @ClaireAshgrove

Hints to Organize Your Promo

2012-01-21T00:30:00.000-05:00

Everyone who knows me knows I don’t think in organizedterms. With this in mind, I'm presenting hints for organizing your life to include promotion for your books.
This is in no way meant to be instructions or directions onhow to organize your promotion methods. I found out the hard way what every ebook writer learns: the only wayto sell books is to market, market. market.

The other big fact is: Selling your book taked time away from your writing.
The solution: organize.
Aaaargh Just the thought makes my stomach ache, but itsnecessary.
Once I realized I needed to use my time wisely, I madedecisions. Here is a partial list of things that helped me.

What am I promoting? My books or myself?
Really important to know to save wasted efforts. It doesn’t make any difference as far as objectives, but does affect the subject.
Where do I go to promote?
My goodness, the list of places is endless and growing. I got lost in the tangled web of the internet. It takes real dedication to stop trolling and get back to work.
Find a network of supportive and like-minded authors.
I am on several blogs where various authors post. This gives me exposure without the daily expectation.
Find how to check how many visitors go to your sites. Are your efforts paying off or a waste of time?
Concentrate your efforts.
I support my fellow authors by following their blogs and found a timesaver: I check the bloggerlist (also worpress and google) daily instead of clicking on each individual blog. Commenting is easy and the numbers add up.
Create a blog.
Focus on something. Writing, interviews, whatever will draw attention.
Tweet. I know, I know.
To make it simple I joined Triberr along with several supportive authors. My followers are growing and the most recent count is over 20 thousand reached. These are people who buy books.
Join StumbleUpon.
Never heard of it? Me neither, but it suggests blogs to people who list interests. Horses, dogs, cowboys, vampires? Click on it. A whole new audience for my books.
LinkedIn
Is a puzzle to me since I’m not looking for an employer, but there I am. It doesn’t take much time and my name is out there on several groups. Connections are growing. Another new audience.
Set a time limit.
I started with one hour a day. Now I’ve divided it into 30 minutes in the morning and 30 minutes in the late afternoon.Why? Because morning is my prime writing time. And I have organized my priorities.

Hope these hints help you. I'm willing to add to my list if you have suggestions.

Author Website: http://barbaraedwards.net

Blog Site: http://barbaraedwardscomments.wordpress.com
Facebook: http://facebook.com/BarbaraEdwards
Ancient Blood http://on.fb.me/naHRY5
Twitter: http://twitter.com/barb_ed
Authors Den: http://authorsden.com/barbaraedwards
Amazon Author Page: http://www.amazon.com/author/barbaraedwards

In Ancient Awakening, Police Officer ‘Mel’ Peterseninvestigates a death only she believes is murder. By disobeying direct ordersfrom the Rhodes End Chief, she risks her career to follow clues that twist incircles to her backyard and lead the killer to her.

Her neighbor Stephen Zoriak is aprime suspect. Steve worked for a major pharmaceutical company where hediscovered a weapon so dangerous he destroys the research. He is exposed to thedangerous organism. He suspects he is the killer and agrees to help her findthe truth.

In the course of theirinvestigation Mel and Steve find the real killer and a love that defies death.

www.wildrosepress buy link

Social Organization

2012-01-20T00:01:00.002-05:00

Laura Breck

I realized yesterday that we have not hosted a real party or social event in years. And we have the perfect house for it. We converted one room into a bar, and over the years have accumulated lots of liquor (which I'd like to get rid of.)

So it's time to have a party. In a few weeks, the Saint Paul Winter Carnival Torchlight Parade will wind through the streets just a few blocks from us. What a perfect opportunity to gather friends and relatives for a fun evening.

Of course, this is Minnesota. Today's high temperature will be -1, with a -32 windchill. So I have to wait until a few days before the parade to determine if it's a good idea to ply people with alcohol and send them out into dangerously low temperatures.

All this is leading up to my topic. Social organization. Being a full-time writer, I tend to work twelve to sixteen hour days, even on weekends, so I don't get out much. And when you don't attend parties you're invited to three or four times, you drop off the invitation list.

So this year, I'm going to be more social. I started a Facebook page for my personal life, and I've connected with people I haven't seen in a while. I'm going to take more walks around the neighborhood (when the temperature reaches a more hospitable number) and re-establish friendships. I need to make lunch dates with friends, too. Some whom I share e-mails with but haven't seen in months.

All these ideas: the party, Facebook, reconnecting, will help me feel less isolated. And that's something that will help me with my goals for 2012, one of which is becoming a healthier me. By increasing my social exchanges, I will have more motivation and more support with something I've been struggling with for a long, long time. Wish me luck!

Laura

LauraBreck.com
Secret Vegas Lives
Scandalous L.A. Desires
both available from Red Rose Publishing

Don't forget to check out Romance Biggest Winner 2 – a fun, social way to make 2012 a healthier, happier year! http://romancebiggestwinner.blogspot.com/

2012 - The Year of Good Eatin'...

2012-01-19T02:06:00.000-05:00

by Amber Leigh Williams

Resolutions and I do not have a good track record. As amatter of fact, I can’t remember last year’s resolution. I think I’m moreproductive across the board when I don’t have a resolution. This is due in partto the guilt. If I’m not doing it, I feel guilty. If I feel guilty, I tend towallow. Therefore, for me, guilt and productivity don’t mix well at all.

It’s taken me eighteen days to come up with a solution. My2012 resolution will be to feel less guilty because this year’s will be justfor fun. If I don’t find the time to do it, it’s no big deal. If I do, thenyay!

It was while coming up with a recipe for a guest bloggingarticle this week that it struck me. My husband is so much better than me inthe kitchen. (I brag about his specialty in the kitchen here.) Since the day we’ve met, he’s had this natural cookingability. Perhaps because he was forced to help in the kitchen throughout hisearly life while I didn’t learn to boil an egg until I was eighteen. (Sadly,that is not an exaggeration.) My mother cooked these beautiful meals. To myknowledge, nothing was ever burned or undercooked. Me? Well, I’m the opposite.I manage to both burn and undercook things. I’ve nearly set the kitchen on firethree times in the last year. However, there are a handful of things I do well.My banana pudding happens to be my husband’s favorite dish. (He even chose toforgo a traditional groom’s cake so it could be served at our wedding!) I make myown special spaghetti that I cook for dinner guests with Texas toast, salad,and red wine. When my younger sister went off to college, she even asked forthe recipe to take with her so she could have a taste of home three hundredmiles away.

While watching Julie& Julia, I realized what I wanted to do. My new year’s resolution is tofind three new recipes I can enjoy making as much as eating, like spaghetti andbanana pudding. I’ve already found the first one. I was inspired by thetelevision show, Downton Abbey.Whenever those Granthams sit down to a formal dinner scene, I instantly gethungry. By chance, I found the recipe for “apple charlotte” from the showonline. It’s simple and sounds absolutely delicious! And, as an added bonus, Iusually have better luck with desserts and baking. The preparation layering isvery similar to banana pudding….

INGREDIENTS

Butter, for greasing the pie dish and bread
9 slices bread, crusts removed
6 apples, peeled, cored, and sliced thinly (peel reserved)
1 tablespoon lemon zest
2 tablespoons lemon juice
Sugar, to taste

DIRECTIONS

Preheat the oven to 375degrees.

Butter a pie dish and thebread slices. Place a layer of bread at the bottom, then a layer of apples.Sprinkle over these a portion of the lemon zest and juice, and sweeten withsugar. Place another layer of bread, and then apples, proceeding in this manneruntil the dish is full.

Then cover it up with thepeel of the apples, to preserve the top from browning or burning. Bake in theoven for about 45-50 minutes; turn the charlotte onto a dish, sprinkle sugar ontop, and serve.

Read more here.

The next recipe I’d like to master is slow cooker chili. Forme, chili growing up meant a few cans of Hormel, a sprinkle of cheese and asmall dollop of Daisy® sour cream. One bite of my sister-in-law’s chili,however, was an enlightening experience. It’s wonderful and diverse and has alittle bit of a bite to it. (She makes her own salsa, too, which is to die for!Apparently, that great cooking gene was distributed evenly throughout the hub’ssiblings.) I’m determined to find out how to make great slow cooker chili bythe end of the year, maybe even get my hands on the in-laws’ recipe….

As for the third recipe, I would love to be able to treat thehub to morning pancakes. So far, I’ve been hopeless with breakfast. He’s beenmaking omelets and sausage for me for the last eight years. Though pancakes maybe a little trickier than apple charlotte and chili, it’s worth a shot!

Do you have trouble keeping resolutions? How about making afun one that doesn’t make you feel guilty if it doesn’t quite pan out and whichcan still enrich your life if it does? Another one of my fun resolutions? Toread more. Last year, I read far fewer books than the year before. Now that myeyeglass prescription has been updated, I’m ready to dive into my TBR pile withboth hands. So here’s to a year of good eating and good reading!

If you have a fun resolution, shout it out! I’d love to hearmore….

The Age Old Question – What should I make for dinner? By Jannine Gallant

2012-01-18T00:01:00.004-05:00

How much time do you waste staring into your refrigerator, wondering what to make for dinner? My guess is (if you’re anything like me) you go to the same old standbys, tried and true recipes you’ve made a million times before. I know I’m guilty as charged. The problem is, eating the same old thing gets boring when you’ve already made it three four times that month.

Now, to our organization theme. A few years ago, I pulled out my recipe cards and my cookbooks. I went through them, making a list of recipes my family loves and where I could quickly find them. It gave me a fast reference guide. So instead of that old standby, I can run through the list, and say, “Hey, I haven’t made this chicken dish in a while.”

If you’re really organized and motivated, you can sit down with your master list on Monday, and plan dinners for the whole week. Wow, imagine not stopping at the store every day, standing by the meat counter thinking, What should I make tonight? Less trips to the store means more time for writing, reading, painting your toenails… It’ll also save you money because you won’t be tempted to buy that bag of pistachio nuts. (That’s one of my husband’s weaknesses when I’m foolish enough to send him to the store!)

To get you started with your list of awesome recipes, I’m including one of my favorites below. You can also find more of my recipes on my blog, Food For Thought.

Chicken Stroganoff

4 slices bacon

1 ¼ lbs. boneless, skinless chicken breast cut into strips

1 medium onion chopped

2 garlic cloves minced

½ tsp. paprika

salt and pepper to taste

1 can less sodium chicken broth

1 cup reduced fat sour cream

2 Tbsp. flour

4 cups hot, cooked egg noodles

Cook bacon until crisp. Remove from pan and crumble. Leave some of the bacon drippings and sauté chicken. Add onion and garlic – cook until wilted. Add seasonings, broth and bacon to pan. Simmer 10 minutes. Combine sour cream and flour in a bowl, stirring until smooth. Add to pan and bring to boil. Reduce heat and simmer for two minutes. Serve over egg noodles. Yields 4 servings.

Visit my Website for info on my current and upcoming releases. Bittersweet will be available from Whiskey Creek Press in February!

A KEY TO HAPPINESS

2012-01-17T00:00:00.000-05:00

So our theme this month is organizing. By this time you realize that I'm not much for organizing my house. My thought with this blog is to help with another type of organizing. Organizing one's well being. A key to happiness. I don't have a magic wand, but I believe one key is knowing what makesyou happy. My husband. My children. My family. My doggies. Those are a given and aneasy answer. But today I'm not taking about who or what you love that makes you happy. I want to talk aboutwhat you do to make yourself happy.

So what makes me happy?

I'm happiest when I'm busy. I'm like my father that way. Healways had a project or two underway when I was younger. My father was a highschool teacher and basketball coach. He was also a workaholic. My siblings andI used to cringe if he didn't have a summer job because it meant one thing- wewere going to be busy. And I mean busy. One summer my father thought we shouldget a feel for what real work was like. He had us hoe out a whole cotton patch.Yes, manually. Yes, he had a tractor that could have plowed it nicely. But wewouldn't have gained that experience in life. Experience he always contendedwas important.

Over time I have come to realize one thing. I have become myfather. No, I have never made my children hoe out a cotton patch, but itwouldn't have hurt them if they had. No, I have come to understand my fatherbetter, because in a sense I have become him. I have to be busy. I don't need alot of sleep. I can't stand it when I don't have control of a situation. And I havebecome a workaholic myself.

I'll admit it. I like to work. I like my job at thehospital. I love to write. If I had a little more time, I'm sure I would liketo clean my house...but I have all these projects. I read what most authorsrecommend- to complete one project at a time when it comes to writing. I'm surethat would be a good idea. I have only one problem with that- I can't do it.

THE JUDAS KISS

I'm happy when I'm writing. I'm not even organized when I write. I'm a panster. I don't follow an outline.I go with the flow of the story. Oh, I know where I want to go. It's just thejourney to that end - most of the time, I'm not exactly certain how I'm going to get there, but Ihave faith in my story. It comes. I have to feel the story. But that means I goand come to my writings. When I'm in the middle of writing, I become obsessedwith the story or that portion of it. If I'm stuck at a point, I move on towhat I am feeling.

Why am I telling you this? It explains why I have so muchgoing on this year with my writing. Everything seems to be finished at onetime. THE JUDAS KISS was just released. It's my first book in theTide of Charleston series. I'm so excited about The Judas Kiss because theseries is set in Charleston.I love the mystic of Charleston.I have two more releases with the Tides of Charleston, The Promise in May and AnotherNight Falls is September. Under my pen name, Carrie James Haynes, I'mcontinuing on with the Whispers of aLegend series releasing, Vision ofDestiny, hopefully at the end of February. Then I have Daughter of Deceit (historical paranormal) set to be released atthe end of January.

So much to do...but I'mhappy. So what about you? What do you do that makes you feel better?

Check out my new release, The Judas Kiss, a historicalfiction book sweeping from Charleston Harbor to the ballrooms of London during the turmoilof the American Revolution. Also excited- Whispers of a Legend, PartOne-Shadows of the Past has gone FREE on Amazon!

SHADOWS OF THE PAST

Can find me over on Novel Works, my historical blog, and

Castles in the Air.

Make Time for What's Important by Alison Henderson

2012-01-15T00:05:00.001-05:00

Even if you don’t believe in making resolutions, and setting goals feels like too much pressure, January is the perfect time to take stock of your life and look for ways to make the coming year more satisfying. All of us have interests, activities, and passions that give life spice—those things you do just for yourself. You might have the full support of your family and friends, or you might be nurturing your interest in secret—not yet ready to share it with the world. Whatever your situation, you’ll probably agree the main obstacle is finding time.

Personal time is one of the most valuable commodities in modern life. It takes commitment to carve out precious hours from already limited family and work time to devote to yourself. And then there’s the guilt… I don’t know about you, but guilt held me back for years from making time to pursue my passion.

As women, we are used to putting ourselves last, especially if we have families. They NEED us every waking second. Or do they? This is a critical question you have to answer for yourself. Under some circumstances and at certain stages of life, the answer may be “yes”, but it’s so easy to stretch that “yes” well beyond necessity.

I’m a writer, but I’m also a wife, mother, and full time executive. I’m all too aware of the trade-offs and conflicts of trying to “have it all”, but you can have more than you think. I turned a corner in the struggle when I picked up a copy of Time to Write: Professional writers reveal how to fit writing into your busy life, by Kelly L. Stone, at the RWA national conference a few years ago. This little book is a compilation of practical tips and strategies from dozens of successful writers on finding time.

The authors specifically address time to write, but the advice could apply to pursuing any interest or activity. First, you have to give yourself permission, and for many of us that’s the biggest hurdle. Once you’ve surmounted it, scrutinize your life and schedule for potential blocks of time, however small. Are you a morning or night person? Could you squeeze in time for yourself before your family wakes up or after they go to bed? Are there points in your day when you feel you’re wasting time?

For me, the biggest time-waster was television. My husband is a big TV watcher, and I felt obligated to watch with him in the evenings because I was away at work all day and he was home alone (he’s retired). There are very few programs I actively enjoy, but I sat with him to keep him company. I decided to limit my viewing to my favorites, no more than one hour a night, and devote the rest of the evening to writing. It wasn’t easy to set the guilt aside, but my husband survived and I finished that book in record time! Now, I can ease up on the schedule when I don’t have a pressing project, but it’s reassuring to know the time can be there when I want or need it—like having extra money in the bank.

In 2012, I encourage you to examine your life and be sure to make time for yourself in it!

Alison Henderson

www.alisonhenderson.com

Six Steps to a More Organized You

2012-01-14T00:00:00.001-05:00

By Christine DePetrillo

January is a time for setting goals and keeping to them. Many people decide that getting more organized is a goal they’d like to try. Here are six steps that have kept me organized over the years. They might work for you too.

Only keep what you need – It is so easy to collect stuff you’ll never use. People give you gifts that you don’t want or aren’t your taste, and you shove them into a closet thinking maybe someday they’ll be of use. Guess what? They won’t. If your first instinct is “I’m never going to use this,” it’s probably true. You’d be better off giving the unwanted items away to charity or someone you know will use them than to litter your home with them. It may sound heartless, but clutter is the devil.
Have a chore schedule – In my house, I do certain chores on certain days. For example, Saturday is house cleaning day, Tuesday is laundry day, Wednesday is pet maintenance day, etc. You get the idea. This way I know I hit all the necessary chores, but don’t get stuck doing them all in the same day like some sort of modern-day Cinderella.
Delegate responsibilities – If you live with other folks, they ought to be doing some things to keep organized too. The duties should not fall on one person. A well-functioning team can transform a chaotic, messy house into a smooth-running, cozy home.
Make lists – I live by them and not because I can’t remember stuff. I’m not that old yet. I make lists because it helps me manage my time better. Something about seeing what I have to do written out on a piece of paper allows me to figure out how I’m going to get it all done in the time I have available. Plus, there’s the always fun activity of crossing things off the list once you’ve accomplished them.
Be prepared – Plan ahead for events and commitments. I know things come up that you weren’t expecting, but if you plan for the expected things, you’ll be less stressed. Keeping a calendar is a great way to make sure you know what’s happening and when. Looking ahead is always better than running to catch up.
If all of these don’t appeal to you, get a personal assistant. Perhaps one of the tall, dark, and handsome variety who doesn’t feel the need to cover his six-pack abs with a shirt. Get one that will cater to your every need and make keeping you organized his sole purpose in life. J

Happy Organizing!

Christine

ABRA CADAVER, The Wild Rose Press, available now

ALASKA HEART, The Wild Rose Press, available now

www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com

Organizing your medical life

2012-01-13T05:00:00.000-05:00

There are a lot of things -- medically speaking -- that we can't control. Sometimes people get dealt a bad hand, health-wise, and they just have to deal.

I've been remarkably healthy most of my life, but the last few years have been challenging. An old back injury has morphed into sciatica; I have mysterious hip and leg cramps that defy explanation; and I've had digestive issues most of my life but now they're troublesome.

The result of all this is that in 2010 I spent most of the year going from one specialist to another. I saw every 'ist' there was: neurologist, podiatrist, gastro-enterologist, gynecologist, dermatologist ... I saw spine doctors, stomach doctors. nerve doctors, foot doctors, bone doctors, all trying to figure out why I have such a messed-up pelvic region, because that's what it boils down to: all nerves in the body flow through the pelvic region and for some reason, my nerves are out of whack. I tried acupuncture, physical therapy, water therapy, chiropractic, holistic chiropractic ...

The end result? I still have cramps, but I think I have them under control by doing a series of stretches every day. I still have digestive issues, so I've bumped up my fiber intake. And I still have hip pain, and I use ice packs when it's bad and when it's really bad, I sleep in a chair.

How does this equate to getting organized? Here's how. I keep a detailed list of all of my medications (dosage and size), my doctors and their specialties (both here and in Minnesota), my exercise routine, and the chronic conditions that have plagued me. I keep it to one page, single spaced, bullet list. Whenever I hear "bring a list of your medications with you" I just print out a new copy.

This is SO useful -- I just hand them that sheet and the admitting nurse has everything he or she needs. It's especially useful since I moved to a new state and all of my records aren't centralized. When I started getting new doctors here, I just handed them "my" health history and away we went.

Like I said: there's a lot we can't control. But we can make life a little bit easier when we're going in for that procedure or exam or test.

I've Got a Bruise on my Forehead.

2012-01-12T01:30:00.001-05:00

This is "get organized" month, and I dread every day of it. Organization is not my strong suit. Heck, it's not even my weak suit. With every lovely post on the fine art of organizing, I've gotten more and more depressed. I mean, isn't it bad enough Twinkies has gone into bankrupcy?

Everyday when I open our blog, I slap my forehead, and it's gotten so bad, my forehead is bruised.

"You should put something on that," Calvin suggested, his hand in the cookie jar.

When I opened the door to our medicine cabinet, two bottles of Nyquil hit me on the nose. Darn if I didn't have to clean the cabinet out just to find cotton balls to shove up my nose to stop the bleeding.

When dear Calvin saw my swollen nose, he said as he opened a bag of chips, "Maybe you should put ice on that."

Well, my ice bag is kept in the freezer. You know, just so I know where it's at. But when I opened the freezer, two half-gallons of ice cream fell on my feet and broke all my toes--or so it seemed. So I had to clean out and organize my freezer just to find the darn ice pack for my nose.

Altnough the ice took the swelling out of my nose, my toes were too swollen to squeeze into winter shoes, so I had to find a pair of sandals in my walk-in closet. I knelt and reached between stacks of plastic tubs full of summer clothing to find my favorite pair of strappy, comfy shoes. How was I to know that's where our neighbor's cat we're babysitting, while they're gone, takes his afternoon nap? Mr. Cuddles (NOT) scratched my arm to bits. So, I had to clean the darn closet and organize it just to find my sandals, flipflops, Dr. Schols...anything for my swollen tootsies.

Calvin saw me pouring peroxide on my arm. "You should probably wrap that," he suggested as he poured another cup of coffee. I shot him a dark look.

Problem was when I cleaned and organized the medicine cabinet, I put all the overflow into the linen closet. How...how was I to know Mr. Cuddles, still in a feline huff from having his hiding place disturbed, had laid claim to the linen closet?

I'm telling you I can't take any more organizing! I'm just not cut out for it. And if you think that picture is of me, let me say that dear helpful husband gave me one TOO many suggestions.

NEW YEAR RESOLUTION - DE-CLUTTER

2012-01-11T03:49:00.000-05:00

THE PERILS OF NOT DE-CLUTTERING – Margaret Tanner

Happy New Year to everyone.

The start of a new year is a great time to de-clutter, figuratively and literally speaking. A time to cast off the old and start afresh with the new.

I am a clutter collector from way back. I figure why throw anything out; you never know when you might need it. I inherited the hoarder gene.

“Waste not, want not” was my mother’s motto and she lived by it the whole of her life. Maybe it was because she lived through the great depression of the 1930’s and World War 2, that she would use and re-use, save and squirrel away stuff. Our house was never untidy, because most of the hoarded items were well out of sight.

I should have learned my lesson after my dear mother died about 20 years ago and my sister and I had to clear out her house. To say it was a nightmare was an understatement. It took weeks. My mother had kept receipts from the 1940’s, even her World War 2 ration book. And speaking of books, she had hundreds of them. Then there were the ornaments, pretty little knick-knacks that reposed on every shelf or level surface in the house. Boxes of china. Well, you get the idea.

Now you would think that after all this trauma and angst, I would have dashed home and gone through my own cupboards. I didn’t, but I did take a lot of my mother’s stuff with me. Well, how could I let it go? All those little treasures.

My mother-in-law passed away, same story, I kept a lot of her things too. I was a hoarder. It came as naturally as breathing or eating.

Well friends, retribution did come. The youngest of our sons finally left home, so hubby and I decided it was time to downsize. We bought a smaller house, and put our larger house on the market. “We’ve got a lot of stuff here, we’ll have to get rid of it,” hubby says.

Over my dead body. “No, we won’t do anything rash,” I said, “we’ll put it in storage, which we did, and it wasn’t easy, took us several weekends. So, my house was partially emptied and ready for the pre-sale inspections.

A week before the auction of our house, my husband had to have heart by-pass surgery, so I had to go on with the sale alone. After the auction and hubby’s successful operation, I had to start packing, because when he came home he couldn’t do anything for eight weeks. I really hit the panic button because we had a short settlement. 40 days to clear out all our stuff, that of my mother and mother-in-law (that I had kept, and shouldn’t have). Well, it was a nightmare. I did most of it on my own. I don’t know how many trips I made to donate all these “treasures” to the second hand thrift shop (we call them Op shops here in Australia. They are run by charities to raise money to help the less fortunate). And I did help the less fortunate - big time. The Op shop manager must have thought I was Mother Teresa re-incarnated.

It was terrible. I cried because I had to give away my ‘treasures, mum’s treasures and my mother in-law’s treasures’. Worse still, was the time it took to pack them and deliver them to the Op shop.

With the clock ticking, I had to be ruthless – and I was.

If you are even contemplating moving house, start to get rid of your surplus stuff early. In fact, don’t collect it in the first place. A lady once told me that if she didn’t wear a dress for a year, she was probably never going to wear it again, and she got rid of it. Smart lady. Wish I had such courage. I still cling to my favourite dresses, hey I might lose weight and they will fit me again???

The moral of this story is - don’t hoard. De-clutter as much as possible, because one day you will have to sort it out, or your children will have to sort it out.

The same goes for your writing. If it isn’t working, discard it. Be ruthless. Start all over again if necessary, but never ever give up.

My website: http://www.margarettanner.com/

I am multi-published with Whiskey Creek Press and the Wild Rose Press.

Two Pounds a Week, the Organized Way!

2012-01-10T00:01:00.012-05:00

Laura Breck

My main goal for 2012 is to lose weight. I'm guessing right about this time of the year, it's about half the population's goal, too. I've tried a lot of different diets, programs, regimens, hypnosises. But this year, I'm organizing a five-pronged attack.

Exercise, diet, motivation, reward, and support.

Exercise - self explanatory, but here's what I figured out. I have an exercise DVD that I just don't like. I'm going to sell it on E-bay and buy one I do like. Something like belly dancing, or hip hop, or maybe...would hubby let me put in a pole??? I'm much more likely to exercise if I enjoy it.

Diet - I have a sweet tooth. I've purchased mass quantities of gum, hard candy, and dried fruit. I'll use them in that order to curb the sugar monster. Fresh fruit works, too, but for some reason, it never cures the crave for me.

Motivation - have you heard of The Secret? If not, check out the book from your library. I'm using a positive mantra which I repeat constantly during the day. "I am losing two pounds a week." Keeping that reinforcement running through my head reminds me to eat only what I need and in appropriate portions. It also reminds me to be active. Walk up the stairs a couple extra times each day, walk to the neighbors instead of driving. Do leg lifts while I'm watching television. Turn on the radio and dance around the kitchen.

The positive reinforcement of this type of mantra solidifies my willpower and becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy.

And now to my favorite - reward. There's nothing I like more than to surf the web for a good deal, buy it, and enjoy the anticipation of a package heading my way via UPS. Every week that I achieve my goal of two pounds lost, I will buy something inexpensive. A new bead for my bracelet, a new face cream, and when the pounds are really dropping - along with my dress size - new clothes. I'm truly lookng forward to shopping as an instant reward for reaching the tiny goal of two pounds.

I've never tried the reward approach before, and I have a good feeling that celebrating tiny goals, instead of waiting to reward myself once I reach that final, huge goal, will bring me more success.

The other side of the reward prong is consolation. If I don't reach my goal of two pounds that week, I will not be shopping, and instead will choose a slip of paper from the To Do jar. On these slips, I've written chores that need to be done around the house. Big, ugly chores, like Clean Out Credenza, and Straighten Pantry. Clean Refrigerator, and Reorganize File Cabinet.

This will not only give me an extra dose of exercise toward reaching my goal that week, it will set up good habits for me as I feel the pride of a clean closet, or organized drawer... (I just rolled my eyes at that pride hoo-haw. Gosh, I hate cleaning!)

Support - I've just joined the Facebook page Romance Biggest Winner. Starting in February, this group of romance lovers will organize to support one another under the leadership of Helen Seely, a really great person who has more dedication and energy than anyone I know. Published authors and readers will be competing. Participation is not free, but spending a little money makes it motivational, as well.

To find out more, Like the FB page at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Romance-Biggest-winners-part-2/128300167287718, then check out the rules (these are last year's rules, and I'm told they're changing a bit this time - more to come soon!) http://romancebiggestwinner.blogspot.com/2011/06/romance-biggest-winner-competition-is.html

While this site is very supportive and motivational, it's also rewarding. The author and reader who lose the most weight will each receive $1,000 at the end of the event. And each week, the winning team gets free books!

I hope you'll join me on the Biggest Winner challenge, and if you're one of those lucky people who are hoping to lose weight this year, tell me how you're doing it. What is working for you?

Have a great day,
Laura
LauraBreck.com

It's the little things, the itty bitty things

2012-01-09T00:01:00.014-05:00

It's the note that you leave on the breakfast table
With a list of things to help me plan my day

These are two lines from a Robert Earl Keen song that my husband likes to sing when I'm being overly organized with my lists. I can't repeat the ending lines, but it's obvious this guy is not pleased with his lady.

Brenda Whiteside

I'm a list maker. My life is a jumble, my plate is full, and if I didn't make lists, I'd probably forget to eat or sleep. Okay - a bit of an overstatement, but my husband says I don't know how to relax so that gives you some idea of my schedule. My calendar goes out several months and each day has its list. It's the only way I can keep track of when to write blogs, when to post ads, pay bills, call my mother, balance the budget, etc.

Some scheduled fun in an AZ ghost town.

The weekend has its own list. This is a tablet on the kitchen table of all the things I hope we can get done as a team on the weekend. Hubby isn't impressed. But I even list such activities as go to a movie or take a hike too! Shouldn't that satisfy him? Yes, I even list fun stuff or I might forget to have fun.

Hubby found my chocolate stash.

When it comes to my writing, I'm a totally different person. I'm what you call a pantser - no plotting or outlines for me. Structure doesn't work when I'm diving into a book. The story and the characters have free rein on me to go any direction they please. I can't subject my characters to the same rigidity I need to get through my days. They don't make lists or organize their stories - they just go for it. Once, I tried making a list of what would get written each day. But I found writing goals hampered my creativity, disrupted the flow. I know I need to finish my current manuscript by April, and that's as much as I can plan it out.One thing that is consistent when I write is my afternoon chocolate break. I don't even need to write that down to remember!

You can win a copy of Brenda's latest release, Honey On White Bread, at both of these sites:
Goodreads
Coffee Time Romance and More

Brenda and her husband are gypsies at heart having lived in six states and two countries. Recently, they moved to prairie country in Arizona and are enjoying the wide-open spaces while tending fruit trees and veggie gardens. They share their home with their dog, Rusty. When Brenda isn’t at her laptop writing, she enjoys hiking, motorcycle riding and the company of good friends.

Visit Brenda at www.brendawhiteside.com.

Or on FaceBook: www.facebook.com/BrendaWhitesideAuthor

She blogs on the 9^th and 24^th of every month at http://rosesofprose.blogspot.com

She blogs occasionally on her personal blog http://brendawhiteside.blogspot.com/

This Rose is A Genetically Unmodified Clutter Bug! It's Not My Fault!

2012-01-08T00:01:00.071-05:00

Oh, my – this is organisation month? Nobody asked me about that. In fact, when I read that my dear, talented fellow Roses had put up that note about organisation, I almost fell off my office chair laughing. Indeed, I would hav e fallen off if all the stacks of books, paper and clutter around me hadn't kept me upright.

My shelves are cluttered with self-help books about how to live an organised life. My office floor is cluttered with empty plastic boxes that were supposed to organise my clutter if by some chance it should decide to jump into said boxes itself. The rack under the coffee table has lots of magazines with interesting articles about how to declutter. One of my favourites says to take photos of all the articles that mean something to you but you no longer need. Ha! So tell me, Ms. SmartyPants, just where do I store all those photo albums? Huh?

You see, I'm about a million miles away from being a neat freak Actually, I think it's some kind of genetic thing – I simply did not inherit a cleaning gene. Or a directional gene, for that matter. . Oh, I do have my moments – every now and again I catch up on filing and clear out my various spaces – only to be submitted to comments such as: Oh, look – there's actually a floor in the kitchen! Or Did you know there's a desk in your office under all that paper? And similar stuff that my family actually thinks is humorous. It doesn't exactly inspire me to keep up the good work.

I am organised as far as my writing is concerned - I don't miss deadlines because of clutter, and my Novel Planner Notebooks are a joy to behold!

But the rest of my life - that's another story. Of course, there's always someone to blame. My better half leaves tools all over the kitchen and newspapers all over the family room. Yes, he cleans up – eventually. And it's not unusual for one or another of our offspring to drop by with 'a box' of stuff they need to store for a while. For 'box' read several large containers. For 'a while' read 'forever'. Even the cats leave their toys all over the rugs.

See, the mess is always someone else's fault.

The sad thing is that I know life is better and easier without clutter. It's just that sometimes I'm so busy with work and writing and family and cooking and life…well, you know what I mean. I just can't keep up. When we became empty nesters I really had high hopes that the tidy parts of the house – the parts kept for visitors to see – would stay fresh and clean and tidy.

Fat chance.

Speaking of fat, I note that some of the Roses are looking to lose weight this year. Frankly, I can't see why – they're all gorgeous. Still, I admit I could do to lose a pound or twenty. Maybe if I chase around, bending and picking things up, hoisting boxes to the Value Village thrift store, running the vacuum cleaner, all that abs firming polishing and dusting, maybe I could actually make a dent in that, ahem, extra poundage.

Or maybe I'll perch the laptop on the treadmill, using the pain and anguish of that experience to write a bestseller. That's known as killing two birds with one stone. Lose the fat and gain a fabulous advance.

Then I'll hire a cleaner.

Glenys O'Connell is the author of several romance and mystery novels, children's books, award winning plays, and non-fiction works on travel and mental health. And she wonders why she can't keep up with the housework? She shares her large and cluttered home with her long-suffering husband, assorted visiting offspring, several computers, various thirsty houseplants, two exceptionallylazy cats and a variety of dust bunnies.

I can't see over the mess!

2012-01-07T00:30:00.000-05:00

All those resolutions to organize for the New Year are scaryas heck. There’s a reason my life is a mess. This is nothing new. I’m notorganized like all the other bloggers I’ve been reading.

I'm thinking about organizing

You can organize your office so you can lay your hand on anyfile in seconds. Big deal. I can’t, but if there’s one file I’m working withits right on top of the pile on my desk. Where I can find it in seconds.

How about organizing my kitchen? Like that’s going to happenany time soon. Have you seen my cabinets? My husband lives here with me and hisstorage method is totally different than mine. So who wins? I don’t know wherehe puts anything, but I can ask him.

I gave up on my clothes closet and bureau drawers. Thethings I like and wear regularly are on top or in the front. Not color coded orby season or by items. So it takes me a few minutes to find my sweater on anunseasonably cold day. So?

What’s the reason why my life is a mess? I’m focused on onething. I keep my writing in a neat, organized corner where the world doesn’tintrude. All that other stuff isn’t important. My main focus, my obsession isso squeaky neat it can scare people who think I’m a ditz.

This is my traveling office

So keep all your ideas, suggestions, lists, methods, systemsin your organized life.

Do you think I should change?

Here are all the places I can be found:

Author Website: http://barbaraedwards.net

Blog Site: http://barbaraedwardscomments.wordpress.com

Facebook: http://facebook.com/BarbaraEdwards

Ancient Blood http://on.fb.me/naHRY5

Twitter: http://twitter.com/barb_ed

Authors Den: http://authorsden.com/barbaraedwards

Amazon Author Page: https://www.amazon.com/author/barbaraedward

Please drop by to Friend me, Like me, or read an excerpt.

How NOT to Be a Pack-Rat...

2012-01-06T01:00:00.000-05:00

By Amber Leigh Williams

My Husband & I
Christmas 2010

Confession: I’msomewhat of a pack rat. It goes back to my roots. My father never liked tothrow away anything on paper. This summer while going through his attic, wefound stacks of boxes filled with documents and paperwork from years and yearsago. My attic would probably look much the same if I hadn’t married a man whohates the very idea of clutter. His upbringing was the opposite of mine. Evenwith six children, his parents never kept anything unless they absolutely hadto, probably because they moved around quite a bit.

So whathappens when a pack rat marries a bohemian by nature? At first there was patienceand mutual understanding. Then there was friction. And finally, an education. Itaught him the value of saving not only what was important but what was alsosentimental. He taught me that I don’t need to cling to everything I’ve ever touchedin order to survive. Soon I had him filing things alphabetically and he had me throwingaway bags of magazine cut-outs I had been hoarding since eighth grade. And youknow what else I learned? Organization and life in general is easier withoutclutter.

I thought organizationwas a brilliant topic for January because it’s the perfect time to declutter,to start fresh. Another important thing to note here is that I’m messy, and myhusband is a neat-freak. (Can you guess who the early bird vs. the night owl is?)If we can make organization work together, I’m convinced that everyone can. Sohere are a few tricks I use to stay uncluttered and organized….

My Office

#5 – Pick one day out of every month for organizationalone. For me, it’s the fifteenth of every month. Not only do I do a cleansweep of my office and make sure everything in my filing cabinet is compiledneatly and accurately; I also back up the hard drives on both of my computersand do full system virus scans on both machines. If the fifteenth just happensto be a busy day outside of the house, I have a strict rescheduling policy. Mebeing the messy sort that I am, by the fourteenth of every month my office canbe a disaster area. My monthly organizational spree helps to keep the clutterunder control and life with the bohemian even merrier!

#4 – Keep a bulletin board. I tear pages outof newspapers and magazines. I print out a great deal of things I see online. Ihoard them for future ideas and/or inspiration. When all these loose leafpieces of paper accumulate, they amount to 80% of the clutter in my office.Though I haven’t limited myself to the number of things that I do keep, on thefifteenth I attack this mess with an iron fist, filing things with my writingnotes for concrete stories ideas only. The rest goes in the trash or on mybulletin board. The things that make the bulletin board are the items I can getthe most creativity out of. The bulletin board keeps them out of my filingcabinet – where they seem to multiply much more easily – and off my desk. Butthey’re still visible and reassuring.

My Office

#3 – Write down ideas in spiral-bound notebooks.I’m a writer. Paper is my friend. But it can also be my enemy because it addsup. I have one filing cabinet and half of it is for bills, payment confirmations,and other important documents and nothing else. When I first began living withmy husband, he solved my paper dilemma by buying me several notebooks ofvarious sizes. The big ones I kept throughout the house to have close wheneveran idea struck. The little ones I kept in my purse and traveling bag when wewere away from the house. I haven’t quite learned how to make pens appear atwill as my notebooks seem to, but my husband and I no longer have to worryabout thousands of sheets of loose-leaf paper rising up in the middle of thenight and leading a hostile takeover against us.

#2 – Organize computer files, too. I’velearned that when I’m on the computer, even if I’m online, to write story noteson my hard drive. They’re easier to keep track of than rifling through aphysical filing cabinet. And when they’re organized correctly, it makes formuch better plotting and organization within the writing process itself. I havea folder for every manuscript. Inside every folder are all the drafts, notes,and promotional materials needed for that manuscript at one time or another. Ihave other separate digital compartments for story ideas, tax documents, andrandom things like quotes and blog articles. I rely more on my computer filingsystem than my filing cabinet and notebooks on a daily basis.

Sassy watching me organize on the 15th.

#1 – It wasHenry David Thoreau that said once that “Our life is frittered away bydetail... Simplify, simplify, simplify! ... Simplicity of life and elevation ofpurpose.” In all the years since I studied Thoreau, his words havestuck with me, particularly in the seven happy years I’ve spent with myhusband. Even from the beginning, I couldn’t write properly unless there wereno bills and no textbooks in sight. Learning to organize and filter unnecessaryclutter out of my office and home has helped to declutter my creative mind andmade it easier for my muse to speak to me on a regular basis. Though manywriters are rumored to be messy beings just like me, I’m convinced that simplicityis the best medicine for creative woes.

If you’re a writer who thrives in organization andsimplicity as well, I would love to your ideas for decluttering your office,computer, and your creative mind!

Organize Your Kitchen - Organize Your Life!

2012-01-05T00:01:00.000-05:00

When was the last time you organized your kitchen? Probably the last time you moved. If you’ve moved in the past five years, you might be in pretty good shape—unless you’re like most people and just throw everything into cabinets to get the boxes off the floor. Well, it’s a new year and a great time to improve the organization in your kitchen!

Go ahead. Throw open those cabinet doors—yes, all at once—and take a good look at all that…stuff. I’ve moved nine times in the last twenty-eight years, and each time I’ve resolved to winnow out and pare down my stuff. I’ve thrown out or donated quite a bit over the years, but my cabinets are still full of things like the egg poacher I haven’t used in decades and an extensive collection of cheap florist’s vases.

When do I think I’m going to use these things? I keep them only because I have space. I need to remind myself space is a luxury to be enjoyed and preserved. We must resist the compulsion to fill it.
Now, back to your cabinets. Examine every item in your kitchen with a critical eye. If you’ve never made a chocolate soufflé, are you likely to start now? Discard anything you can’t recall the last time you used. Be brutal; you’ll be glad later.

Once you’ve parted with extraneous equipment and knick knacks, it’s time to organize. First, think about function. Most people store dishes in one cabinet and put glasses together on a shelf near the sink. That’s pretty basic. But have you ever considered a baking center? The mother of one of my daughter’s friends gave me this tip years ago. I store mixing bowls, measuring cups, pie plates, cake pans, and the electric mixer in an upper cabinet with the rolling pin, measuring spoons, cookie cutters, etc. in the drawer beneath. When I’m baking, everything I need is in one place next to the refrigerator—even the cupcake liners and colored sugar sprinkles. It’s surprisingly efficient. Think about the other functions in your kitchen and try grouping the equipment you need for each one.

There are wonderful, inventive organization products available commercially, but even if your budget won’t allow new purchases (or you’ve taken my advice and sworn off acquiring more stuff) thoughtful creativity can add many square feet of usable space to any sized kitchen.

Do you have any tried and true kitchen tips you’d like to share?

Alison Hendersonwww.alisonhenderson.com

Mission: Clean

2012-01-04T00:00:00.007-05:00

By Christine DePetrillo

Let me start off by saying that I love to clean. I admit it. Some people have labeled me OCD, Type A, and anal retentive. I’ll confess to being all of those and much more. Maybe it’s a disease. I don’t know. What I do know is that you could eat off my kitchen floor any day of the week and I love that.

What motivates me to clean? Well, first of all, I loathe germs. I know they are lurking all over the place, just waiting to attack me, hoping for a weak spot in my immune system. They aren’t going to win. Oh, no. I slay them with my bleach sword. Mr. Clean (love me a bald dude) is my sidekick and we show no mercy. Maybe I can’t see you, Germ, but I’ll kill you anyway. That’s a promise.

Secondly, clutter is not acceptable. If I go into someone’s house that is what the owner calls “lived in,” you can pretty much guarantee I won’t come back. Not without my cleaning toolbox anyway. It is very possible to “live” without being a total slob. Even animals know not to make a mess of their dens. Sheesh. And don’t even think about offering me food if your house is less than pristine. Not if your countertops have half-eaten, unidentifiable items stuck to it. Shudder. No thanks.

Thirdly, I’m motivated to clean when I have the right music going. When the beats are pumping, I can turn my cleaning ritual into an entire dance routine/cardio workout. It might be club music that I’m shaking my booty to while I scrub the shower stall. Could be I’m slamming around to some alternative rock or heavy metal while creating perfectly parallel lines in the rug with the vacuum. I may also get a little exotic with belly dancing and some Indian music while dusting the bookshelves. I look pretty stupid I’m sure, but I’m crossing cleaning and exercising off my list at the same time. The only thing I love more than cleaning, folks, is crossing things off my To-Do List.

So, you probably think I’m a nutcase, and that’s okay. Maybe I am. But I’m a clean nutcase. Super clean.

If you remember Death to Germs, Say No to Clutter, and Rock Out, Clean Up, your 2012 will be your tidiest year yet!

****

A great way to start the new year is with a release day! Today, ABRA CADAVER, my dark paranormal romance from The Wild Rose Press, is available for download.

Here’s the blurb:

Holly Brimmer never expected to be brought back from the dead. After a fatal car crash, a mysterious stranger gives her a second chance at life—but it comes with a price. To stay alive she must pay it forward, accomplish an important deed, thus making her mark in the world. Until she does, her savior is bound to her. Now she has a backyard full of dead bodies and one unwanted houseguest.

Keane Malson kills bad guys to keep the innocent alive, but he’s still a monster. Cursed by a witch moments before an honorable death on the battlefield, he’s lived thousands of years, roaming from place to place with no end in sight. It’s a lonely life…until he meets Holly.

When a wanted man targets Holly, Keane will do anything to protect her, even if it’s the last thing he ever does.

An excerpt:

Slowly, Keane sat up and ran a hand through his hair. Holly was enchanted by the way the black strands fell back into place. Her fingers literally itched with the need to feel Keane’s hair against her own skin so she stuffed her hands underneath her legs.

Keane slid his legs off the bed and, holding onto the headboard, he stood. Holly edged off the bed as well and prepared to support him. He held out a hand as if to tell her to give him a minute. He took a few steps deeper into the room and turned around.

“Feel better?” Sweet Mary, he looked better. Damn perfect standing at his full height and rubbing his stomach with his hand.

“Much.” He came to stand in front of her. He was close enough for her to wrap her arms around him, but she didn’t. “Don’t let me do that again, okay? I felt human for a few moments drinking that beer, but it’s not worth the pain.”

“Guess you need tighter supervision.” A heat washed over Holly’s cheeks as she glanced up. His eyes were back to the brilliant sky blue, his skin flawlessly pale.

“Yes, Miss Brimmer. That’s exactly what I need.” He grinned, and Holly forgot the rules.

Visit here to download today! Also available at Amazon for your Kindle and at my website.

Happy New Year!

Christine

ORGANIZING...Blog...Blog...Blog....

2012-01-03T00:00:00.000-05:00

by Jerri Hines

Happy New Year! May 2012 hold all yours dreams! I like the sound of 20-12.

So...this blog is supposed to be about organization. I havea confession. I haven't been organized since I had children. My files are keptin such a fashion only I could ever make heads or tails about them. My husbandcalls it Jerri's World. Oh, don't get me wrong. I understand the method to mymadness, but I doubt many others would.

What can I help you with? How about thoughts? Reflecting on2011. I believe it's important to remember the year we have left behind. Somany things happen over the course of a year. Many things we will forget or itgoes into the far reaches of our mind. Little things. It's one of the reasons Ilove writing on my blog. A little history in the making.

Looking back over my blog I remembered...

THE JUDAS KISS

Last January, I signed the contract on The Judas Kiss withWhiskey Creek Press. Also, my middledaughter who plays hockey at her college suffered a major concussion. Today,thankfully she has recovered; still not back fully playing since in April shehad ACL surgery.

In February, I wrote a prayer for my mother who didn'tconsider ebooks real books...

Lord help me, please!I pray I don't need a national best seller. I can live with the fact and acceptit even though I will continue to strive to do so. Just please help my motherto understand that my books are real... I solved that problem. I gave her a kindle forher birthday.

In March, my husband went with his father and brothers downto Red Sox's spring training. My doggies were getting itchy to get outsidemore. In April I went to NEC Romance Writer's Conference. For some unknownreason, I let my daughter spend $200 dollars on tanning for her prom. In May mydaughter went to her prom (she looked beautiful), but went through some scareswith people I love. My husband's aunt, who I lived with before I got married,had a stroke and a friend of mine at work suffered a major infection. Bothalmost died, but thank the Good Lord, lived.

In June, we vacationed in Charleston. I have written about Charleston but had nevervisited. Loved it! More than I imagined. July brought on a new look to theRoses of Prose blog. Laura began the process of enlarging our blog to include14 authors. August brought the first look at the new format. A great decisionon Laura's part.

THE PATH NOW TURNED

September was the for Alzheimer's Walk. Octoberfest WithBooks was next. Books, books, and more books. Then a major decision on mypart...after Ruth Cardello's guest blog on Roses of Prose I decided to take aleap into Indie under my pen name, Carrie James Haynes. Whispers of a Legend,Part One- Shadows of the Past was published in October. Followed by Whispers of a Legend, Part Two- The Path Now Turned at the end of November. December heldour progressive story here on Roses of Prose, A Holiday to Remember.

Reflections. Times that need not to be forgotten. A year inreview. Good and bad. Mostly good. A reminder to be thankful for all that Ihave. A reminder of what was lost also... I lost my doggie, Max, a few weeksago. Fourteen and a half years old, but it broke my heart. So much so, Ihaven't been able to write about him, but in time I will. He was my littlewriting partner.

So looking to 2012 I have so much planned. With the WhiskeyCreek Press, I have The Judas Kiss being released January 15th, the first inthe Tides of Charleston series. The Promise is set to be released in May;followed by Another Night Falls in September.

My Indie venture will see the third installment, Vision ofDestiny. I'm also pulling the first three together for an anthology, Whispersof a Legend, Volume I. I'm also releasing a historical/paranormal romance, Daughter of Deceit, underCarrie James Haynes. On a personal note, my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary iscoming up in July. So much to look forward to this year.

How on earth will I keep up with it all? I'm not certainyet, but I know I'll be blogging about it.

Happy 2012!

A Little Organization Takes the Pain out of Editing By Jannine Gallant

2012-01-02T00:01:00.001-05:00

I’m up to my eyebrows in edits. I got round one back on a full length suspense novel from one editor a week before Christmas and am expecting the same on a historical from a second editor any day now. Bittersweet is scheduled to release in February, which means editing the entire book in one month! Am I a little stressed—take a wild guess. LOL

In going through the track changes on the suspense novel, it occurred to me that a little organization would have made a lot of the edits unnecessary. How many writers don’t have a few bad habits? If you just yelled, “ME! ME!” I’m guessing you’re in rarified company. My editors (I’ve worked with three so far and am about to add a fourth) have pointed out plenty of my little foibles. On my earlier manuscripts, I used lots of dialogue tags. It was gently noted that this is BORING and that action tags are a whole lot more interesting than he/she said. So, being the overcompensater that I am, I set about writing a 90,000 word novel with only a half dozen he/she saids in the entire book. What did I do instead? In the one I’m currently editing, my characters “let out a shuddering sigh.” Okay, there’s a serial killer on the loose, so a few shuddering sighs are warranted. Probably not 58 of them! (I’m guessing at the number but it can’t be far off.)

Here’s where the organization comes in. When you use phrases to describe actions, make a list. Here are few of my favorites.

Shuddering sigh
Brows beetled
Bit her lip
Touched her arm
Blah, blah, blah

I won’t bore you with the rest. Before you hit the send button on your incredibly perfect manuscript, do a word search for your list of phrases and change them up when you discover you’ve used a few on 36 occasions.

My next piece of advice on the organizational front is to make a short character sketch every time you introduce a character. This doesn’t have to be done in advance if you’re a panster, but it will save you time in the long run. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve hunted through a manuscript to see what color eyes I gave a minor character. When you add a new character, it’ll also help you avoid the same letter start. If you already have a Sue and a Sally on your list, you might not want to call the next female character Sarah. Just saying. I tend to get in first letter ruts.

So, in honor of Get Organized Month, I’m determined to spend the extra minute here and there to take a few pertinent notes when I’m writing. I KNOW it will save a lot of time and energy and headaches down the road.

For more information on my current and upcoming releases, check my website at http://www.janninegallant.com/.

HAPPY NEW YEAR - 2012!!

2012-01-01T10:22:00.001-05:00

It's the New Year! I didn't wake up with a headache...did you? Well, in any event, I know many of us, including moi, have setting goals for ourselves. Some are realistic and some are just plain fantasy. Just for fun, I decided to share 12 of my goals (along with the reality of them).

1 Lose 50lbs.

(Seriously, if I lose 10, I’ll be happy)

2 Exercise.

(Yeah, whatever…)

3 Eat healthier

(I really have to!)

4 Write 4 books this year

(I’m not as fast as I used to be, that’s for sure!)

5 Learn to use my Dragon voice-recognition software

(I’m not as fast as I used to be…yada, yada…)

6 Buy a road-worthy vehicle

(I’m sad that my son is moving to upper Michigan and yet I’m happy for him, getting his new job
position as a pastor. Weather permitting, a lot of driving is in my husband and my future.)

7 Move South to avoid another Wisconsin winter

(I say this every year!)

8 Convince my husband to drive me to the ACFW Conference in Dallas so I don’t have to fly
the un-friendly skies.

(Refer to #6)

9 Clean my office, organize, and simplify

(I say this every other month!)

10 Sell some of my stuff on Craig’s List or Ebay.

(Refer back to #9)

11 Hire a cleaning lady

(Refer back to #9 and #10)

12 Earn a million dollars on my books so I can accomplish goals

#1 thru #11

(Stop laughing!)

OK, so now that I've shared my resolutions with you, tell me about your New Year’s goals.

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Thirty

2011-12-31T00:01:00.017-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Thirty – Georgia on my Mind

by Jannine Gallant

A mirrored silver ball lowered to the countdown on the TV in the corner of the room. Five, four, three, two, one… Happy New Year!

Mitch deepened the kiss, and Candy clung to him, breathless. Finally he released her, and she gasped for air. Longing for this man sizzled through her.

“We could have gone out. Could have joined the masses in Times Square,” he said, pointing at the TV. “It is our first official holiday together.”

She leaned against him and let out a sigh. “I’m pretty happy right where I am. I don’t need pizzazz and hoopla, Mitch. Some of the happiest moments of my life were spent in a cabin tucked away in the woods.”

Stroking the hair back from her brow, his hand paused. “Uh, about that cabin…” He cleared his throat. “I realize your life is here in Manhattan.”

Candy scooted around to face him and took both his hands in hers. “Yes, it is. My company is important to me. But it doesn’t have to be my whole life.” She pressed their twined fingers against her breast. “There’s room in here for more.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

A smile curved her lips. “Did you think I was going to make you give up everything for me?”

“Now that you mention it…”

She punched his arm. “Funny man. Feeling pretty cocky since I’ve said yes?”

He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Just relieved.” He rolled his eyes. “You have no idea how relieved.”

“Oh, I think I do. I was so certain I’d blown it for good with you. I let hurt get in the way of our happiness.”

“I was a bigger idiot not to trust you.” He grinned. “Just ask Jeb. He’ll tell you.”

“Jeb is a wise man. He knew all along we’d work it out.” She grinned. “I’m actually looking forward to hearing I told you so and getting a big, sloppy dog kiss from Major.”

“Until then…”

He bent his head and kissed her, his mouth claiming hers, stoking the fire inside her. When they broke apart, she let out a shuddering breath.

He pressed his forehead against hers. “It’s after midnight. Time for bed?”

She nodded. “It’s a new year. What better way to start it.”

“I can’t think of one.” Mitch lifted her into his arms and settled her across his lap, his hand sliding beneath her shirt. “A time for fresh beginnings.”

She quivered as his fingers trailed across her ribcage and traced the underside of her breast. “New Year’s resolutions?”

“I have two. The first is to make you happy. Always. The second is to stop hiding from my past. I need to build a life for myself here with you.”

Candy looked into his beautiful blue eyes and saw the glint of determination in them. “At Crawford Industries?”

He shook his head. “I want to go forward, not back.”

“The Wright Way is always looking for new talent.” She smiled. “I can vouch for your creativity.”

He ran his finger along her jaw. “I do want to get involved with your work, but I was thinking more along the lines of your charitable causes.”

Warmth flowed through her. “Really?”

“Yeah. I’d like to give something back. I think it’s about time.”

She framed his face in her hands. “I do love you.”

He rose to his feet with her in his arms, his eyes alight with teasing. “I’m going to let you show me how much.”

She scattered kisses across his face as he headed toward the back of the apartment. “Big of you.”

“Isn’t it?” He hugged her tight, his hand curving to her bottom.

“About your cabin,” she said on a breathless gasp.

He pushed open the bedroom door. “It’ll be our refuge, our place to go when we want to be alone together.”

As she slid down the length of his body until her toes touched the carpet, she looked into his eyes and smiled. “Then we definitely haven’t seen the last of Georgia.”

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Twenty-Nine

2011-12-30T00:01:00.015-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Twenty-Nine – It's Always Been You

by Claire Ashgrove

As Mitch folded Candy into his embrace, a glimmer of gold in the warm light caught his attention. He squinted at the curio cabinet he’d given Marie. Back then, he’d been afraid his father would find out and dish out another serving of disapproval. Now, he hated that he’d been afraid, and later unable, to tell the woman who’d been more of a mother than his own what she meant to him.

He eased Candy out of his arms and rose to his feet. Crossing to the cabinet, he stuffed a hand in his pocket, glad he’d given in to the impulsive urge to bring the angel Candy had made so long ago with him. In case he seriously needed to grovel. In case she clung to doubts about the place she’d always held in his heart.

He opened the cabinet and gently plucked out the angel he’d given Marie. “I miss her, you know,” he murmured.

“No. I don’t know.” Though her voice lacked censure, her honesty stung.

Mitch pulled in a deep breath. “My father never told me about her death, you know. I hate that I never got to say goodbye. I hate that I wasn’t there for her…for you.”

He turned to find her watching him. A flicker of pain passed over her face before she attempted a smile. It trembled at the corners of her mouth. “I survived… I understand—”

With a shake of his head, he turned to stand in front of her and fished the angel out of his pocket. Keeping his fingers closed around it, he levered himself to both knees in front of her. “No, it’s not okay. Hold out your hand.”

Puzzlement creased her brow, but she extended her hand palm up, fingers open.

“I brought this with me in case you made me beg. If you’d spent just a little more time in my office, you’d have seen it sitting right next to the fax machine. There to remind me of you, what you gave to me, the peace you brought.” He uncurled his fingers and gently pressed the angel into her palm. “It’s always been you, Candy. Will you add this to the collection? Can we make it ours?”

A soft gasp escaped her lips as he pulled his hand away and revealed the childhood trinket. Her eyes lifted to his, tears giving them a bright sheen. Mitch’s heart rolled over, the enormity of feeling swelling behind his ribs making it difficult to speak. God, if he didn’t watch himself, he’d end up in tears too.

He blinked anyway, just to make sure. A chuckle slipped free. “I don’t have anything with me to do this the right way. I figured I’d be lucky if you heard me out.” He laid his palm over hers, trapping the memento between them. “You’re my angel, and I want to build a life with you. Say yes, Candy?” Holding onto her gaze, he willed her to understand the pain, the regret…all the fulfillment she alone could give him.

As tears trickled down her cheeks, Candy nodded, and the vise around Mitch’s lungs let go. He hauled her onto the floor in front of him, wrapping her tight in his embrace, barely making out her whispered, “yes” before claiming her in a hungry kiss.

He’d missed her. Ached for her. Now that she was in his arms, the past no longer a mountain between them, he was certain in a thousand lifetimes he’d never get enough of her sweet flavor. Not even forever could satisfy his need.

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Twenty-Eight

2011-12-29T00:01:00.016-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Twenty-Eight – Forgiveness

by Jerri Hines

Doubts flooded Candy. Could she forgive him? Survivor’s guilt. In one short phrase, Mitch had explained everything. Not in words, but his eyes spoke of the world of pain he concealed for not dying in the Tower. With his confession came an understanding of the demons he’d fought all these years. The fact that he sat next to her now meant he’d come to confront those demons. To face her. To grovel.

She stared at him, didn’t dare blink for fear he’d disappear. For a brief moment she considered flinging herself into his arms and accepting his apology. Then the hurt flared to life once more along with the wall she’d let slip. He would leave. If there was one thing she’d learned from her past, it was that men left when the next obstacle emerged. And this time it just might kill her.

“Mitch, I can’t.” The knot in her stomach tightened. “I hate that you came all this way, but it just won’t work.”

“Why not?” he asked, edging closer.

“Because...it just won’t. Okay. This love thing...I suck at it.”

A smile flickered over his lips. “That makes two of us. Maybe it didn’t work in the past because it wasn’t right. It’s right now. I couldn’t stand it in Georgia without you. You shouldn’t mess with something that feels this good.”

She’d always taken pride in knowing the right thing to say, the right move to make. Sitting so close to Mitch, she hadn’t a clue how to defend her emotions against him—and realized she didn’t want to. The memory of their time together burned within her. Maybe it was time to take a risk.

“What are you saying?”

“I want you, Candy. I have since the moment you stopped for gas in the middle of a freak snow storm. Fate threw us together. We don’t need to rationalize our relationship. Maybe we should just let ourselves feel.”

He kissed her sweetly, drawing her tight against his chest. “I’m not going to let you go.”

She ached to believe him. Her heart pounded painfully as fear gripped her.

“You say that now.” Her voice broke. “But if I do this…and it doesn’t work…”

“Trust me, Candy,” he said simply. “I can’t promise you the road before us won’t have bumps. That’s life. But I can promise we’ll face them together. Honey, I didn’t run from you. I came back to New York because I can’t live without you.”

He hadn’t left. She had. Speechless, she stared at him. He wasn’t fighting fair. She’d never expected him to break down her defensives so easily.

He didn’t give her time to answer. Cupping her face between his hands, he touched his mouth to hers, wiping out any lingering doubts. His strong embrace and the press of his lips against hers mesmerized her.

He pulled back and caressed her face with his thumbs. “I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I’ve never wanted something so badly. I want you, Candy. I need you. You gave me the courage to come back to New York. I never thought I would. Never realized I needed to return to start living again instead of just existing. But I can’t live without you.”

When he kissed her, love filled her to bursting. She’d spent years protecting herself, but the wall around her heart was only an illusion. She wanted desperately to be loved...to be loved by this man.

Candy gazed up at him. She pressed the palms of her hands against his solid chest but couldn’t say the words.

“Tell me there’s something special between us. Tell me I’m not imagining it. Tell me you love me as much as I love you.”

Her fears melted away and elation rose inside her. He loved her.

“I love you, too, Mitch.”

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Twenty-Seven

2011-12-28T00:01:00.016-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Twenty-Seven – Prepare to Grovel

by Jannine Gallant

Mitch paid the cab driver and stepped out onto the slushy street. A cold wind blew down the back of his neck, and he shivered in his denim jacket. After ten years in Georgia, he’d forgotten how damn cold New York winters were.

Not nearly as cold as I’ll be if Candy refuses to listen.

Taking a breath, he pushed random buttons for the secure building, lighting up the board. Every button but Candy’s. He wanted to look into her eyes when he spoke to her, not beg for forgiveness through an intercom. Finally the door buzzed, and he pushed it open.

His heart pounded in his chest as he climbed the stairs carrying his overnight bag, too keyed up to wait for the elevator. His feet echoed hollowly in the stairwell. Exiting on her floor, he stood in front of the door and raised his fist.

Then lowered it.

Closing his eyes, he leaned against the wall. “Get it together, moron,” he muttered. If she tells me to drop dead… He shuddered.

Rapping softly on the door, he waited with his heart in his throat. The door cracked open, chain attached, and one wary hazel eye regarded him. It widened before Candy shut the door in his face.

All his blood drained straight to his feet, and he swayed. God, I’m not going to get a chance to explain. If only she’d listen…

Raising his fist to launch a fresh attack, the door swung wide. He caught himself on the jam to avoid toppling inside. Embarrassment surged as he took a step back.

Candy wore pink flannel pajamas, and her hair was hauled back in a sloppy ponytail. Face devoid of make-up, her eyes were red-rimmed and a little puffy. Had she been crying? His heart expanded. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.

Mitch swallowed. “Hi.”

One brow shot up. “Hi, that’s all you have to say?”

“No, but I’d rather not say it in the hall.”

She stepped back and gestured him inside. “I was thinking about—Major.”

Leaving his bag in the foyer, he followed her across an acre of off-white carpet and sank into a butter-soft leather couch. Close enough to touch her if he stretched out a hand… He clenched his fingers together in his lap.

“Major missed you. I missed you. Candy…” He cleared his throat.

“I missed you, too.” Her voice cracked a little. “But nothing’s changed. You lied to me about—everything.”

He let out a shuddering breath, shifted closer, and picked up her hand. Smoothing the back of it with his thumb, it took all his willpower not to grab her and kiss her. “I’m ready to explain about that.”

“I’m listening.”

He saw a flicker of hope in the clear hazel depths of her eyes, and smiled. “Jeb suggested groveling.”

Her lips curved in response. “Jeb is a wise man. If you don’t start talking, I’m going to head back to Georgia and marry him.”

Leaning against the couch cushions, he held her gaze. “I’m not sure where to begin.”

Her grip tightened on his. “How about with why you changed your name and moved to the middle of nowhere. If I can understand your reasons, maybe I can forgive you for not telling me the truth.” Her nails dug into his palm. “Maybe.”

He reminded himself this was Candy, the woman he loved. Suddenly, telling her everything didn’t seem like an impossible task. The tightness in his chest eased as he opened his mouth.

“Ten years ago, Crawford Industries was located in the North Tower of the World Trade Center.” He heard her indrawn breath but didn’t pause. “On that day in September when everything changed, I was late to work, home nursing a hangover.” He squeezed his eyes closed, then forced them open. “I lived. Friends and co-workers didn’t. They call it survivor’s guilt.”

“Oh, God, Mitch. I’m so sorry.” She bent her head and kissed their tightly clasped hands, her lips whisper soft. “I can’t imagine what you must have felt.”

“I was worthless for months afterward, and my father…” He hesitated and stared at the floor. “He told me to be a man and move on.” Raising his head, he met her concerned gaze full on. “So, I did. I left New York and Crawford Industries and moved to Georgia. Michael Crawford III died with everyone else in the towers. I became Mitch Johnson, a man whose skin I could live in, a man I could respect.”

“There was nothing wrong with Michael. Nothing at all.” She grasped his arms and gave them a shake. “You were the better man for caring. I’m sorry your father couldn’t see that.”

He sighed. “You’re right, but I couldn’t stay in New York. I had to get away.”

She drew her finger down the seam in the cushion, avoiding his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were? Didn’t you trust me to understand?”

Mitch swallowed. He had to tell her the truth, even if she walked away. There’d been too many lies between them.

Pulling her close, their thighs touched, sending a shot of desire straight to his groin. When she didn’t shove him away, he slipped his arm around her waist. Her head dropped onto his shoulder, fitting perfectly in the hollow of his neck.

“Honestly, I didn’t trust you at first. You were a city girl with attitude.” When she stiffened, he held on tight. “But that changed as I got to know you again. The Candy I cared about all those years ago emerged and won my heart.”

“You had plenty of chances to confess, Mitch.” There was an edge to her voice that sent a quiver through him.

“I tried more than once, but the words stuck in my throat. My past isn’t something I talk about to many people.”

“So I’m the same as everyone else?”

“No, of course you’re not.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “I’m making it worse, when all I want…”

She spoke softly. “Tell me what you want, Mitch.”

“I want you, Candy. No one else. Just you.”

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Twenty-Six

2011-12-27T00:01:00.015-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Twenty-Six – Memory of an Angel

by Vonnie Davis

Candy tossed her keys on the table in her foyer and struggled out of her boots. The snow in Manhattan, blackened by soot and car exhaust, was no longer pretty. No doubt what snow remained back in Georgia was still pristine with less traffic and pollution to soil it. She hung her coat and scarf and stepped into her professionally decorated living room.

She gazed around the room, off-white carpet, ivory walls, white leather furniture and chrome and glass tables. Colorless. Flopping onto a club chair, depression pressed on her chest. One word described her life sans Mitch and Major. Colorless. She swiped at a falling tear. A major crying jag was brewing; she could feel the burning behind her eyes and the constriction in her chest. Deal with it. You’re the one who walked out.

Five minutes later she stepped out of her bedroom in an old pair of flannel pajamas and padded into the kitchen to open a can of tomato soup for dinner. Cheddar slices and rye bread to make grilled cheese joined the accumulation on the counter. Given the mood she was in, the quart of Chocolate Fudge Brownie ice cream in her freezer would be dessert. Comfort food, and boy did she need comfort.

Standing at the stove stirring the soup, she wondered what Mitch was having for dinner. In Georgia, the roads were cleared by now. Businesses were open. Maybe he would go out. Her hand tightened around the wooden spoon. Would he go on a date? Her forehead furrowed. Would his eyes soften when he looked at another woman? Would his kisses be as passionate?

Stop acting like one of those besotted females in a romance novel. Who cares what he does. He lied.

She carried her bowl of soup and sandwich to the table and sat. Did she want to eat? Her appetite was nonexistent since her return. If she was still in Georgia, she could share her sandwich with Major. She sipped a spoonful of soup. That mutt had wormed his way into her heart. She missed his affectionate personality, even his wet canine kisses.

As for his master, she ached for him. Ached in a way she never imagined possible.

Had she allowed pride and fear of loving someone to ruin what might have been an incredible relationship? Mitch had offered to explain, but feelings of betrayal had clouded her judgment. Why the secrecy? Why the lies? Why had he changed his name? So many questions. Too many.

She gathered her dirty dishes and loaded the dishwasher. In an attempt to work off some stress, she wiped down her kitchen cabinets and mopped the floor. On a cleaning tirade, she dusted and vacuumed the rest of her apartment, singing Gonna Wash that Man Right Out of my Hair.

It didn’t work.

Mitch was still in her mind—and her heart.

Okay, so maybe what she needed was time. After all, she’d only been back in Manhattan for a couple of days. While gone, she’d experienced the most amazing time of her life in close quarters with an attractive, charming male. In their isolation, it only made sense they’d be drawn to one another. After a few days ensconced in her established, busy routine, the memories and feelings would fade.

Truth be told, had Mitch been five-foot-five with a receding hairline and a beer belly, she’d no doubt have fallen for Mr. Chubby, under those circumstances. She slapped the heel of her palm to her forehead. Oh, God, I’m delusional.

She’d fallen in love with a man who didn’t exist—Mitch, the tow truck driver. She opened the door to her freezer and peered in at the quart of ice cream.

“If Mom were here, she’d tell me chocolate was the cure-all for a case of the blues.”

Thinking about the hours she’d have to work out to reduce the effects of the ice cream, she closed the door. She’d nuke a bag of popcorn and watch a movie, something lighthearted to counteract the heaviness inside her. Candy rolled her eyes.

“I’ve turned maudlin. Thanks, Mitch…er Michael…for doing this to me.”

She pressed the buttons on the microwave, waiting for the popcorn to do its thing. The man had secrets. Why? Why had he kept his identity hidden?

Minutes later, she carried a bowl of popcorn into the living room and stood in front of the only thing she’d kept of her mother’s. A large curio cabinet filled with her mother’s cherished angel collection. She ate a handful of popcorn while her gaze swept over the many angels. Some were wooden, a few made of glass, many were porcelain, and a couple she’d made, herself, as a little girl. One was made from Popsicle sticks, another from strips of crafting foam.

Her mother had been a thrifty woman of necessity, given her meager earning potential, but these angels had been her one indulgence. Beneath each was a slip of paper written in her mother’s precise handwriting with the date she’d acquired the angel and where.

After her mother’s death, when she’d numbly gone about settling the estate, she’d decided to keep the angels and cabinet. At the time, she thought it odd that her mother had splurged on the cabinet, given her penny-pinching nature. When she’d wrapped each angel in tissue paper, she also tucked in its slip of paper, too raw with grief to read the angel’s history. She’d placed the notations beneath each angel. Tonight, when she needed the comfort of her mom, she’d read them.

She reached for the one made from Popsicle sticks. Made by my darling Candy at day camp. The year and her age were noted in the corner. She trailed a fingertip over her mother’s handwriting, drawing a sense of peace.

She lifted the foam angel and its paper. Made by Michael. Candy made an angel at the same time and gave it to him. So sweet to see how they care for each other. Her hand trembled when she set the foam angel back on its paper.

A long ago memory surfaced; sitting at the table in the kitchen while her mother bustled back and forth, making hors d’oeuvres for the party the Crawfords were hosting that night. Michael, looking very gown up in his suit, walked into the kitchen. When he saw her at the table gluing together pieces of colorful foam, he pulled out a chair and joined her.

“What are you making?”

“Angels,” she whispered.

She’d been too shy to talk. Slowly he brought her out of her shell as he asked her questions about what to do next. After he made this angel, he’d given it to her mother. Enamored with Michael—her first childhood crush—she’d hesitantly offered her angel to him. For weeks, she’d dreamed of his smile as he accepted her impromptu, awkward gift.

Even then we had a connection. If only he’d told me who he was as soon as he figured out our shared past.

She shook her head. So many secrets—and for what reason? Nothing added up, and in her orderly world, things had to make sense.

The next angel she reached for brought a smile to her face. She knew the history of the jade figurine. Her mother’s face always lit up when she talked about it. Her Uncle Tim had bought it while on liberty in Viet Nam back in the ‘sixties and sent it to her mother for her sixteenth birthday. Beneath the angel were the words, Tim’s Vietnamese Angel.

Her hand wrapped around an exquisite, gold trimmed porcelain angel. On its paper was written, Given to me by Michael. He claimed the angel caught his eye because it reminded him of Candy. Tears burned. When she read the note written below it in a different color of ink, she lost it. Michael bought me this curio cabinet with his first paycheck from Crawford Industries. He asked me to keep his present a secret.

Michael had cared for her mother—and for her, too. Why all the secrecy? Didn’t she owe it to her mother to hear his explanation? Didn’t she owe it to herself? She set the angel back on its paper and closed the door to the cabinet.

Wiping tears from her eyes, she reached for the telephone and dialed. Mitch’s phone rang. Was she too late? Would he want to explain after she’d so rudely walked out of his house—out of his life? Her heart pounded in her ears as the phone rang and rang—and rang.

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Twenty-Five

2011-12-26T00:01:00.020-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Twenty Five – One Call Changes Everything

by Laura Breck

Mitch’s phone rang once then silenced. Major opened one eye from his prime spot in front of the fireplace as Mitch picked up his cell. A New York area code. “Huh.” Probably another one of his father’s tricks to get him to answer the phone, dialing from a new number.

Or…

He checked the number again. It could be Candy. He could Google the number…

No. He’d been the one to let her go. If she wanted to contact him—decided she wanted her clothes or something—she would call. He wasn’t going to jump at every wrong number, hoping it was her. Replacing the phone on the table, he picked up his book and went back to reading.

After staring blankly at the paragraph for ten minutes, remembering the last afternoon he’d spent with Candy in his bed, he grabbed the phone. “Damn.” Accessing the last call, he got up and walked toward the back of the house.

In the office, he fired up the computer and plopped down in his ergonomic chair. Why couldn’t he get her out of his head?

He typed in the mystery number and came up with unlisted cell phone. On his phone, he saved the number, just in case whoever it was called again. While he sat at his computer, he checked e-mails, local weather, and sports scores.

Hell, who was he kidding? He only wanted to check one thing. Bringing up a search engine, he typed in Candice Wright.

A lot of results popped up, but none were the Candy he knew. He tried Candice Wright New York. There she was. A screen full of articles on her and her advertising agency, The Wright Way, followed by six more pages. He read a few of them, but they only discussed her business acumen and successful rise to the top of New York’s advertising world. He wanted more, wanted to understand what made Candice Wright Candy.

On page three, a few articles talked about her philanthropic projects. He searched again, adding philanthropy to the hunt. Four pages came up with pictures of Candy in formal gowns standing next to dignitaries and stars.

Her company provided advertising services to charities for kids, and she personally donated a lot of money to a number of causes dealing with children. Homelessness, domestic abuse, literacy. She’d never mentioned this side of her business when she’d been here. Of course, she barely spoke about her company.

He read her mission statement. Even though the objectives focused on the usual, customer service and employee integrity, the last line stood out. To share our talents and treasures in areas that will make a difference in a child’s life.

Mitch sat back and read the sentence again. Was it because of her difficult childhood that she chose to include such a personal goal in her business model? Her way of helping kids in similar situations?

A cold, wet nose nudged his arm. He turned toward Major’s expectant face and wagging tail. “You want to go out?”

The dog whined and stepped back, his tail double-timing, his eyes wide. As Mitch stood, Major ran to the back door, then retraced the path until he opened it.

The night was clear and cool, the stars overhead shone in an inky sky. He and Candy had lain in his bed, looking out the window at the constellations. He’d gotten some wild notions that night. Wanted to keep her in his bed forever. Imagined them building a life together.

Major barked and Mitch whistled him back.

A chill rattled through his body. Could he have kept her? If he’d been able to talk about the demons of the past? Hell, those demons still took a run at him from time to time.

She’d had a lot of pain in her own life. Maybe she would have understood. Maybe he’d underestimated her. She might have been the perfect person to open up to. Instead, he’d shut her out.

He looked at the sky. So cold and lonely. It wasn’t right. This wasn’t what he wanted for his life. Candy. He’d let the best thing that had ever happened to him slip away without a fight. When had he become a coward?

Major ran toward the house, and Mitch opened the door for them to enter the warmth of the kitchen. He walked toward the table where he’d shared intimate meals with her.

He braced both hands on the table and let his head hang down. He’d made a mistake. He’d let her go when everything inside him told him she was the one. He’d lost…everything.

A voice in his mind shouted, No! His head came up as he straightened his backbone. He wouldn’t give up that easily. He could fix this. He could make it right.

Major stood at his bowl of kibble, eyeing Mitch, as if sensing something odd happening.

Mitch pulled his phone and dialed. “Jeb, can you watch Major for a few days?”

“It’s about time, dumbass.” The older man’s quiet laugh eased through the phone. “You book yourself on the next flight to New York, and I’ll drive you to the airport.”

Mitch grinned. “How do you know I’m not going to Allatoona for some fishing?”

Jeb snorted. “You’re a smart man. Slow, but smart. You’re not gonna let Candy get away.”

“I should have stopped her—” Mitch huffed out a breath.

“Don’t waste time pissin’ and moanin’ about what you should’ve done. Just get your ass up north. And Mitch?”

“Uh huh?” This ought to be good.

“Prepare to grovel.”

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Twenty-Four

2011-12-25T00:01:00.003-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Twenty-Four – Men… Who Needs Them

by Barbara Edwards

Candy flipped open another file, but her gaze refused to settle on the page. Silence echoed through her open office door. Down the hall, a single strand of garland sparkled and twisted as air moved from the heat she’d turned up. Someone had left a holiday candle in one of the cubicles, and the scent of spiced apple drifted to her. She pulled her cashmere sweater close and ignored the fact that her favorite lay at the foot of Mitch’s bed. A shiver ran over her skin. Chilled by the slushy city streets, she needed warmth. Mitch’s steaming body came to mind, and she snarled aloud. Those long, slow hours making love were in the past.

Her hand slid across the wide desk, sending the file to the floor. Anger and pain combined in a dangerous cocktail. If he were here, she’d show him pain. Her fist slammed down, and she winced. She didn’t need him. She didn’t need a man, period.

Rising to her feet, Candy rubbed her arms as she paced to the wide windows. Nightfall lent sparkling beauty to the street below. She’d been so proud to occupy the corner office of her own business. Years of hard work and dedication had taken her to the top of the advertising industry. Her mother would have been proud of her accomplishments. She pressed her hand against the cold glass.

What was Mitch doing? Did he regret letting her go?

Why? Why? Why? The why pounded like hammer blows inside her skull, and a tear trickled down her cheek.

Rubbing it away, she straightened her shoulders. Mitch wouldn’t talk to her, wouldn’t explain. And she’d let him get away with that? It wasn’t like her. She spun away from the window.

Her mother’s smile glinted from a candid photo on her desk. The breath caught in her throat. Her mom had loved Michael. Her big heart had welcomed the lonely boy. Though he had only a single neighbor and a big sloppy dog, shedding love like loose hair, Mitch’s life now held more affection than it ever had in his youth. She rubbed away another tear.

Had she judged him too harshly? She’d blamed him for not talking to her, but had she asked the right questions? Pain closed around her heart and squeezed.

Her hand shook as she reached for the phone.

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Twenty-Three

2011-12-24T00:01:00.017-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Twenty-Three – Goodbye to What Might Have Been

by Brenda Whiteside

“Truck should be warm by now.” Jeb stamped his boots, knocking off snow, as he stood just inside the door. “You ready to go, Candy?”

Candy turned from the window where she’d watched Mitch’s neighbor clear the snow from the windshield of his truck. “Yes, I’m ready.”

Jeb pulled a hooded sweatshirt from a hook by the front door. “Put this on.”

“Thanks.” She slipped the fleece around her and smiled at the elderly man. Following him to the truck, her footsteps were heavy, but less from the soggy ground than the sadness weighing her down.

“You sure you wouldn’t like to stop at Mitch’s and get your own coat…or anything else?” He put the truck in reverse and backed out onto the road. “Wouldn’t be any trouble since we’ll pass right by.”

“I’m sure.” Candy didn’t mean to sound as icy as the weather but any reference to Mitch—to Michael—chilled her soul.

She stared out the window into the growing dark, not wanting to watch for Mitch’s place, but drawn to where she’d left her heart. The golden glow from the windows flickered through the trees before the cabin came into view. Tears stung her eyes. She could smell the wood burning in the fireplace, feel his arms around her.

“Mitch might like to ride to the airport with us. Should we stop and ask?”

Candy shook her head and forced herself to look at the road. She shut her eyes, damming the threatening tears. He’d made a fool of her. He’d played her, gained her trust and love, only to smash her feelings without any explanation. She never wanted to see that manipulating, heartless man again.

“You and Mitch—”

“There is no me and Mitch.”

“No? Maybe—”

“His name isn’t Mitch. He’s not who you think he is.” Why the hell should she protect his identity?

“He’s Mitch. He might have another name, another life before this one, but to all of us in Elridge, he’s just Mitch.” Jeb gave her a serious, narrow-eyed glance before turning his attention back on the road.

“You don’t know the real man. His name is Michael Crawford—”

“The third.”

Candy stared at Jeb, dumbfounded. She closed her gaping mouth when Jeb snickered at her.

“I’m probably the only one around here who does know, but that’s Mitch’s business.”

“Why would he hide his identity?”

“I don’t think he’s hiding, exactly.”

“No? Then why are you the only one who knows?”

“Can’t say. We all have secrets, and our reasons are our own.” His voice was quiet, the slushy road sounds nearly blocking out his words.

“Why, Jeb? Why did he change his name and move here?”

“I said I knew his real name, where he came from. Don’t know much more. When and if Mitch ever decides to tell me, I’ll listen. But it really doesn’t matter. He’s one hell of a man, whatever he calls himself.”

“Oh, yeah, one hell of a man.”

They rode in silence for a few miles. The fact that Mitch had told Jeb who he was didn’t mitigate her anger. Michael, not Mitch. But they were one and the same. All those years ago, she’d loved Michael—a childish love but love nonetheless—and he’d hurt her. What she felt for Mitch—the love, anger, hurt—was history repeating itself.

“The first winter Mitch was here, Jenny Martin lost her husband. Mitch went to her house every day, though he didn’t really know her.” He held up his hand when she opened her mouth. “Before you jump to conclusions, Jenny’s a grandma. But he was there, doing all the chores, helping her get the house ready to sell.” Jeb nodded at her as if he’d relayed the news of the week.

“What has that got to do with anything?”

“A man’s actions speak louder than words.”

Candy hugged the fleece around her. Mitch’s actions were loud and clear. He’d concealed the truth. That said it all.

“I was down with a broken leg a while back. Mitch was handy whenever I needed something done.”

“Fine, Jeb. I understand he’s a Good Samaritan.”

“There’s a lot more to the man.”

“Like what? How can you be sure if you don’t know why he’s here? Why he lives under an alias?”

“I could tell when he first moved here, he needed to set something right.”

“What do you mean?” Candy squinted to see his face in the dim light of the truck cab. If he knew something, anything that would absolve Mitch for his deceitful actions, she wanted to know. God, was she still harboring a sliver of hope?

“Sorry, Candy. I don’t know exactly what I mean. It’s just a feeling. But he’s a good man.”

She shook her head and turned away from him.

“When he was with you…happiest I’ve ever seen him.”

“You don’t understand, Jeb. You can’t know…” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

The good neighbor took the hint, and they rode in silence the remaining miles.

Candy dozed; pleasant dreams of Mitch’s kisses laced her slumber. She jerked awake when Jeb turned a sharp corner and pulled into a parking space at the Atlanta airport.

The engine noise died, and Jeb opened his door. “I’ll walk you in.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“My orders were to make sure you were delivered safely.”

“Your orders?”

His only response was a smile.

Tears came from nowhere. “Well, consider your task accomplished.” She swiped the tears away with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “Oh, jeez, sorry.” She dabbed at the wet spot with her hand. “Look, let’s just say goodbye here. There’s no need to walk me in. You’ve been so very kind and helpful. Can I pay you for the gas?”

“You most certainly cannot.”

“Then I’ll give you back your hoodie and—”

“No, no.” He shut his door and waved a hand in the air. “You keep it. You can return it when you come back.”

“Jeb, I’m not—”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

She leaned across the cab and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Goodbye, Jeb.”

“Until next time.”

There was no use arguing with him. She hopped out onto the asphalt of the cold parking garage, pulled the hoodie tighter, and walked to the elevator. As the doors closed, she waved goodbye to Jeb. Goodbye to what might have been.

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Twenty-Two

2011-12-23T00:01:00.015-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Twenty-Two – A Lonely Future

by Laura Breck

Mitch stood with one foot on the ground and one on the bottom step, hanging on to Major’s collar. The disloyal dog wanted to go after Candy. Hell, he wanted to go after her, but something held him dangling between advance and retreat.

No one knew his inner pain. Other than the therapist he saw ten years ago, no one understood why he’d run away to Georgia.

Candy disappeared around a bend in the path. Gone. He looked down at Major, who stared at him with censure in his gaze. “In the house, boy.” Major walked inside, his head held low.

Mitch stared down the path. He wasn’t ready to spill his weaknesses all over the kitchen table for Candy to see. For Candy to judge. The way his father had judged ten years ago.

The fear that Candy would respond the same way held him back. It wasn’t the girl he’d known years ago, or the woman he’d gotten to know the last few days. It was the Candy he’d met at the gas station that made him leery. The hard-driving, demanding city girl who’d looked him up and down and jumped to categorize him.

It was too late, anyway. She was gone now, or would be as soon as…

“Shit.” He tugged his phone out of his pocket and dialed Jeb.

His neighbor answered on the second ring. “Brother, what's happening over in Romanceville?”

“Candy left me. She’s on her way to your place.”

Silence. “She’s dumping you for me?” His voice held a chuckle.

“She wants to get away from me. Do you have time to drive her to Atlanta?”

“You’re serious.” Jeb huffed out a long sigh. “All I’ve got is time. But I’d rather hand you my truck keys and let you drive her.”

If Mitch couldn’t talk to her in his own home, there was no way he’d be able to break loose in Jeb’s truck. “Just make sure you get her there safe, okay?”

“Yeah, she’ll be safe.” He paused. “When I get back, if you need a drink…”

“Thanks. I owe you one.” He clicked the off button. No amount of alcohol would wash away this mess. His lungs wouldn’t fill. As if something inside him was missing.

A rare nocturnal cardinal landed on a bare tree branch where Mitch had hung a feeder full of sunflower seeds. The yard light spotlighted the bright spot of color against the dull landscape. Kind of like Candy… No. Not going to make up metaphors about her.

He turned and walked into the house, the smell of the simmering stew hitting him in the stomach. It wasn’t hunger. It tasted like guilt. He covered the pot and turned off the stove.

In his stocking feet, he padded into the bedroom and found Major lying with his head on Candy's sweater. “That’s not yours. Off,” he chided, and the dog raised his head.

Mitch picked up the piece of fluff and fought the urge to press it to his nostrils and suck in her scent. It probably smelled like dog anyway. Should he wash it and dry it before he shipped it back to her with the rest of her stuff?

No, this had to be expensive and dry-clean only. He knew of a half-dozen drycleaners, but all of them were in New York City. Different lives. Folding the sweater carefully, he shook his head. Different worlds.

He opened her suitcase. It sat on top of his dresser, serving as a reminder of the certainty that this relationship was over. He’d been counting on a few more days, though.

Setting her sweater in the suitcase, his fingers brushed a silky scrap of panty. He jerked his hand back. She’d been so soft, so passionate in his arms. Adventurous one hour and slowly seductive the next. The perfect lover.

Mitch rubbed the heels of his hands over his closed eyes, needing to erase those memories. He’d never hold her again. Never carry her to his bed and press himself along her satiny length. Never kiss her, or taste her sweetness.

Fisting his hands, he punched them toward the ceiling and dropped his head back, letting out an animal howl of pain. Major jumped onto the bed, barking and circling.

He picked up a pair of her jeans, rolled them into a ball, and threw it into the suitcase. “I’m so damned messed up…” Picking up her robe, he threw it into the suitcase. “I let her go…” He hurled her boots in on top of her clothes. “The most amazing woman…” Mitch picked up her bra, then dropped it.

He collapsed on the bed, and Major instantly lay next to him, his head on his chest, his canine eyes full of worry. Petting his best friend with soothing strokes, Mitch murmured, “The one I let get away.”

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Twenty-One

2011-12-22T00:01:00.012-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Twenty-One – No Strings Attached

by Claire Ashgrove

“Wait.”

The single word stopped Candy at the door. Her fingers grazed the brass knob. Wisdom ordered her to turn the cold metal and ignore Mitch’s nearly inaudible directive. Her naïve heart, that so desperately wanted him to have a justification she could forgive, instructed her to turn around. She pivoted slowly, pinning him with a mistrustful stare. “Wait?”

He nodded and stood taller. His throat worked visibly as he swallowed, and then the façade cracked and his stare dropped to Major. “You set the rules. This was no strings attached.”

His voice was quiet, but it lashed like the crack of a whip, flaying her already wounded heart into bits. She’d been so foolish. So absolutely stupid to think that Michael Crawford III might have developed feelings for the maid’s daughter. He’d known all along who she was. If he’d cared, if he’d come half as close to love as she had, he’d have spit everything out days ago.

Candy steeled her resolve. This man had hurt her once before. She’d be damned if she'd let him know he could wound the woman who’d moved beyond her subservient social status. He and his family didn’t deserve that kind of power. “You’re right, I set the rules. Now I’m holding to them and leaving.”

She yanked open the door and grabbed her purse. Chill winter wind rushed through the plush fabric of her sweater.

“Candy.”

Heavy boot steps followed her quick retreat down the stairs, crunching what remained of the slush and ice on the pave stones. Candy quickened her steps, her focus on the path leading into the woods.

“Candy! Your coat, your things! You can’t just walk out in the middle of winter. Come back and we can talk about this.”

Like hell. Gritting her teeth, she refused to acknowledge the cold and lifted her voice over the brisk breeze. “Burn them. I don’t want to see them again.”

No reminders of Mitch—her favorite cashmere sweater might be in a heap at the foot of his bed, but she could buy another. Keeping memories of him hanging in her closet would make it impossible to erase their connection from her mind. And she would erase him. One way or another.

Taking a deep breath, she ignored Major’s muffled bark and stumbled down the four-wheeler’s path. Jeb could give her a ride. To the airport, to town where she could catch a cab, all the way to Manhattan if necessary. It didn’t matter where he took her, so long as it was far from Mitch—no Michael’s—rustic home.

What in the world was he doing all the way down here anyway?

It didn’t matter. She no longer cared.

As she blinked back tears, she summoned the old, familiar walls around her heart and turned the bend, trudging deeper into the forest. Above the tall pines, a slender plume of smoke wove through the branches, marking the path back to the life she could depend on. The life where everyone remained at a safe distance and no one trespassed across the rock-hard boundaries she set.

So what if that meant Christmas, New Year’s, and all the rest of the holidays would be spent alone? So what if that meant she’d have to go out and buy her own damn dog?

So what if she never knew why Michael had ignored her mother’s death?

She didn’t really need to know. Like before, he’d said everything with his silence.

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Twenty

2011-12-21T00:01:00.011-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Twenty – It's Cold Outside

by Barbara Edwards

Mitch’s heart pounded at the sight of Candy seated at the table, her head in her hands. The rich smell of homemade stew filled the air. Guilt tightened his throat. She’d cooked supper for him. She couldn’t be holding a grudge, could she?

He quietly closed the door behind the dog. He had to tell her how his feelings had changed.

He groaned when Major laid his head in Candy’s lap. She ignored him, while she rubbed his dog’s silky ears.

Mitch knew how those fingers felt, and his skin burned at the memory.

“Candy?”

“What do you want, Mitch? To talk? You’re not the only one who needed time to think.” A sigh trembled from her lips.

She finally looked at him, and he wished she hadn’t. Her reddened eyes revealed she’d been crying.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. His cold fingers fumbled with the zipper of his jacket.

“For what? Not telling me who you are? Pretending to be interested in my past?” Her hazel eyes sparked with anger. “For making love to me like you really cared?”

Mitch held his hands up to stop the barrage of words. They found their target, anyway, ripping pieces from his heart. When he opened his mouth, nothing came out but a low groan.

Candy jerked to her feet.

Major scrambled to avoid being stepped on as she advanced until her face was inches from his. The varied colors of her hazel eyes glittered up at him. “Are you going to explain?”

His jaw worked as he tried to force out all the things he’d kept locked inside for ten years. All the horror and heartbreak. “I can’t,” he said, defeated.

She gave him a look cold enough to frost the Georgia Dome in August. “Then I’m out of here.”

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Nineteen

2011-12-20T00:01:00.020-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Nineteen – The Moment of Truth

by Laura Breck

His hand, scratching his bare chest, froze as Candy spat out his real name like she'd bitten into a rotten peach.

Ah, shit. How had he let it come to this? For days he'd been searching for a way to tell her, struggling for the right words.

Candy dropped the paper she'd been holding in front of his face, and it fluttered to the floor.

Mitch watched it settle and then raised his head to meet her gaze. Wet with tears, her beautiful hazel eyes glistened. His breath faltered. He opened his mouth, but words failed him. What the hell could he say? What could fix this?

Major nosed his way past him into the room. After sniffing at the paper, he yawned and stretched his front legs out in a yoga position, then dropped his butt and lay on the floor watching them.

“Oooooh!” Her face pinched and turned bright red. “I could just…” When her gaze lowered to his bandaged arm, she dropped her raised fist and let out a heartbreaking sigh.

Major whined, the sound skittering along Mitch’s nerves.

“If hitting me would make you feel better…” He held his arms out to the side. “By all means, do it.”

When she blinked, tears ran down her cheeks. She shook her head, and her bottom lip quivered.

“I hate to see you hurting like this.” He lowered his arms.

“Really?” She snapped. “You're concerned about me? You're the one who orchestrated this whole—”

“Nothing was orchestrated.” He lifted a hand, and she jumped back. As if she was afraid of being struck. Or worse, touched by something nasty. “When I realized who you were…”

“You asked me a dozen questions.” She jabbed a finger toward him. “Questions you knew the answers to. And I went on and on, telling you all about my life.” She closed her eyes for a second, then looked past his shoulder. “You must have had a damn good laugh."

“Of course not. I just didn't know how to—”

“Was this a game to you?” she cried. “Did the rich boy have fun seducing the maid’s daughter?”

“No. Goddamn it, Candy…” He had to make this right. Mitch scrubbed a hand down his face. “I wanted to tell you. After we made love the first time, I wanted to tell you.”

“Why didn't you?”

The misery in her eyes clawed at his gut. Everything he said was wrong. He had to get away, just for a little while. He had to have time to think before he screwed this up completely.

“C’mon, Major.”

The dog jumped up.

Without looking at her, he said, “I'm going to take a walk. When I come back, we’ll talk this out.”

She didn't speak.

He waited.

She stared at him as if he were just this side of full-crazy.

Hell, maybe he was crazy. All he knew was, he didn't want to say any more until he cleared his head. He turned and went to the bedroom, dressed, and walked through the kitchen to the back door. Major followed, not his usual exuberant doggy self, as if sensing the tension in the air.

Mitch let the dog out and paused to listen. Silence. Where was she? God, he hoped she wasn't crying.

He headed into the woods as the sun dipped low between the trees. The ground sucked at his boots as the melting snow turned the forest floor into mud. He walked toward Jeb's cabin and considered knocking on his neighbor's door and burying his troubles in a bottle of whiskey, but that was a coward’s way out.

“I may be an idiot, but I’m not a coward.”

Major looked up at him from where he dug snow around a tree.

“Yeah, me,” he told his dog as he turned and headed back toward his own house.

Major barked twice and bounced alongside him as if in full agreement.

When he stepped into the yard, he drew up short. The fresh air and exercise had helped, but he still needed a plan.

He ducked into the garage and turned on the light over the workbench. Picking up a hammer, he whacked at a loose nail. Then dug out another one and pounded it into a piece of scrap lumber. Then another. Pretty soon, he’d wasted a half a box of nails.

“Shit.” Facing Candy would be one of the most difficult things he’d done in his life. No matter how hard, he’d tell her the truth. He hadn’t revealed his identity because she was only looking for a quick fling. Then she’d leave. How many times had she told him that? He hadn’t thought they’d grow this close. Never imagined she’d stick around.

He looked out the window toward the house. The kitchen glowed golden with light. Warm and inviting. His heart beat double time, and a bubble of emotion tried to break free of his throat. “Candy.” Damn, he was glad she’d stuck around.

He’d tell her how much she meant to him—no—how much she’d always meant to him. How those adolescent feelings had matured in the last few days. A love that took twenty years to—

Whoa! Love?

The hammer fell from his fingers, clattering on the cement floor. Panic gripped him. Where the hell had that come from?

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Eighteen

2011-12-19T00:01:00.024-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Eighteen – Revelations

by Amber Leigh Williams

Candy had promised herself she’d leave as soon as the power was back on and Mitch was his healthy, hearty self again, but she lingered. Her rental car was being repaired. After hours spent on the phone with his insurance company, Mitch’s tow truck had been hauled away. The snow was melting. Yet it became increasingly difficult for her to pack up what she’d pulled out of her suitcase, the pieces of clothing mingling with his in piles on the floor, usually where she’d discarded them at the onset of sex. Once Mitch got his stamina back, they went several rounds throughout the house.

If she were honest with herself—and the longer she spent with Mitch, the more she was forced to confront her feelings—it wasn’t the lovemaking that kept her around. It was the unity that had grown out of their relationship. Despite the short time they’d spent together, being with him felt natural. Even the time engaged in their prickly brand of banter.

No, it wasn’t just sexual. And if she were really being honest with herself, it never had been. She’d fallen for him. After all her resolutions and reservations and years of being alone, Candy Wright had found love in the unlikeliest place imaginable. With the unlikeliest man.

Still, reality had to intrude at some point. She had a home and a career hundreds of miles away.

Turning toward him, she studied his face in the afternoon light shining through the undraped windowpane across the bedroom. He’d crashed hard after their latest tussle. Their lovemaking had been tender, slow, drawn out with such care it had shattered her heart. She feathered her hand lightly over his stubbled cheek, and a soft smile touched her lips when he sighed in his sleep.

Though she’d thought of little else all morning, she hadn’t known how to broach the subject of her return to New York. Usually, she didn’t have a problem putting an end to a relationship. And though this would only be a temporary end—she hoped—she didn’t want to wipe the soft look from his eyes. The look she’d basked under since their return from the clinic.

How she was going to live without that look… She didn’t want to think about it.

Unable to settle down, she rose as quietly as she could from the bed and stepped carefully over Major on her way out. Candy wrapped a white silk robe around her waist, glad she’d had the foresight to pack it for the trip south. She thought about going into the kitchen for some hot chocolate but decided against it when she found herself at the door to his office.

The first steps had to be taken. Preparation. As she stepped around the jamb and cracked the door behind her, she hoped Mitch would continue sleeping without her beside him.

Ignoring the pang of guilt at planning the initial stages of her return without his knowledge, she sat down in front of the spiffy-looking desktop and hit the button to engage the monitor. First up, she would see if there were any more flight delays out of the Atlanta airport. With the inclement weather moving northwest, air travel was getting back to relative normalcy in the south.

Releasing a heavy breath, she scanned the flights from Atlanta to New York. Which one? Several flew out that evening. She wouldn’t even consider leaving so soon. Biting her lip, she read the list for tomorrow.

The screen blurred. She blinked, surprised at the tears in her eyes and the ache in her chest.

She wasn’t ready to take this finite step.... Not without talking to Mitch first. She would be up front with him, no matter his reaction. Then she would book a flight and give them plenty of time to say their goodbyes.

Candy cleared her throat, swiped the tears from her cheeks, and opened her email inbox. There were several messages from clients with projects slated for completion after the holidays. She couldn’t ignore them forever.

As she reached up to turn off the monitor, the fax machine to her right whirred to life. She jumped and knocked her elbow against the desk.

A single sheet of paper spat from the printer, overshot the paper tray, and fluttered to the floor.

Reaching down to retrieve it, the letterhead caught her eye.

Crawford

The name pierced her memory. So did the corporate logo beneath it. Her eyes flew over the words underneath the heading….

Michael:

I’ve been trying to reach you for days. Do they no longer have phone service wherever it is you have chosen to bury yourself these past few years? Your mother is requesting your presence here at home on New Year’s Day. I’ve told her not to get her hopes up as you never answer any of our summonses for the holidays or any other occasion and that you have distanced yourself irreversibly from this family. However, if you could be so kind as to drop her a line, I’m sure she would be most grateful.

Your father,

Michael Crawford Jr.

She stared at the signature, her heart pounding against her breastbone. After several long minutes, she crumpled the paper in her hand.

Crawford. How had she not seen it? Mitch had been lying to her the whole time. Mitch Johnson was Michael Crawford III, her childhood friend. He’d made her explain to him who her mother was, where she’d worked, the demise of what little family she had…. And he hadn’t said a word. Not It’s me, Michael or I’m sorry. Nothing.

“Candy?”

She whirled toward the doorway. By God, she shook with wrath, trembling and chilled to the bone. “I know who you are.”

His eyes narrowed. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

She held up the fax and waved it in front of his face. “I know who you are, Michael Crawford III!”

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Seventeen

2011-12-18T00:01:00.014-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Seventeen – Knight in Denim Overalls

by Jannine Gallant

Snuggling against Mitch, Candy rested her cheek on the flannel covering his chest and listened to his heartbeat. Faster than normal. A result of the fever or something else?

“What were you dreaming about?”

His body stiffened, and his breath rushed out, stirring the hair at her temple. “Something that happened a long time ago.”

She turned in his arms to look up at his face. His eyes squeezed closed, lines of pain etched deep.

“I’m listening if you want to talk about it.”

When he met her gaze, she stared into the soul of a deeply wounded man.

“I can’t, Candy. It’s not that I don’t trust you…” His throat worked convulsively as he swallowed. “I just can’t.”

She pulled away a fraction of an inch. His words stung. “All right.” Staring at the ceiling, she bit her lip, then blurted, “Do you have a girlfriend, fiancée, significant other, someone I should know about?”

“No.” His voice rose. “Of course not. I wouldn’t have slept with you if I was involved with anyone.”

Relief surged through her like a torrent, little bubbles of happiness bursting in her chest. “You said…I thought…never mind. It doesn’t matter.”

“Not a very flattering picture you have of me. What kind of jerk do you take me for?” He picked at the covers.

She covered his hand with hers. His skin was hot to the touch. Jerking upright, she touched his brow. Definitely warmer than she liked.

“Mitch, you’re scaring me a little. I think you need to see a doctor. Now.”

His eyes widened. “Seriously?”

She nodded.

“Jeb, my neighbor, was an army medic. If you really think—”

“I do.” She slipped out from under his arm and stood beside the bed. “If anything bad happens to you because—” She broke off and worried her lip between her teeth. “Let’s just say I’m not going to risk losing someone else I…care about.”

Reaching out, he snagged her arm. His fingers burned around her wrist. A smile curved his lips, and the ghost of devilish amusement danced in his fever bright eyes.

“I like the sound of that.”

“Save it for later.” She backed up a step, then rushed forward and dropped a kiss on his lips. Her heart contracted when he slid his fingers through her hair. “Mitch…”

“I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.”

“Definitely, but let’s make sure of it.”

****

The damned ATV wouldn’t start. So maybe she was doing something wrong. Who knew how to run one of these things? Not an ex-country girl turned confirmed concrete junkie. Giving the machine a kick with her borrowed boot, pain shot up her leg. Candy gritted her teeth and forced back tears.

By the time she reached the little cabin tucked into the woods, she couldn’t feel her feet. Rapping frozen knuckles against the solid wood portal, she stomped hard on the porch until a burning sensation assured her they were still attached.

The door flew open. A tall, lanky man with a gray buzz cut glared down at her. “What’s all the ruckus out here?”

“S-s-s-s-sorry. I got snow in my boots on the way over and—”

“Good Lord, come inside.” Reaching out a long arm, he pulled her over the threshold. “Aren’t you the girl Mitch was with yesterday?”

Candy nodded. Her cheeks burned in the sudden blast of heat. Flames leapt behind the glass window of a woodstove. “I’m Candy Wright.” She pulled off a knitted mitten and stuck out red fingers.

“Jeb Nobell.” He released her hand. “You’re half frozen.”

“More like three-quarters.” She sniffed and wiped her running nose on the sleeve of Mitch’s jacket. “But right now, I’m more concerned with your neighbor. He cut himself on a chainsaw yesterday, and he’s running a fever.”

Frown lines bisected his weathered face. “Did you take him to the clinic?”

“I couldn’t.” She tucked her numb fingers into the jacket sleeves. “A tree flattened his truck the first night of the storm, and my rental car is stranded beside the road with a bent axel. I did the best I could…” The sympathy in his deep brown eyes was her undoing. Sniffing again, she dashed tears from her cheeks.

“I’m sure your best is mighty fine.” He gave her arm a squeeze. “Let me get my first aid kit, and we’ll go check him out.”

Feeling as if a two-ton elephant had been lifted from her shoulders, Candy watched her knight in denim overalls lope up the stairs.

****

Standing in Mitch's driveway next to Jeb's powerful four-wheel-drive truck, Candy stretched onto her toes and pecked his leathery cheek. “How can I ever thank you?”

“No reason to. Mitch is a friend, and I look out for my friends.” He smiled at her, his chocolate brown eyes twinkling. “I like you, Candy. You made the best of a bad situation and didn’t panic. If you ever need anything, all you have to do is ask.”

Warmth filled her, thawing the last of the chill she’d been feeling since setting out that morning. “I appreciate it. Appreciate everything. Even if I’d had a working vehicle, I’d never have been able to negotiate the road to the clinic. Thank God they got the downed tree cleared away.”

“Yup, almost back to normal. Power’s on. Another day of sunshine, and the road will be in tolerable shape. Mitch, too.” He chuckled. “I mean, a day or two of those antibiotics should work wonders. Just make sure he takes them all.”

“I will. Thanks, Jeb.”

He nodded, sketched a salute, and climbed into his truck.

Candy walked back to the house, closed the door, and leaned against it, relief settling in. Mitch was going to be fine. The visions of gangrene she’d harbored disappeared with the melting snow. And she had clothes. Real clothes. They’d stop at her disabled car on the way home. The thought of wearing something other than baggy sweats and flannel sent a shiver of anticipation skittering down her spine.

“If that smile gets any wider, you’re going to pull a muscle.”

Her gaze snapped to the hallway. Mitch lounged against the wall, watching her. Major sat beside him.

“I was thinking about my favorite sweater. It’s shouting my name from its prison inside my suitcase.”

He cocked his head and frowned. “Are you sure? I thought it was the lace teddy.”

A giggle burst through her lips. “You must be feeling better. Still, I think you should go sit down.”

“Only if you come with me.”

The way his gaze strayed down the length of her body nearly convinced her. Heat flared. For crying out loud, the man isn’t even touching you. Get a grip! She took a breath. “As soon as I change.”

“If it’s into that lacy teddy, you have my blessing.”

She crossed the room and stopped inches away. The dog whined, and she reached down absently to scratch his ears. “You’re in no condition for teddies, lace or otherwise.”

Mitch tugged her against him. “Wanna bet?”

Wrapping her arms loosely around his neck, she smiled. “No.” Leaning in, she kissed him lightly. “I’m just so thankful you’re going to be okay. I was worried. Really worried.”

“Does that mean you care, just a little?”

She rolled her eyes at his wheedling tone. “Maybe a little, smarty.”

“Then sit with me on the couch. I’m sure we can think of something to do that won’t tax my strength.”

“Just as soon as I change. Promise.”

His gaze caressed her face. The look in his eyes… She let out a shuddering breath, afraid to put a name to it.

“I’ll be right back.”

“I’m holding you to it.”

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Sixteen

2011-12-17T00:01:00.015-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Sixteen – Past Remembered

by Jerri Hines

Candy stared at Mitch. What could she say? He hadn’t done anything. She had no rational explanation for becoming so very, very angry. Except he’d crept into her heart when she wasn’t looking and broken it a little. She’d learned long ago never to become emotionally involved. To bad she’d forgotten the lesson.

“Sorry. I’m just tired. Poor thing, having no one but a city girl to look after you.”

“I wouldn’t want anyone else,” he said in a slow drawl. “No one else but you.”

He sounded sincere… “Let’s see if you feel the same way after I bandage your arm again.”

He snorted. “Give it your best shot.”

Not immune to his sense of humor, Candy laughed. After cleaning up the mess she’d made, she looked down at him. His eyes were closed. Hopefully his temperature had dropped. She hadn’t a clue what she would do if it got worse.

An ache started in her chest. She missed her mom. Her mother would have known exactly what to do. Candy pressed her fingers to her temples. She could hear her mother now.

“Sometimes, Candy, you need to let go. You can’t be in control all the time. Take a risk. Don’t hold love in contempt because it didn’t work for me. It doesn’t always end badly, the way your father and I did.”

Candy hadn’t argued, hadn’t wanted to disappoint her mother, but she couldn’t open herself up to the pain she’d felt when her father left and never came back. She’d been so young. Still, she remembered that lost feeling.

She hadn’t let a man get close enough to hurt her, was determined never to be dependent upon another living soul. This situation with Mitch was nothing more than a timely reminder.

Her glance strayed to the window. The sun was a glimmer on the horizon. It had been a long night. She turned back to Mitch. Sound asleep. Reaching over, she gently felt his forehead. Cooler, she hoped. Relief surged through her along with an unfamiliar feeling.

Major nudged closer. Turning she patted the top of the dog’s head, “Yeah, boy. He’ll be okay. I’ll make sure of it.”

****

Dreams disturbed Mitch’s sleep. Dreams he thought he’d left behind. Voices called to him. Voices from the past. The past he wanted nothing more than to forget…

He was in his apartment in New York. The phone was ringing. Someone pick up the damn phone.

Lifting his pounding head off the pillow, he glanced over at his alarm clock. Oh, shit! He was late…again. Moaning loudly, he made a mental note never to go out for an all-nighter on a Monday again, especially when he had an early morning meeting. His father would kill him when he got back from Tokyo.

He held his head with both hands, trying to make the ringing stop. It didn’t. The phone. Grimacing, he answered it.

“Michael, is that you?”

“Evan. Oh, thank God,” he said. Reprieve waited on the other end of the line. Evan would cover for him.

“Michael, do you know what the hell is happening?”

Something in Evan’s voice sobered him. A fire at work. At the Towers. Impossible. Television. Had to be on television. In a daze, he dragged himself to the living room and flipped on the big screen TV. He froze as images flashed before his eyes.

Smoke flowed out of the North Tower. In front of him the South Tower exploded in flames. He raced to the window of his high-rise apartment, looking out over the skyline of New York. Clear skies, not a cloud to be seen for miles except…smoke. Billowing smoke. Turning back to the TV, he watched in horror. Gray fog choked the streets. People running for their lives. Firemen, policemen running inside. The top of the North Tower engulfed in smoke. Oh God, no! No. No. No. Crawford Industries sat at the top of the North Tower.

Holding the phone to his ear…he never let go.

“Don’t leave me, Bro.”

“I won’t. I’m here.”

Words merged together. Never could he repeat those words, but he couldn’t stop them resonating in every fiber of his being.

I can hardly breathe. The smoke. It’s black. Then a calm silence before Evan spoke again. I left a message for Mom. Told her I was okay. Tell her…tell her…

“I will…Evan…Evan…”

Mitch bolted upright, soaked in sweat. He caught his breath. For a moment he was back in New York. No, this was Georgia. He glanced around to find Candy looking at him. God, she had the most beautiful eyes. He reached for her.

“You didn’t leave.”

“Did you think I would? Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” He nodded, taking a deep breath, and hesitated before asking, “Do you mind if I just hold you right now? Just for a little while.”

She didn’t say a word, just climbed in beside him. He wrapped her in his arms and pulled her close. For the first time in his life, Mitch wanted more than a brief encounter. He wanted Candy.

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Fifteen

2011-12-16T00:01:00.012-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Fifteen – Who the Heck is Marie?

by Vonnie Davis

Candy couldn’t move.

She couldn’t breathe.

A band of searing heat crossed her stomach. Something heavy weighed on her chest, the pressure making it difficult to draw air into her lungs. Was she having a heart attack? What a pair she and Mitch made; a man with a wounded arm, and a woman in coronary arrest. Her eyes opened, and two brown orbs stared back at her. She blinked to bring things into focus.

“Major?”

A canine tongue swept across her lips.

“Pppttthhh.” She spat away his slobber. “Get off my chest, you mangy bag of bones.” The room was cold. No doubt the fire was out. What time was it? She tried to roll over to reach the flashlight on the nightstand.

Mitch moaned at her movement. His arm banded around her waist, his very warm arm. No, warm wasn’t a strong enough word. Burning would be more like it. She turned and placed her palm against his face and neck. The man was running a fever.

She rolled out of bed, trying to organize her thoughts. Holding the flashlight so its beam illuminated her watch, she saw it was nearly five in the morning. She hadn’t planned to sleep all night with Mitch, but snuggling up to him felt so good that sleep quickly followed.

She let the dog out, noting the snow had finally stopped falling. After stirring embers to life in the fireplace, she built the fire up and loaded it with wood. When Major scratched, she let him in. Next, she went looking for a thermometer. Major padded along behind her.

“Okay, show me where your master keeps the thermometer. Is he organized enough to put it in the bathroom?”

The dog whined.

“Most men aren’t big on organization, but Mitch has surprised me on more than one occasion.” In the bathroom, she opened the medicine cabinet above the vanity and aimed the flashlight beam over its contents. “Aspirin, Tylenol, Pepto-Bismol…” She moved items around to see behind them. Her hand stilled. “Sultamicillin.” She glanced down at Major. “Hmm…take one tablet every eight hours. Wonder what this was for?” She opened the bottle and glanced in. Six tablets left. “Evidently your owner doesn’t believe in taking his medicine until it’s gone like the doctor tells you to do.” Men and their Superman Syndromes. “Ah. Thermometer.” She snatched it from the shelf, grabbed a clean washcloth, and headed to the kitchen for a bowl of water. Hands full, she walked into Mitch’s bedroom.

He was thrashing around in the bed as if battling some unseen foe. “Marie…Marie…”

Candy stopped and watched him. Marie? They’d talked about her mother, but why would he call her name? Unless he wasn’t…unless he has a girlfriend named Marie. He moaned, a long drawn out sound that set her teeth on edge. Her eyes narrowed. Exactly what was he dreaming about?

Pain and disappointment swept through her, and she pressed a hand to her chest. They hadn’t talked about significant others. Why should they? Neither wanted a relationship. What they had was strictly temporary. Snowstorm sex? Blizzard passion? She cringed.

Just my luck to tumble into bed with a guy who’s involved with someone else and doesn’t have the decency to tell me.

Thank goodness the storm had stopped. As soon as the roads were opened, she was out of there.

“Marie…Candy…”

Her brows pinched together, and she sat on the edge of the bed. “Mitch. Mitch, wake up.” She jostled him as he moaned her name.

“It’s me. Stop dreaming about another woman and wake up.” When she got no response, she dipped the washcloth into the cool water, squeezed it slightly, and laid the dripping rag on his face.

Mitch gasped. His eyes popped open. “What the hell?” His hand grabbed hers, his gaze searching. “What…what’s going on?”

“You’re running a fever.” She depressed the button on the thermometer. “Here, put this under your tongue.” He dutifully opened his mouth, his eyebrows furrowed. “And if you don’t keep it there, I’ll gladly shove it elsewhere.”

His eyes widened for a second. “My-mar-mu-missed?”

“What?”

He yanked the thermometer out. “Why are you pissed? I’m sick here.”

The man had a girlfriend. For all she knew he was engaged. Marie, indeed. Murder came to mind. Dismemberment at the very least. “Put that back in your mouth so I can see how high your temperature is.” No doubt if she stuck the thermometer under his pants, the tip would blow right off.

She wanted to be the only woman he dreamed about.

Crazy. Pathetic, falling for a man I don’t know at all.

She opened the bottle of aspirin and tapped out a couple. “What were the antibiotics for? The bottle in your medicine cabinet?”

“Ne-Mo-Na.”

“Huh?”

He rolled his eyes and removed the thermometer. “Pneumonia.” He stuck the thermometer back under his tongue.

The thermometer beeped, and she checked it. “One-hundred and one point two. Not life threatening, but I’d guess you have an infection. Here, take these.” Candy laid the pills in his hand and handed him a glass of water.

“What are they?”

“Aspirin for your fever. Maybe the old antibiotics would help…” She bit her lip. “But without checking with a doctor first…”

“Better not risk it.” Mitch dropped the pills in his mouth and drank the water. “Thanks. Feel like crap. Arm hurts like a son of a bitch.”

She removed the bandage and shined the light beam from the flashlight over the stitches. The cut was red and looked sore. “I’m going for rubbing alcohol. Be right back.”

Pouring the alcohol over his wound a few minutes later, she took perverse delight in his reaction.

“Hells bells, that hurts.”

“I bet.” She leaned over him, resisting the urge to coil her fingers around his throat.

“Jesus, Candy, what’s gotten into you?”

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Fourteen

2011-12-15T00:01:00.016-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Fourteen – Scrambled Eggs and Sympathy

by Alison Henderson

“I guess they are,” Mitch muttered. Like his father. The old man hadn’t bothered to tell him when Marie died. Mitch had been away at college by then, but he would have come to the funeral. He would have written. He would have…something. “I’m sorry about your mother.” It was too little, too late, but all he could offer now. He’d save his confession for another time—or maybe never.

Candy tilted her head and gave him an appraising look. “Thanks. How are you feeling?”

He flexed his arm gingerly. “Sore.”

“I bet. I’ll get you some aspirin in a minute. How’s your stomach? Have you recovered enough to eat? We missed lunch, you know.”

Was that a subtle reminder of their fight that morning? He glanced up and met the glittering challenge in her hazel eyes. Memories of the argument brought back memories of the hours of passionate lovemaking that preceded it. She was still angry, but she’d done everything she could to take care of him. Maybe he was getting under her skin the way she was getting under his.

“I could eat.” He leaned forward and started to rise, but she pushed him back with a firm hand on his shoulder.

“Oh, no, you don’t. You stay right where you are. I have no intention of wrestling with your unconscious body again.”

A grin tilted his lips at the corners. “I’m much more fun when I’m conscious.” He reached for her but winced when pain shot through his injured arm.

A look of concern crossed her face. “I told you not to move.” She rose from the couch. “I might not be as good a cook as my mother was, but I scramble a mean egg.”

“I’ll take three.”

She arched a brow. “You’ll take what I give you and like it.”

He snapped a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am.”

Candy crossed the room to the front window and peered out. “The snow’s coming down hard again.”

Mitch twisted on the couch to see. “This is supposed to be the last of it. The forecast says it should stop by morning.”

“How long do you think it will take them to get the power back on and clear the roads?”

Her voice held a wistful note. Or was it his imagination? Better keep things light. That seemed to be the way she wanted it. “Why? Can’t wait to get away from me?”

She turned and smiled. “Well, you are pretty demanding.”

“Come over here and I’ll show you demanding,” he growled.

This time she laughed. “That’s mighty big talk for a one-armed man.”

“Hey, I’m better with one arm than most men are with two.”

Her smile faded. “I’ll fix supper.”

Mitch lay on the couch and listened to Candy bustling around in the kitchen. A couple of times she called out a question about where to find something, but mostly she kept quiet. He wondered what she was thinking.

****

After locating the matches, Candy lit the camp stove. It was a far cry from her compact, state-of-the-art kitchen in New York, but she managed to whip up a fluffy batch of scrambled eggs that would make Rachel Ray jealous. She even threw in some grated parmesan cheese she found in the fridge. She hoped the eggs would make up for the sorry state of the toast. She’d had to dangle the bread over the open flame of the stove, and the result wasn’t pretty.

“Here you go.” She handed Mitch a plate and fork and sat in a chair across from him with her food.

“Thanks.” He stabbed his fork into the mound of eggs like a healthy man who hadn’t eaten in way too long. She guessed he was feeling better.

Glancing at the gauze bandage on his arm, Candy swallowed hard. She’d almost fainted, too, when she saw the blood-spattered snow and the glazed look in his eyes. Fortunately, the executive in her had taken over. She’d sized up the situation and done what needed to be done. Now that the crisis had passed, she was amazed by her own resourcefulness. The wound wasn’t deep, but it was ugly. Chain saws weren’t exactly surgical instruments.

Mitch had propped his plate on his lap so he didn’t have to use his injured arm. It must hurt like the devil. She wished she had something stronger to give him than aspirin, but she’d scoured his medicine cabinet with no luck.

While she watched him eat, she was struck by a niggling feeling of familiarity deep in her brain. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she felt like she knew him. Really knew him. She shook her head at the fanciful thought and turned her attention to her eggs. Maybe it was the memories dredged up by sharing the story of Michael. Maybe it was her mind trying to justify the fact that she’d fallen, or in this case leapt, into bed with a near-stranger. Maybe it was all those hours spent together in bed, mouth to mouth, skin to skin. That was certainly one way to get to know a man. Whatever the connection, it eluded her.

After they finished eating, she collected the dishes and washed them. When she returned to the living room, she found Mitch fast asleep on the couch with Major at his feet. She should wake him; he would probably sleep better in his own bed. But she hesitated. He looked so peaceful. She studied the hard, masculine angles of his cheekbones and jaw. What was it about him?

She’d decided to leave him where he slept and was adjusting the quilt when a hand shot out and grasped her wrist. She sucked her breath in hard and looked down into a pair of sleepy blue eyes.

“Come with me.”

Her breath released in a huff as she laid a hand against his forehead. It felt warm, maybe a little too warm. “You’re not going anywhere except to bed.”

“Exactly.” He threw off the quilt and struggled to his feet.

Candy grabbed his good elbow. “Hang on. I’ll help you. I imagine the shock from this afternoon has kicked in.”

She steered him to the bedroom and helped him lie down.

“Stay with me,” he said, holding her wrist to prevent her escape.

“That isn’t such a good idea.” Their lovemaking had been amazing. There was no denying it. But the storm would end soon, and their time together with it. She needed to start putting distance between them.

“Stay with me,” he repeated softly.

“You’re hurt.”

“It’s not so bad. I want you with me while I sleep.”

“You’re delirious.”

“Maybe.” He tugged on her arm lightly. “Stay. Please.”

Good sense warred with desire. A smart woman would tuck him in and say goodnight, but she wasn’t feeling exceptionally bright at the moment.

“Okay. But just until you fall asleep.”

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Thirteen

2011-12-14T00:01:00.012-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Thirteen – Rich Jerks

by Christine DePetrillo

Don’t pass out. Do not pass out.

Mitch inhaled and exhaled slowly, trying not to look at the bright red blood marring the white blanket of snow at his feet. He hated the sight of blood, especially his own. His stomach churned, his pulse beat like a heavy metal drum solo in his ears, and his vision grew spotty.

How the hell had he lost control of the chainsaw? This wasn’t his first time using the thing. He’d been cutting his own wood since moving out here with no accidents whatsoever.

You weren’t focused, dumbass.

He tightened his gloved grip on his arm and squeezed his eyes shut as warm blood soaked through to his cold fingers. He’d been thinking of Candy while he sawed into the log. Remembering the soft curves of her naked body, the smell of his soap on her skin, the silkiness of her hair as it wound around his fingers. He’d been so distracted—and aroused—he hadn’t held the chainsaw at the right angle, hadn’t followed the standard procedures in Simple Lumberjacking 101. The blade wedged in the trunk and locked up on him. Before he realized what was happening, the saw kicked back and freed itself. Not expecting the sudden weight of the freed machine, Mitch had lost his footing in the deep, slippery snow. He hadn’t fallen over, but with his fingers still on the trigger, so to speak, the saw blade got him right across the inside of his arm just below the elbow.

He wouldn’t have believed it if he’d watched a video, but there was his blood, staining his torn jacket and shirt, seeping into his glove, and making his stomach flip-flop. He bent over at the waist, willing himself not to puke, not to faint.

Be a man, dammit.

“Oh, my God, Mitch. What happened?” His boots on Candy’s feet came into view as he stayed hunched over, still holding his arm. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and he had a second to think he should respond to her before everything faded to black…

When he opened his eyes, he lay sprawled on the couch in his living room, a fire roaring in the fireplace. Candy hovered over him. Night had fallen, and even in the dim glow of the fire, her face was pale. Beautiful, but pale. Mitch tried to sit up, but instantly his arm burned with a searing pain. He had trouble swallowing as he remembered that saw blade grazing his flesh.

“Are you going to vomit?” Candy pressed a cold cloth to his forehead, and he settled back down against the couch cushions.

“Maybe.” He closed his eyes to keep the ceiling from spinning above him.

“Please don’t. Blood doesn’t bother me, but vomit…no way, buddy. Not going to deal with that. If you puke, you’re on your own.”

“So much for a bedside manner.” He pulled the cloth off his face.

“Hey, you’re lucky I hauled you back in here, cleaned that gash, stitched it, and bandaged it. I charge extra for polite bedside banter.” Having said that, she fussed with a quilt she’d thrown over his lower body.

Mitch looked at his arm, which was neatly wrapped with white gauze. He was wearing a fresh flannel shirt with the arm rolled up above the injury. It must have been quite a job getting him changed.

“How did you know what to do?” He couldn’t picture the grown up, sophisticated Candy successfully tending the wounded.

“I have many layers, Mitch. Many layers. Don’t judge a book by its flashy cover.” She winked at him, and just for a second, he saw the girl he’d known all those years ago. That…spark was still there. That indescribable something that had drawn him into his parents’ kitchen every time she came to help her mother work. And she was right about not judging. Life was a journey, and you never knew where people had been or what they were hiding.

“Well, thanks for coming to my rescue.” He almost spilled his guts right then and there about who he was, but she spoke first.

“Are you going to tell me what happened, or do I need to call in a forensic team to inspect the scene out there?” She gestured to the windows facing the back of the house.

He explained his stupidity, leaving out the part about thinking of her. She didn’t need to know she’d compromised his ability to function. Especially not after her comments earlier today about no entanglements. It was his problem he had let her crawl inside him. His problem that she already meant more to him than was safe. His problem that he’d never completely forgotten her all those years ago. She didn’t want commitments or complications, and truthfully, he didn’t need them either.

“Luckily, due to my expert emergency skills, you’ll live.”

When she smiled, Mitch began rethinking commitments and complications.

She shifted on the sliver of couch where she sat beside him. “You know, you remind me of someone I once knew.”

Every muscle in his body froze. And not because he was cold. The fire and Candy’s close proximity kept him heated. Overheated was more accurate.

“When I was a little girl, I knew this boy named Michael who was afraid of blood.”

She looked deeply into Mitch’s eyes, and he could barely breathe. “I’m not afraid of blood,” he managed to say, though his voice sounded horse.

“Mitch. Please. Save it. I saw you. You dropped like a rock back there. I’ve only seen one other male do that. Michael.” She grinned when she said the name. His name.

“He’d been squirting me with the hose attached to the sink in his parents’ kitchen. Being a real pain in the ass. I defended myself with a giant, silver serving tray. Water spilled onto the floor, and clumsy Michael slipped, knocking his head on the corner of the granite countertop. When he touched his head, and his fingers came away covered in blood, he said my name and boom. Right down to the wet floor like a sack full of watermelons.”

She laughed. “Sorry, I don’t mean to make fun, but when my mom brought him back around, the first thing he’d said was, ‘I don’t want to die, Marie. I don’t want to die.’”

Mitch remembered the incident. He’d needed stitches then, too, and had to be watched for signs of concussion. He remembered Marie’s tender touch, one his own mother never gave him. In fact, his mother had been more upset that he’d bled all over his expensive clothes and her imported tile floor.

After he’d come home from the emergency room, his father sent him up to bed to rest. Mitch knew his tears had made his father uncomfortable, as did any display of real emotion. With a pounding headache, he’d showered, slipped into shorts and a T-shirt, and eased onto his bed.

A soft knock had sounded on his bedroom door. The door opened slowly, and Candy appeared.

“Are you okay, Michael?” she’d asked, her eyes soft and full of concern.

“Yeah.”

She stood at the threshold. He knew she helped Marie clean the house and had been in his room before, but somehow, seeing her there, just a mere step away, moved him in a way he’d never been moved.

He’d lain there, tongue-tied. When her mother called, she gave a quick smile just for him, and scurried away.

Blinking up at her now, Mitch took a breath and opened his mouth to tell her everything.

“You know,” Candy said. “I really want to slap Michael.”

His mouth snapped shut. “Slap him? Why?”

“Once he went to prep school, his father sold the penthouse apartment and fired my mother. Losing that job crushed her. It was the only thing keeping her going. Work was her life, and it was a while before she found another job. When she died a few years later, he didn’t even come to pay his respects, and I sent the Crawfords a note. My mother cared for Michael a lot more than his own mother did. He knew it too.”

Hurt battled anger in her eyes. “Some guys are just rich jerks, I guess.”

A Holiday to Remember Chapter Twelve

2011-12-13T00:01:00.014-05:00

(jump to the first chapter)

Chapter Twelve – Trouble in Paradise

by Laura Breck

Candy flinched at the words Mitch hurled at her. “Never figured you for a user, Candy.” If he hadn’t slammed the bedroom door when he stormed out, she might have responded impetuously, shouted something just as hurtful. Something she would have regretted.

She hadn’t risen to a high position in the corporate world by overreacting emotionally. Her psychology classes taught her to illuminate, evaluate, and communicate. And that's just what she was going to do.

Using every pillow on the bed to prop herself up against the headboard, she took a deep breath.

Mitch hadn’t liked her flippant attitude. And it wasn’t that she didn’t care… If she let herself, she’d care more than was smart—or safe. Together, they’d been spectacular. But they barely knew one another. Hell, they’d spent more time sniping at each other than cooing and sighing.

It had to be loneliness. Out here in the woods, isolated and leading a rustic lifestyle, he’d latched onto her as a respite from his solitary existence.

Her amateur psychoanalysis made perfect sense. She grinned. Now she needed to test it on him and see if she could smooth out the wrinkles in their temporary situation.

After digging through his drawers and closet, she slipped into fresh backwoodsman apparel. Another flannel shirt, this time green, and a pair of black sweats.

Padding barefoot to the bedroom door, she inched it open and listened. Nothing. She headed down the hall to her room but stopped when she spotted him at his computer.

Before she could say a word, he killed the monitor and stood. “Storm’s let up for a while. Another heavy band is coming through in an hour or so.”

Funny, her heart had dropped at the thought of the storm ending, opening the door for her to leave. It rebounded when she heard there would be more snow. Maybe she should analyze her own loneliness issues before diagnosing his.

He brushed past her. “I’m going out to haul in a couple more trees I felled last spring. We may need more firewood than I have split.”

She followed him. “Can I help?”

Stopping abruptly, he turned. “Yeah. Maybe it would be good for us to get out of the house for a while.” His gaze locked with hers and his jaw worked, as if an apology fought to free itself.

She imagined how he felt. He’d snapped out those cutting words in the bedroom without thinking them through first. Just let his emotions drive him. Where did that come from? Her training pointed to the possibility of a deep scar somewhere in his past.

“Let’s get out of here while we can,” she said. “We’ll talk about…things…later. When we're back inside.”

He nodded and looked away. Turning, he put a hand on the side of her neck. “Sorry, Candy. I didn't mean it.”

“I know.” But they still would be having a long chat later. He wasn't getting off that easily.

It took five minutes to outfit her in a voluminous jacket, waterproof pants, hand-knit mittens, hat, and scarf. She could barely make it out the door wearing the four pair of wool socks that made his boots less floppy.

Mitch shoveled a path to the garage and hauled open the door. “Wait here.” He went inside and manually opened the roll-up door.

Light flooded the space as she peered inside. Tools and gadgets and gas-powered lawn implements.

The roar of a motor startled her. Mitch swung his leg over the seat of a four-wheeler. Major barked and jumped excitedly, circling the vehicle as Mitch drove it out of the garage.

“Hop on.” He grinned at her and patted the seat behind him.

She’d never done this before, but it looked like fun. Waddling over, she put her hands on his shoulders and eased a leg over. He helped her place her feet on the back pegs, and with a roar, they were off.

It was beautiful. He'd chosen a perfect plot of land to call home. His property was thick with trees, and for a short way, they followed alongside a river. He wove his way through the forest as she held on with her arms around his waist, her body pressed to his.

When he leaned back and took them speeding down a hill, she giggled, feeling as excited as Major. The dog rushed ahead, stopped to dig and sniff, caught up again, and repeated the process.

Too soon, they stopped at a clearing where a dozen tree trunks lay piled in a pyramid. He turned off the engine.

She got off, her legs tingling from the vibration of the motor.

Mitch hefted a thick chain from the box at the back of the ATV and trudged through a snowdrift to the pile of trees. Wrapping the chain around one, he rolled it off the pile, and then wrapped another length of chain around the second.

He seemed so competent. Never hesitating, just doing what needed to be done. Candy admired that. In her life, every plan had to be checked and double-checked before taking action. She could learn a lot from this man.

After hooking the chain to the four-wheeler, he said, “Keep Major by you. Move back a ways, too.”

She called the dog, and when he came, slid her hand into his collar. “Let’s go see what’s over here.”

The dog walked along beside her without trying to tear her arm off. “Good boy.” Who would have thought she’d become pals with this slobbering beast?

The motor gunned as Mitch eased the vehicle forward, hauling the two logs behind him. He turned off the engine and walked back to check the chains.

“That you, Mitch?” a voice called from behind them.

Major barked and tugged to get free.

“You can let him go,” Mitch said. He held up a hand in greeting as Major ran toward the voice. “Hey.”

Candy hadn't noticed the small, dark house tucked into the woods. On the porch, a tall man stood, wearing bib overalls and sporting a graying military-style haircut.

The man shouted, “Come over for a drink?”

Mitch cupped his hands around his mouth. “Can’t, Jeb. Gotta put up some wood.”

“Next time,” the man answered, petting Major.

Mitch glanced her way. “Let's go.”

“Who was that?” she asked as she climbed on behind him.

“Jeb Nobell, my neighbor.”

As they followed the four-wheeler’s path back to the house, she thought of her neighbors. Not acres away, but separated by sixteen-inch walls. What a different lifestyle he led.

They made slow progress hauling the load. Major caught up to them halfway back.

At the garage, Mitch unhooked the logs, tucked the vehicle away, and came out of the garage with a chainsaw. Major growled as Mitch yanked a cord and brought the tool to life.

“I know, boy. I’m not a fan of those things, either.” Candy brushed the snow off the dog’s head. “Let’s be useful and do some shoveling.”

Major leapt and snapped at every shovelful she tossed until she was laughing so hard she had to lean on the shovel.

The chainsaw droned and whined from the backyard as she shoveled a path from the front door to the flattened tow truck. Was it his? Or did the garage own it? She hadn’t even asked. She took a peek inside what was left of the side window.

From the backyard, the chainsaw squealed and popped, then died abruptly.

Mitch yelled, low and long. “Shit!”

Major’s ears shot up.

Candy straightened, holding her breath.

“Candy. I need help.”

The dog took off at full speed.

Her heart raced as she plowed clumsily through the snow, encumbered by the big boots and loose pants. Panic flashed through her, and her head spun. Dread choked in her throat.

She came around the back of the house and stopped dead.

Mitch held his arm. The snow was speckled with blood.