The Holiday Table by Mackenzie Crowne

© Adobe Stock

For a girl who grew up in a large Irish clan full of loving loudmouths, Thanksgiving Day kicks off a time of family, food, fellowship, and…football, of course. 'Tis the season of goodwill and, for our family, the holiday table has always been ground zero for experiencing the joy of the season. Each year, beginning in mid November, the table expanders were pulled from the closet to accommodate the extra bodies that inevitably joined our gatherings. Stampedes into the living room to secure the best seat for the game followed the hours of overeating, conversation and laughter.

Come to think of it, that describes my memories of pretty much any given fall or winter Sunday when I was a girl.

With eight kids, our table was large even before the expanders were inserted. On normal days, that scared stretch of wood sat ten and there was rarely an open seat. One side didn’t actually have chairs. Instead, there was an oversized, hard wooden bench that stretched the full length of the table. Thank God we were a skinny bunch, since most of the time, those relegated to the bench shared it with four other bottoms.

The fact is, the only thing that distinguished Thanksgiving and Christmas from just about every other weekend at our table was the expanded menu. Christmas meant roast beef, one of Dad’s specialties and a personal favorite of mine, while Mom oversaw Thanksgiving and the dry bird. She made a mean cherry pie but, unfortunately, like me, she wasn’t much of a cook. (Hence the skinny butts)

Many years have passed since our clan gathered around that scarred table, but the raucous and wonderful memories we made there never fade—like the yearly battle over the wishbone, or the year dad choked out a laugh at something my brother said, and spittled dessert over all of us. We have our own tables now in Boston, Orlando, Tampa, Dallas, Denver, and Phoenix. Mom, Dad, and a beloved brother share a table in Heaven these days, and thousands of miles separate the rest of us, but the love and laughter we found at that table draw us back together often.

So, as we enter this joyous season and you and yours gather around your own holiday tables, here is my wish for you. May your Turkey be juicy, your favorite team victorious, and your bottom skinny.

When Mac isn’t gathering for the holidays with family and friends, she spends her time weaving HEAs for her characters, like Gabe and Jane, the hero and heroine of A CASE FOR CALAMITY, a Christmas novella via

The Wild Rose Press.

People Are Like Leaves by Betsy Ashton

People and leaves share much in common. Some hang around your entire life, some only for a season, others for a few days before they blow away on the wind.

I love the evergreens, the pines, the cedars, the firs. While not officially leaves but needles, the greenery stays year after year, decade after decade. The evergreens are with you through good times and bad. They wipe your nose, hold your head, and kiss you no matter what. They are the ones you can call in the middle of the night because ghouls and goblins are warring in your brain. They may be family members. More likely, they are people you've met in your travels and stuck to you like burrs.

Others are seasonal, erupting in new green leaves in the spring, glowing with health in the summer, changing colors and falling in autumn. Some of these are your absolute best friend when you need one and may stay with you until your need passes. Some drift in and out through the seasons, never staying long but always being on the end of a branch if you need them.

Some rare leaves come in only for a few days. They make a huge impact while they are around, but they don't last. You need them, but you don't count on them to appear. You most certainly don't expect them to stay.

We are entering the holiday season, as if we didn't know it. We have enough Christmas ads on TV to kill any interest in shopping. But if we step back and really look at the holiday season, we can see how we fit into our leaf metaphor.

I pick brightly colored leaves in October, add maple seed pods, and gather acorns to fill vases for Thanksgiving decorating. I use evergreens at Christmas, a fir or two every year, decorated to within an inch of their needles. I hang a bay leaf wreath in the dining room, because it smells so terrific, even though it is made of those rare leaves that don't last.

I need all of these leaves. I hope I'm an evergreen person, but I know I've been seasonal and even passing at times. I have been rethinking how I want to use all leaves in my life.

What kind of leaves surround you? And what kind of leaves are you? How many are evergreen, seasonal, or fleeting?

Happy Thanksgiving to all Roses and your families. I'll catch you one more time before the end of the year for a little Ho! Ho! Ho!

The Holiday Season by Diane Burton

It’s official. The holiday season is upon us. Every year, I promise to start my Christmas shopping earlier. Then I get involved in a project—like finishing the darn book—and my promise goes the way of the Dodo bird. I did dog-ear catalogs that came in the mail this year. Found perfect gifts for some family members. Have I ordered them yet? Of course not. <groan>

My mother-in-law shopped all year round. She wrapped the gift in a plastic grocery bag and taped the name of the recipient to the bag so she would remember who she bought it for. When she passed, we found many gifts under her bed or on the shelf in a closet. Some even had dates (several years past) written along with the names. Hubs and I doled out the gifts, saddened that MIL never got to see the enjoyment the recipients expressed.

The PTO at the grandkiddies’ school had two bookfairs this year. I went to both when Daughter was working so she could tell me which books the kids would like and which ones they had, along with suggestions for the little one out in AZ. So I am sort of ahead on the gift purchasing. Sort of being the operative phrase.

As we get older, Hubs and I are at a loss as to get the other. He used to be easy to buy for. Power tools and woodworking machines were always a good bet. But now he has more than he needs. Gift cards to a hardware store sufficed for a while. Now I tell him to buy what he wants. He’ll ask what I want. My usual response is “I don’t know.” Real helpful, huh? Sometimes I’ll see something I like, buy it, and tell him he can give it to me. LOL Hey, it works.

I have more fun watching the kiddies open gifts than opening my own. Their delight fills me with warmth. Tossing gifts of clothing over their shoulders accompanied by rolling eyes makes me think of my favorite movie, The Christmas Story” aka “You’ll shoot your eye out.”

Decorating the house is becoming more of a challenge. The decorations are kept in big tubs in the basement. Carrying those tubs upstairs is too much for Hubs now. So he’ll make several trips over many days carrying the decorations upstairs. Not good. Maybe this weekend we can “borrow” the kiddies to do the running. One thing is a must, no matter how limited the decorations. The ceramic nativity set my mother.

Cards and the Christmas letter. Ever since our first move away from family (1981) Hubs has written a letter chronicling our year. Then he gives it to me to “clean up.” His spelling is, shall we say “original” and he must have slept through grammar classes. Since content outweighs mistakes, I try to keep the flavor of his words. Some in our family tell us they really enjoy our news. Nowadays so many are on Facebook, they already know everything we’ve done. Well, almost everything. LOL Getting a family picture from family and friends is my favorite thing. I love the letters, too, but seeing the little kids I used to know growing into adults is always fascinating. We have a great family picture I’ll be including this year.

As the end of the year approaches, I start making lists of what I want to accomplish the next year. Career-wise, I’ve made the same goal for the past three years: publish two full-length novels plus a novella. For two years, I managed the novels. This year, only the novella. Don’t know why I slowed down. Life, I guess. Lack of focus, maybe? For 2017, I’ll repeat my goal. Maybe this time I’ll get it right. If I don’t, oh well. I have other things to stress over.

Stress. An ugly word. For me, stress came when I tried to do too much. I had to make cookies. I had to buy the perfect gift. I had to clean. I had to decorate. Everything had to be just so. Letting go of those “had to do’s” made me calm and helped me enjoy the season. Now I do what I can and forget the rest. Makes life easier. Why is it that wisdom comes as we grow older?

Each December, we Roses have a tradition. Strictly voluntary, no have-to’s. LOL Our gift to you, our readers, is a collection of serialized short stories. Each story begins with the same first sentence. This year it’s “This was the absolute last time she kissed anyone under the mistletoe.” I am so looking forward to read what each Rose has written. My story will run from December 26 to the 28^th. It picks up where last year’s story ended and was a lot of fun to write.

Come back tomorrow for Margo Hoornstra’s “A Sing-ular Tradition.” I can’t wait.

Thanksgiving at my house by Barbara Edward

Thanksgiving at my house this year.

Most of my family last summer

My husband and I are eating at home. Alone.

As you know, my husband and I have a large family. All our children are married with children of their own. So where are the multiple invitations to various houses? We didn’t get even one this year. 

Don’t get me wrong. I really tried not to be hurt. After all, I knew years ago my daughters-in-law would want to spend holidays with their families and I tried to be understanding. One or the other would say, hey, come over here. We’re having turkey with so-n-so, but there’s room for two more.

I'll admit It made me itch to be the the add-on.

His family? Hey, what can I say? His daughters host his ex-wife and her husband every holiday. And they are uncomfortable with us there. To be honest, I was, too. I gave a sigh of relief we’re not invited, but his feelings are hurt that neither his two sons or two daughters included him.

So we’re planning a festive meal together. Cornish game hens since even a small turkey is too much, brussels sprouts, corn bread, baked potatoes, fresh-made cranberry sauce, cranberry bread, 

We’ll overeat and sleep through the football games.

We’ll take the dog for a walk if its nice. Or snowing.

I’ll Thank God for my family and pray for every good thing to be theirs. I’ll include my husband's family since I do like theI

I’ll exchange smiles with my husband and Thank God that he survived his bladder cancer last winter. 

Happy Thanksgiving to you all.

Take an afternoon and read my Christmas novella to get in the mood.

Dixie’s Gift by Barbara Edwards

Buy Link: https://amzn.com/B017OJGVIY

Ellen Carter deeply grieves for her husband Dan, but at least she still has Dixie, her beloved Malinois. However, soon Dixie leaves her too. But the faithful dog cannot rest easy in heaven while her mistress is unhappy. Dixie pleads with the Archangel Michael to let her send help, and intercedes for Ellen in the only way she can. But will Ellen get the message, and more importantly, will she accept Dixie's gift?

Sexy newcomer Michael Burke can barely take enough time from his successful restaurant for a decent night's sleep, let alone romance. Still, he is intrigued by the beautiful widow and can't resist entering her shop. Sparks fly, and when Ellen has an accident in a snowstorm, he comes to her rescue. Trapped by a blizzard and aided by Dixie's Gift, Ellen and Michael find more than shelter--they find love.

Buy Link: https://amzn.com/B017OJGVIY

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The Valentine's Day Interview

I’ve said before on this blog that I’m the Anti-Valentine Valentine. I don’t really care for the holiday, but other people surely do.

On this Valentine’s Day, I’d like to do a little research on the topic. I’d love for you to post answers to any or all of the questions below in a comment here or over on my author Facebook page HERE. I’m thinking I may use some of the ideas in future books, so you’d be doing me a solid favor if you answered any of the questions. You don’t have to answer in complete sentences, but I am a teacher so… you know… it’s what I’m expecting.  :) 

 

1. Do you like Valentine’s Day?
2. What do you like most about it?
3. What was the best Valentine’s gift you’ve ever received?
4. What was the worst Valentine’s gift you’ve ever received?
5. Describe your idea of a perfect Valentine’s Day?
6. What famous person would you want as a Valentine? Why?
7. What fictional character would you want as a Valentine? Why?
8. Which movie would you consider the best choice to watch on Valentine’s Day?
9. Do you celebrate Valentine’s Day on February 14^th or wait until the closest weekend day to have some fun?
10. What little things do you think people could do to make someone feel loved every day?
11. Chocolate or flowers? Or both? Or neither?
12. Assuming you weren’t already madly in love with your significant other, if you received a Valentine’s invitation/love letter from a secret admirer, what would you do?

I am excited to read your responses! Do you have any questions you would add?

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Toodles,

Chris

www.christinedepetrillo.weebly.com

Books One to Five in The Maple Leaf Series, available now. Book One, More Than Pancakes is
always FREE! 
More Than Peaches, Book Six, coming 2016.

Thanksgiving, End of the Year, and Short Stories

I hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving. With all the recent violence in the world, I was especially reminded to be thankful that my family is safe, that our little corner of the universe was spared the tragedies others are experiencing. The president of my writers’ group (Mid-Michigan RWA) encouraged us to write ten things we’re grateful for this year. This great exercise made me stop the frenzy of getting ready for company and planning a big dinner. Among things like our families, most of us wrote about the friends we’ve made in the writing community. I’m especially grateful for my wonderful online friends, like the Roses who welcomed me into their fold three years ago. Thank you, ladies. I’ve enjoyed getting to know and thank you all for your encouragement and support.

This post marks my last “official” post of the year. (More on that below.) So I’ll wish you all Happy Holidays and Happy New Year. We started out 2015 writing on themes. At first, that seemed to give us direction. But then our posts became almost too similar. I’m so glad we returned to “free range” topics. I’ve been surprised (and pleased) at the topics I’ve written about that elicited a strong response. I’m sure the other Roses have had that experience, too. Sometimes, we inadvertently strike a chord that resonates within the readers. What a great feeling.

Back to the reason this is my last post of the year. Starting tomorrow, the Roses bring a special gift to our readers. Our annual collection of free short stories, Ringing in the Holidays. As in the past, all our stories begin with the same first line: A ringing phone at two in the morning never brought good news. The talented Alison Henderson designed the cover. Isn’t it great?

By luck of the draw, I was given the privilege of kicking off this year’s collection. So come back tomorrow for part one of “The Christmas Jailbirds.”

Diane Burton writes romantic adventure . . . stories that take place on Earth and beyond. She blogs here on the 8th and 30th of each month and on Mondays on her own site: http://dianeburton.blogspot.com/

 

Falling into Winter (fun)

This time of year means an event that I enjoy. It's the All-Town Open House.

My home town is small (5000 people) and Main Street is three blocks long with 3 stop lights. On the Sunday before Thanksgiving, they have the All-Town Open House, where every business is open for the afternoon, there are pony rides on Main Street, troubadours roam the town playing Christmas carols (in Victorian costume), and the movie theater has a triple feature of It's a Wonderful Life, Elf, and A Christmas Carol.

Across the street from the theater is Nature's Corner, a flower store and gift shop where you will find me busily signing books. The owner of the store stocks my books on site (because it's 40 miles to the nearest bookstore) so once a year, I'm in town to sign books, talk to people, hand out promotion, and generally have a good time. Friends of my family come to visit, classmates I haven't seen for a long time, and often it ends with a visit to the local bar where I end up having a drink with family and friends

My rule of thumb is that Christmas season starts on November 25, no matter what day Thanksgiving falls on. I want a month of build-up to the day, and I won't be shorted out of it just because of an overlapping holiday. So the Open House this year fell on exactly the right day. The day after, I was dragging out the Christmas boxes and getting ready to decorate.

I hope everyone has a great holiday season this year, and I hope you all enjoy the stories coming up in December from my talented co-bloggers (I don't write short stories, alas, else I would join them). See you all on New Year's Eve, when I'll be back to report in on my writing endeavors for the year. I'm aiming to finish my third book, and I have 6 chapters to go.

Wish me luck!

J L
jayellwilson.com

The Nations In Me

by Jena Galifany

At this stage of the generations of my family, I am quite a mixture of nationalities. The list goes something like this: German, Irish, Dutch, English, Souix, and two other tribes of Native American. I'm not sure what those other two tribes are but would like to find out someday. I'm sure that the intermingling of the Euroamerican with the Native American was frowned upon.

The next generation, my son, Nick and my daughter Amanda, have all of the above plus their father was 100% Italian, so that is added to their line. My younger daughter, Jen, is Scandinavian and English from her father. At least now, there is not much said against the mixing of nationalities.

The real mix is my granddaughter, Halle, Amanda's daughter. She is as follows: German, Irish, Dutch, English, Souix plus two other tribes of Native American, Italian, with Japanese, Chinese, and Filipino from her father. It's hard to believe there can be so many nationalities in one young girl. We joke that she can have World War 3 all by herself. If she should marry a man of Russian decent, I think her children will have the world pretty much covered.

How mixed up is your family heritage?
 ______________________________

The Native American was treated poorly by settlers and the government. In the late 1800s, it was becoming more and more difficult for the tribes to remain on their own land. In the west, the Paiute tribes in Oregon were struggling against the white man as well as each other. It was a difficult time for them. For a greater understanding of the situation, read more about the Bannon - Paiute War HERE.

It was during this time in history that my novel "Shyanne's Secret" takes place. Here is a taste of the story.

Excerpt:


     Cole wasn't ready to face Rita after the morning he'd had.  He'd spent several minutes at a creek washing the mud out of his hair and off his face, clothes and the horse before he continued home.  None of them had scored a direct hit but had only splattered him.  He made his way toward home, not in the mood for a rematch with Dex.  After he dropped off the kitchen supplies on the porch, he continued into the barn to unload the bags of oats and other working items. Just because his Pa was gone didn't mean he'd let the farm fall to ruin or the animals starve. He moved past the variety of trees around the perimeter of the property and through the barn. He unhitched the gray, led him to his stall and brushed him down. He wanted to be alone, sort out his thoughts while he cleaned stalls.

    By afternoon, as he walked through the cool of the barn, he inventoried the unfinished work that awaited him.  He was hot, tired and frustrated about what he should do with his life.  Should he be the one to leave, or should Rita go back to A.J.? After all, it was his father's property and didn't that make it his now that Pa was dead? If only the grant office would make up its mind. His half-blood status was being weighed over his right to inherit from his white father. Cole hated the idea that he might need Rita to claim the land so he wouldn't lose it. She could sign it over to him, then be on her way elsewhere, if it came down to that.

    He wiped his brow on his shoulder and climbed the ladder to the loft.  He tossed his jacket into a corner that was piled with loose hay. He rolled up his sleeves, and sat on the pallet situated along the wall.  He closed his eyes, and recalled the hot summer days that he'd spent up here, listening to his Pa talk about how he and his friend, Martin Marshall had traveled out to Oregon for the free land the government was giving away.  The two friends had become brothers-in law when they'd married sisters; pretty squaws from a local tribe of Paiutes, when they found out they could get six hundred forty acres, a double portion of land if they had wives.

    Pa told him how he'd come to love that pretty little Indian lady after he convinced her that he'd never sell her. She was terrified the day her daddy sold her to Seth and her sister to Uncle Martin. She thought he'd bought her for a slave.  Seth had trouble convincing her that he'd made her his wife. Seth and Martin both had trouble convincing the community to accept their wives, and more problems when they'd had to convince the town council to allow their sons born a few months apart to be taught in the school with the white children. That only lasted until Cole and Will were twelve. So much for an education, but they got the basics and learned to work the farms instead.

    When Cole's parents were threatened, Uncle Martin got nervous and sent his wife and Will to stay with the tribe for safety. Cole missed his cousin but Seth couldn't do without his help. Cole felt he'd lost half of his spirit. The cousins were close and looked like twins, except that Will, the bolder of the two, was a bit taller and Cole's hair was a shade or two darker. They looked so much alike they delighted in causing minor trouble that the other would be blamed for. Four months after the Jackson murders, Uncle Martin brought his wife home but Will chose to stay on to learn more about his mother's people.

    The gray plow horse in the stall below nickered, reminding Cole where he was. He missed sitting up here listening to his daddy talk. Opening the buttons on his shirt, he pulled out the turquoise stone that hung on a thin leather thong around his neck, a talisman his mother had gifted him with years ago. He held it in his hand when he missed her, and wished he could bring her back.

    He collapsed on his back, one arm across his forehead as he contemplated the picture he'd drawn on the barn wall with a piece of charcoal when he was eight. Pa thought it was so grand he'd burned it into the wood so it would never fade. Cole once more envied the freedom that the wild mustang enjoyed.  In the midst of his thoughts, he remembered a certain smile and the kind blue eyes of Shyanne Bennett.

    He wanted to talk to her, say the things he had never said to any girl before.  He wanted to tell her how beautiful her blue eyes are; how much he'd like to touch her golden hair, how much he wanted to be loved by someone – anyone.  If that someone could be Shyanne Bennett, nothing else would matter.  He closed his eyes, and savored his memories.

_____________________________

BACK COVER BLURB:
    Cole Jackson promised to take care of Shyanne Bennett, to keep her secret. It was a promise he intended to keep—and then her father lynched him. It might take time, but he'll find a way.

      Shyanne Bennett loved Cole Jackson, that sassy half-blood. She lost her mind when he died to keep her secret. Cole promised to take care of her but how can he once Harvey Bennett hung him? Maybe her heart will find solace in becoming the wife of his look-alike cousin, Will Marshall. And then again, maybe the heartache will only begin again.

_____________________________

From my family to yours, I pray you have a safe and special Thanksgiving.

For more about "Shyanne's Secret" click HERE.

Cheers!

Tropical Holiday by Brenda Whiteside Chapter One

 Jump to the first story

Chapter One

She had just one wish for the holidays. Peace. Not the world kind of peace. Inner peace. Yuma needed to forget the divorce from a lifeless marriage, to find herself once again. Wow, did that sound corny. But it was the truth, damn it.

Yuma sat at the back of the tour bus and rested her forehead against the window, breathing the cool outside air seeping in around the window seal, trying to avoid the combined breath wafting from the gabby, fat couple in the seat in front of her. It was obvious they’d recently enjoyed the local specialty, salsa rich with cilantro and onions. A fish in an oxygen-deprived aquarium would have more fresh air. Thick green foliage of trees, bushes, and vines whizzed by.

Her sister, Setty, hadn’t cheered her on when she’d announced her vacation. Well-meaning-still-married Setty told her that a trip to Cancun, Mexico, solo, was crazy, yet she hadn’t tried to talk her out of her one-person holiday. In fact, Yuma thought her sister envied her a bit, taking off by herself. It was romantic. There’s romantic and there’s romance. Yuma had insisted reflection was her goal, not romance. Setty had given her that oh-sure-whatever-you-say smile. It didn’t do any good to argue with her sister who believed all the important things in life like sex, kids, mowed lawns and a well-tuned auto required a man. She didn’t need what Setty needed.

But…if a little romance came her way, a slight distraction from reflection, then that would be fine.

The bus slowed as it traveled along the main street of a small town. Franco, the tour guide, gave a running commentary on village life in a Mexican town. Picking up speed, moments later, they approached the entrance to the Mayan ruins of Tulum.

Yuma looked at the backs of the heads of her fellow tourists. And they came in twos; old couples, young couples, a gay couple, and two elderly English ladies who kept asking the guide personal questions and turning around to smile at Yuma every few miles. The empty seat beside her became a neon sign announcing this woman in her forties is alone. Well, she was just very twenty-first century traveling without a companion.

Although, it would’ve been okay to see someone else sightseeing alone, someone that would perhaps have found her interesting enough to chance a…friendship.

But there was no single, middle-aged, American professor specializing in Mayan history who would ask her to his room after the tour to share a bottle of wine; who would find her irresistible long into the night, and serve her breakfast at dawn.

“You will enjoy the tour, even if Mexico is unreasonably cold.” Franco laughed heartily at his play on words as the bus pulled into the parking lot. Day two in sunny Mexico remained chilly and cloudy, exactly like day one. Guaranteed warmth should’ve accompanied the high price of a holiday vacation.

Hugging her jean jacket to her, Yuma stepped off the bus and into the arms of the two English ladies, one on each side, looping their arms around hers.

“Hello, dearie. We saw you were alone and thought you should chum with us. I’m Maureen.” Maureen looked over rectangle gold-framed glasses perched on a nose not quite in the middle of her face. Bright hazel eyes smiled under fluttering white lashes. The warmth of her bony fingers penetrated the jean jacket covering Yuma’s arm. “This is my baby sister, Helen.”

Helen tugged slightly on her, forcing Yuma to shift her attention to the plumper face of the baby sister. Faded blue eyes stared up while a whiskered upper lip curled in a smile, reminding Yuma of a baby seal in a Disney movie she took her niece to see. Helen patted her arm. “We single birds have to stick together.”

The single birds followed Franco around the grounds of Tulum, learning bits of Mayan history sprinkled with tour guide humor, the best of which amused Yuma and eluded the English sisterhood. They stayed at the front of the group for Helen’s sake, partly deaf in her left ear, according to Maureen, thanks to a bloody kick to the head from a mongrel cousin when she was four.

“Have you been single long?” Baby sister Helen asked when the tour concluded for lunch. “You leave him or did he leave you for a younger woman?”

“Helen! Don’t be so nosey!”

Helen’s seal lips pouted, and her round eyes grew watery. “I was only making conversation, Miss Bossy. You came up with the younger woman scenario anyway.” She took a huge, triumphant bite out of her cheese sandwich.

“Well!” Maureen turned to Yuma. “Sorry, dearie, but…”

“No need.” Yuma waved off the explanation. “I think I wear divorced like a badge. Or maybe a scary mask.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Maureen said. “A sweet, young thing like you? There must be all sorts of opportunity for romance.”

Yuma smiled at the sweet, young thing description. “I don’t really care about romance.”

“Romance is highly overrated.” Helen nodded, mouth full of sandwich, hurt feelings apparently forgotten. “In this day and age you can get more than romance if you aren’t careful.”

Maureen clucked her tongue and gave her sister a scornful look.

Yuma knew the middle-aged redhead in the commercial loan department at work would agree with Helen. She would’ve preferred to bring back a case of pineapples from Hawaii rather than her case of herpes. But Helen needn’t worry. This Mexican vacation, solo style, was not a desperation samba. Yuma needed some time alone, that was all.

Still, it would’ve been okay if yesterday, walking the streets of old Cancun, shopping the Mercado, and eating lunch on the patio of a restaurant under cloudy skies, she’d met someone. But there was no young Don Juan plying her with tequila and seducing her into getting a tattoo on her hip while caressing her cheek and murmuring what a fascinating creature she was.

“No more romance for you, Helen?” Yuma crumpled her napkin and stuffed it into her empty paper cup. The notion of romance finding Helen seemed more remote than the idea that Helen could even know what dangers lurked in a careless flirtatious union.

“Oh, if it were true romance, I wouldn’t walk away from it.” She scrubbed mayonnaise from her whiskers. “I’ve had my share though, dearie. It’s Maureen here that’s always on the lookout for a man, the marrying kind.”

“Helen, really!” Maureen stood and carried her lunch container to the trashcan.

More composed when she returned to the table, she didn’t sit down again. “You’ll have to excuse my sister. She has no sense of propriety.” She looked down over her glasses and gave her sister an obviously long-practiced scowl, a speechless language understood between siblings.

“I think they’re loading the bus.” Yuma stood and tossed her lunch remnants into the trashcan. “Thanks for the company. Enjoy your holiday.” Walking away from the sisters, she was glad Franco had instructed everyone to return to their same seats. Chumming with Helen could be amusing, but Maureen – not so much.

Yuma was the fifth one back in her seat. The gay couple quietly bickered, sitting as far apart as the bus seating would allow. Gabby fat couple clumped together, silently. Mr. had his head back and his eyes closed, rubbing his bulbous abdomen. It wasn’t that she needed someone in her life. She proved that when she walked away from a twenty-year marriage. She certainly didn't need the arguing or the nursemaid duties all men seemed to require. That was unfair. She’d had one marriage, one man. Maybe they didn’t all need nursemaids. Mrs. Gabby Fat Couple opened a package of antacid tablets, took out two, and placed them on Mr.’s extended tongue.

It’s always easier to figure out what you don’t need. The trick is figuring out what you do need. So what did she need in her life?

Maybe all husbands weren’t selfish, unimaginative, reticent and clueless. She was hard pressed to think of any of the men she knew that wasn’t. Leaning her head back, she stared at the ceiling. Maybe Dr. Tanner, her optometrist. Or Carl in accounting. Not knowing them on a personal level she could imagine them to be different from the husbands she actually knew. Could Dr. Tanner look into his wife’s eyes without checking for glaucoma, could he see the soul without seeing the iris?

What did she expect from this trip? Turning her head, she looked out at gray skies and sighed. She expected to get some damn sun in Mexico and lie on the beach in the bright yellow two-piece swimsuit that cost too much. Then again, if some younger-than-she-was hunk happened to notice her and find her attractive, she’d be like Helen and not walk, or swim, away from him. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the window. A little sun, a little adventure, a little…

“Do you mind?” A deep voice asked as he settled into the seat beside her.