A Greyhound Tale

Roughly a month ago, I got a message from my nephew. He told me my sister was becoming more frail and wanted to see me. Could we come to Pennsylvania for her eighty-fifth birthday? Pauline is sixteen years older than I and I can't recall us ever having a cross word between us.

We've led two different lifestyles. She was a fulltime homemaker, who ran the sweeper between the mattress and box springs and canned her own fruit. I worked outside of the home, survived a divorce, and named all my dust bunnies. Even so, we were always affectionate.

Calvin and I thought of ways to reach her. Flying was out. Our local airport only flies south. We could go to Charlotte, North Carolina to Miami, Florida and then north to DC and hitch a commuter plane to Hagerstown, Maryland. We checked out Amtrak. We could easily take it to DC, rent a car, and drive out of the Capitol, heading north. The last time I drove through Washington, DC, we ended up almost in Ocean City, Maryland while I'd aged five years.

"I could drive the whole way," I suggested to Calvin. I thought his shaking head would tumble off his shoulders.


Calvin looked at me as if he'd discovered the solution to world peace. "You know what? I haven't ridden a bus in years. Let's see if we can take a bus up there. I rode it all the time to Hampton University. It's a relaxing way to travel."

I swear my sweet husband's memory has faded. There was nothing relaxing about our trip to Pennsylvania. But getting to see my sister and brother was great.

Left to Right: Me, my brother Ray, and Pauline. I'm the baby.

We had a great little family reunion. Plus, I got to see both of my sons and grandkids. A very pleasant trip. Then we got on the bus to head for home. At the terminal in Baltimore, a new driver got on.

I knew we were in trouble when she'd driven three blocks from the terminal, stopped, and yelled, "Okay, listen up, y'all. This is a new route for me. Is DC north or south of Baltimore?" She reached into a bag of fried chicken setting on her window ledge and pulled out a drumstick. "Which way do I go?"

Someone yelled directions and she aimed the bus toward DC while she chewed on her chicken. "See, I'm from South Carolina, but the company moved me up here to run this route." Honestly, the driver talked faster than the bus drove.

"Okay," she waved her chicken bone over her head. "I'm coming up on DC. Who has a phone with a GPS. Help me find the terminal." We gave her directions which she claimed were wrong. In the meantime, we circled the Washington Monument three times. Zipped the wrong way up a one way street. Horns honking. People yelling.

She flagged a city bus down as leaned out the window. "Hey! Can you tell me where the Greyhound terminal is?" She followed the other bus driver's directions and drove by the station twice while claiming the man was wrong. At one point she aimed the bus toward the White House, hell bent for leather,  while security guards ran toward us, waving their arms. They gave her the same directions that the city bus driver had.

She finally pulled into the back of the station--the wrong way. And when workers yelled and waved, she waved the chicken bone she'd been sucking on at them. "Get the hell out of my way. I've been praying on Jesus to find me the way here! I'm not backing up now."

Heavens, so had we!

Some trips just go haywire. Like Zoey Morningstar's trip to Paris for the birth of her sister's first child. Her daughter's kidnapping and rescue. A murder in the sex district. A bombing in the Metro. Going undercover with a handsome French Counterrorism Agent to find the terrorists who tried to kidnap her daughter. Passion. Her trip was to include none of those things, but like ours it had its own twists and turns. Only much more dangerous and sexy.

 BUY LINKS:  http://a.co/eQhxT9h          

I'm in Back-Up Mode.

~~Vonnie Davis

Yup, I'm in backing up mode or I may have ADD. I can't decide which. And if I tell you, you're only going to shake your head and think my goodness, this woman can't finish anything! But it's how I work. Honest! Although I have to admit, it's never been quite this bad...but there are reasons...really, there are.

I was writing the first book of a new bear shifter series for LoveSwept when the editor at Random House asked to see the first two chapters to make sure I hadn't used any humor. I hadn't. Instead, she chewed me out for having other characters beside the heroine and hero. It was the beginning of the end of my time with LoveSwept. We parted on good terms and I smirk as I write that.

I asked some specific questions as to what I could and couldn't write on previously contracted projects with them. Had it put in writing and I was off on my own.

Well, since LoveSwept's ownership time was up on the Highlander's Beloved series, I could write as many episodes of it as I wanted. Readers of the series were emailing me, asking for more of Effie. So I backed up--leaving Kendric: Shifters of Sonas Isle--to give Effie one more episode as well as slide more smoothly into this new Sonas Isle series. My street team named this new book The Doctor's Bearside Manner. I should know better than to ask those ladies. They're a trip.

On our way home from our granddaughter's wedding last June,  our flight was delayed causing us to spend the night in a hotel. A storyline sprang from that. The first four chapters tumbled out before I could stop them, so I backed away from Effie's last story to work on MR. OH. I did finish that book. But--and there's always a but, isn't there?--it was much spicier than I normally write. My characters took me into the world of BDSM and I tried my best to make the journey humorous.

But what of my readers who auto-buy my books and don't care for this topic? They're going to be upset. I can't have that. So I invented a pen name, Renae DeVeau, and set up an online presence for her identity. An editor at TWRP loved MR. OH and we're waiting on final approval.

I was concerned I hadn't had a release since Christmas, so I revamped a book I'd gotten the rights back to: Mona Lisa's Room. I changed the head of the terrorist group, added more humor, and updated technology used. It's now NIKO: Licensed to Kill part of the Paris Intrigue series. The lady who does my book covers and formatting said it would be easier time-wise for her if I had two. Okay, I'll work on book two of the series, I told her.

While revamping NIKO, I couldn't help but notice how stronger my writing was five years ago. What in the world had happened? I was slipping, not getting stronger. Was it my editor's demands or me? I dropped into a major self-doubt mode. I needed a project to work on, to hone my skills.

So, I backed up to a writing prompt I'd done years ago that I thought would make a good book. The Golden Charm sprang to life. I was on chapter eleven when...

Amazon contacted me about writing for Kindle Worlds. So I backed away from the Golden Charm and began A Stranger's Dare.

I'd just written the first sex scene when it occurred to me I'd forgotten about revamping book two of the Paris Intrigue series. So I backed up to what was once Rain is a Love Song to what is now--JEAN-LUC: Once is Never Enough. Then I'll be able to get it and NIKO off to my formatter because I really do need a new book out there. I've only got eighty more pages to go to bring JEAN-LUC up to date.

Then back to A Stranger's Dare. I have until the middle of June to finish it. So, I'll be fine. Unless something shiny flies by and catches my attention. Remember: I'm creative...not necessarily sane.

Follow me on www.vonniedavis.com or www.renaedeveau.com 

Finding Me in 2017

~~ Vonnie Davis

I'm a large woman. You wouldn't think I could get lost. But I did. Somewhere in 2016, or perhaps earlier, I lost myself. Or rather my ability to write like me. Sounds dramatic, doesn't it? Imagine the newspaper headlines: "Great-grandmother Disappears Inside Laptop."

But who reads the newspapers anymore?

The fact remains, a Big Five publisher I was uber thrilled to be with and an editor I thought I adored sucked the writer out of me.

Frankly, there wasn't a whole lot left in my head. I mean the body remained, but we don't need to go there. The writer Vonnie Davis was in a major case of doubt. I'd gone from two publishers who barely had me make edits on my writing to one who pulled out my eyelashes one-by-one. With each book, their demands got worse.

No humor.

No secondary characters, except in a brief mention.

Thin, thin plots. Nothing suspenseful.

Use filter words and feels so the readers wouldn't have to think. I should tell them when they should feel anger, otherwise they wouldn't know.

Tell, don't show because readers don't get it otherwise. I nearly choked on my coffee.

Sex soon and often. Call a body part what it is. No cute or outdated euphemisms.

All of this involved changing my voice, the way I wrote, the way my stories flowed. I was writing crap and knew it. I argued. And was quickly reminded I was under contract. I shed a lot of tears for the writer I once was, because I was ashamed of the altered version I was forced to become.

It was an emotionally rough journey no writer should have to make. Yes, we all need editing, direction, suggestions, but not lobotomies to our writing voices. Now I'm in a sinking state. I flounder at every stroke of swimming for the shore of ME. What if I can't find myself again?

So my New Year's resolution is simple. "Finding Nemo" is passé. I'm finding me again, writing every day until my voice returns, until the words flow in the style of Vonnie Davis. It's been a long journey thus far and there appears to be an uphill march ahead. 

You'd think it would be simple. Right? Just do it. But as CP's read my work, they're asking me where I've gone. They're telling me to do things I haven't been allowed to do in years. No wonder some of my reviews are so bad. I'm going back to square one, learning all over again...at the age of 68 with 19 books published.

I don't mean to sound whiny. Call it frustrated. I thought once I'd made it to that level, I'd be doing well. Guess who had a cruel lesson to learn.

For those of you who write, hang tight to your writer identity. Don't do as I did and assume because these editors work for the biggest publisher in the world, they are the "be all and end all" in editorial knowledge. Their eyes are on the market, the bottom line, the big buck--not quality writing. Be true to yourself.

I had to learn to do that. I had to learn to risk breach of contract and simply say, "No. I'm not writing like that. I can't." Now I'm trying to undo the damage and bad habits I picked up while being one of their writers. But then, a writer's learning curve is continual, isn't it? Read more about me at www.vonniedavis.com

A Kiss for Ophelia--Part 2 by Vonnie Davis

A KISS FOR OPHELIA
PART TWO 

Dalton was still in a state of shock. He’d found Mandy. For two months, he’d nearly gone insane hunting for her. And where had he found her? Standing under the mistletoe. What were the chances?

Once her time working the charity event was over and they saw his grandpa back to his room, he took his wife’s hand and led her to his truck. “Since you know this area better than I do, is there a quiet restaurant you can suggest where we can talk?” He opened the door for her.

“I’ve heard The Fall’s Landing is nice, but I’ve never been there. I’ve passed it plenty of times on Main Street.”

He kissed her again and helped her into her seat. “Lead the way, baby.”

“You don’t mind the way I’m dressed?” She waved one of her sequined pointed elf shoes at him and its bell jangled. His heart beat lighter than it had in months. His Mandy could be so cute.

“Mandy Campbell, I’m so happy to see you, I could give a flying fig what the hell you’re wearing.” He closed the door and rounded the front of the truck. Once he’d settled behind the steering wheel he studied her. “Why didn’t you return my calls or answer my texts? Just two short texts about leaving you alone. That was all that gave me a clue you were still alive.”

“I’m sorry. I was too hurt and confused.” She clasped her fingers, something she’d always done when she was nervous.

“Yeah, well, I was pretty damned hurt and confused, too. We’d argued off and on during our marriage like all couples, but never once did you threaten to leave me much less throw your clothes in some suitcases and silently walk out as if I was invisible.”

Her hand touched his thigh. “I was wrong to do that. I hope you’ll forgive me. It was as if I’d lost control of the rational part of my thinking.” He covered her hand and pulled out of the parking space. Yeah, they had a lot of talking to do. He needed some damn specifics.

The Fall’s Landing was somewhat crowded, but they were seated in a booth without waiting. Everyone’s eyes followed his cute elf as her feet jingled on their way to their seats. There were a few who pointed and chuckled. Holiday music played softly and silver garland strung with twinkling white lights added to the atmosphere.

They both ordered hot chocolate to sip while they looked over their menus. Dalton hooked his index finger around hers because he couldn’t bear to lose contact with her. He still couldn’t believe his luck. He’d found her. She was talking to him. They’d kissed. There was hope.

He kept glancing at her over his menu. They’d started going steady in their senior year of high school. She’d always been the only one for him. His heart hadn’t beat a happy pulse since they’d argued over going on a romantic cruise. She wanted some excitement. He was working hard and saving every penny to remodel their house. Never once had she mentioned a cruise until her sister Callie bragged about the one she and her husband were going on. The two sisters were always in a competition, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

That childish rivalry had caused them two months of being together. He didn’t realize how much his life revolved around being with her, holding her at night, and kissing her awake every morning until after she’d packed in a huff and stormed out.

       "I see you're still wearing your wedding band." His thumb rubbed over the simple ring identical to his.


        She glanced at it and smiled. "I couldn't bear to take it off. You still have yours on." She sounded surprised. What was up with that?


     "I'm being buried with this ring on, Mandy. We made a promise for life."

When the waiter came, Dalton ordered trout and she ordered scallops and shrimp. In typical Mandy fashion, she ordered chocolate mud cake and asked it to be served first. His wife lived by the rule “life is short, eat dessert first.” He’d gotten in the habit of joining her, so he ordered key lime pie.

“Dessert first. I’m glad to see some things in your life never change.” He sipped his hot chocolate and licked the whipped cream from his lips. “I understand, now, your depression after losing the baby. I fell into one after you left.”

A spark of anger flashed across her face. Her features pinched. “Is that a fact?”

“Yeah, Spence called three days after you left. He could tell I was down about something and he pushed. You know how my older brother can be.”

“Yeah, like a dog with a bone. No wonder he’s such a good police detective. I’d hate to have him interrogate me.” She sat back when the server brought the desserts and cups of coffee.

“Spence and Zoey Beth drove over from Asheville that night. He had a case of beer and a bottle of Jack Daniels. Zoey Beth made pasta while we guys talked and drank. She drank, too, and wasn’t able to get up to go golfing with us. Spence dragged my hung-over ass off the sofa and out onto the golf course at eight o’clock in the freaking morning. We were still pissy-assed drunk and laughed like fools. He got me through the darkest of the depression.”

Her forkful of chocolate mud cake had stilled halfway to her mouth. “Where…where did they sleep?”

Another piece of delicious key lime pie was swallowed. Man, this stuff is so good, I might need another slice. “In our bedroom. We’d never gotten around to making a guest bedroom, you know that. We’d started on the nursery and then stopped and decided to concentrate on the kitchen. Which is why your sudden demands to go on a seven-day cruise never made sense to me. For what we’d have spent plus my lost income, we could have bought top of the line appliances that would have lasted for years, not a week on the high seas.”

Mandy laid her fork on her plate without eating a bite. “So, Zoey Beth was in our bed? Our red-headed, sister-in-law, Zoey Beth?” Her green eyes widened and her lower jaw hung agape.

What was wrong with that? His brother’s wife was clean. “Yeah.”

Mandy dropped her face into her upturned hands and sobbed.

Dalton leaned across the table and wrapped his hands around her wrists. “What’s wrong? Why are you so upset?” Maybe she needed to go back on anti-depressants or counseling. Anything. He’d see she got anything to make her happy again.

 “Oh God, I am such an idiot. Such an immature idiot.” Her tear-stained face rose and she stared at him. “It only took me two days to realize leaving you was the biggest mistake of my life.” She rummaged in her purse and removed a pack of tissues. She blotted her eyes and blew her nose. “It took me another day to work up the courage to explain my behavior the past few weeks. I mean, I’d been acting all kinds of bitchy.”

He sipped his coffee to keep from talking. Even though she’d spoken the truth, he wasn’t dumb enough to agree. Hell, living with her those last few weeks was like walking on eggs in snowshoes.

“So, the day you and your brother went golfing, I moved back home.”

Dalton’s eyebrows shot skyward again. “You did?”

“Yes," she nodded, "but when I opened the door to our bedroom, all I could see was the red, curly part of Zoey Beth’s head and I thought it was the woman I’d imagined you’d been seeing. Instead of waking her up and asking her what the hell she was doing in my house, at which point I’d have seen who it was, I ran out. With my heart shredded and being sick, I missed a lot of work. I was fired and left Charlotte.”

“You thought my brother’s wife was some secret lover of mine?”

She shrugged and tore at her tissue.

“Baby, don’t you trust me at all? Do you think I’d cheat on you? Worse, do you think I’d bring another woman into your house…your bed?”

She finally took a bite of her dessert. “I need to grow up, don’t I?” She nodded in that charming way she had when she answered her own questions. “All I can say is I was sick. Well, not really sick. Just kind of. My hormones were all over the place and I’d finally learned why. That was one of the reasons I came home to try to get our marriage back on track.”

Well, color me mistletoe green, because I have no clue what she’s getting at.

Dalton sipped his coffee, trying to make sense of it all. She didn’t need to grow up. The woman was damn near perfect. Sure she’d fallen into a depression after losing the baby, but that was normal. It was only their last couple weeks together that she’d begun acting batshit crazy at the drop of a hat.

If their marriage had any chance of working, he had to know. “Can you tell me why your nerves and reactions so often went off the charts?”

“Oh, I can do better than that.” She reached into the outside pocket of her purse and pulled something out. A picture. She handed it to him. “Dalton, meet your daughter. She’s due in five months.”

Dalton’s lungs deflated as air whooshed out. Warmth flashed through his body like fireworks as he stared at the sonogram picture. “You’re pregnant?”

“We’re pregnant.”

This little being in the picture explained it all: Mandy’s erratic mood swings, her lack of appetite before she left, her long bouts of sleeping he’d feared was her depression coming back, and her fuller breasts he’d felt today. Pregnant. “Are…are you seeing a doctor regularly?” Dalton blinked away the tears and grinned like a fool at the same time. This was his little girl.

“Yes. I’m past the time miscarriages usually happen, according to my doctor. I still have to be careful. I don’t do much lifting on my job. She says our little one is developing on schedule.”

He had to get closer to his wife and moved to sit beside her in the booth. He wrapped his arm around her and she laid her head on his shoulder. How often had they sat like that over the years? “I love you, Mandy. I’ve loved you since chemistry class when you were my study partner.”

“I love you, too. I hope you can forgive me for all the pain and mess I made of our lives. My hormones had my emotions all over the place. I was beginning to suspect I was pregnant and scared I’d lose this baby, too.”

“But you didn’t.” He rested his hand over her abdomen. “We belong together. Not just because of the baby, but because it’s always been you and me. I’m worthless without you.”

“I need you, too. I’ve been miserable. I can be packed and ready to go in an hour.”

He laughed. “You know, you’ve been on your feet all day. What do you say about getting a motel room so you can be on your back for a while?” She waggled her eyebrows and nodded her agreement. He hadn’t felt this great in over two months. “You’re moving back home and telling me how you want the nursery finished. I’m guessing there will be some pink involved.” He kissed her hair, her forehead, her lips. With their heads touching, they both looked at the photo and oohed and awed over the beautiful baby. 

“I’ve been calling her Mia Rose.” Mandy glanced up at him.

“I like that…Mia Rose.” Dalton shifted in the booth so he could bend and press a kiss to their baby bump. A chuckle of pure joy burst forth. “Mia Rose Ophelia Campbell.”

I hope you enjoyed “A Kiss for Ophelia.”
COME BACK TOMORROW FOR PART ONE OF TALENTED AUTHOR ALISON HENDERSON'S HOLIDAY STORY. SHE NEVER DISAPPOINTS.

MERRY CHRISTMAS to you and yours.

Visit my website at www.vonniedavis.com

A Kiss for Ophelia by Vonnie Davis

A KISS FOR OPHELIA
by VONNIE DAVIS

~ PART ONE ~

This was the absolute last time she kissed anyone under the mistletoe. Mandy Campbell didn’t care what charity it was for. Her hand grabbed a cup of fruit punch from the table next to her “Kissing Station.” She pinched her eyes shut as she guzzled the juice to clear her mouth. A shudder racked her body so she snagged another cup.

Why hadn’t she just worn hospital scrubs to the party? No, she had to create an elf outfit—and it was cute, too. Or had been. She sipped at her second drink, taking inventory of her costume. Her green top with a wire sewn in the seam of the ruffle at the bottom still billowed away from her body like a cute Christmas tree. The tiny bulbs and garland she'd sewn on by hand still intact. She reached for a napkin and dabbed at two spots on it. Dampness from tobacco spit seeped through the bottoms of her red and white striped leggings. Was it any wonder?

She stared at the pair of dentures on the floor in front of her green-sequined elf shoes. The toes with bells curled upward as if recoiling from the bizarre sight along with her stomach.

Her gaze slowly rose from the fake teeth, over the patched bib overalls and frayed flannel shirt to settle on the man’s whiskered face with gums damn near sunk back to his tonsils.

The elderly man’s one arm opened wide while his other grasped his hand-carved cane. His Santa hat slid back over his bald head. “Hows about a second kiss, Ophelia? That first one was a doozy!”

She looked at his tobacco slime covered dentures on the floor again and her gag reflex kicked in. He’d worn the false teeth for the first kiss. They’d fallen out when he’d smacked his lips and spat tobacco juice afterward. She supposed the man had never heard of denture adhesive or that women didn’t like a mouthful of chewing tobacco when being kissed. So, no, she didn’t want a repeat performance. Secondly, her name wasn’t Ophelia. The poor elderly soul was obviously confused.

“Grandpa! Grandpa, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Didn’t I tell you to stay close by?” A tall man in a navy sweater and jeans faded in all the right places hurried toward the kissing, toothless man.

The deep rumble of his familiar voice stilled Mandy’s heartbeat for a tense minute before it stuttered back to life. She recognized the sweater, a gift from last Christmas. Knew by heart the touch and strength of his broad shoulders. Recalled with bittersweet emotions how wonderful his calloused hands caused gooseflesh to rise along with her sighs as he caressed her body. Remembered with every overactive hormone how well his full lips could kiss.

“Mandy?” Dalton’s dark eyebrows rose to meet the swath of chocolate-colored hair that always fell over his forehead. “What are you doing here in Brevard?” He stepped toward her and teeth crunched beneath his feet. “What the hell?” A booted foot rose to reveal smashed plastic and cracked fake teeth. “Grandpa, are these yours?”

“Don’t need ‘em. Ophelia, here, likes my kisses without the dang things.”

“Ophelia?” Dalton’s questioning glare locked on her.

“He’s confused.” Mandy grabbed a few snowmen paper napkins from the punch table and handed them to Dalton. He stooped, cleaned up the mess, and strode to the trash can to toss it all away.

He was the type of man women loved watching. He had fluid, almost graceful moves even though he was a hardened mass of muscle. She knew all too intimately every inch of his body. When he returned and stood so close to her she could inhale his minty breath, he repeated his question, “What are you doing in a nursing home in Brevard, a hundred and twenty miles from Charlotte?”

She stared into the deep blue eyes of her soon-to-be ex-husband. “The hospital I work for is in Brevard. It sends a few employees to help with charity events at Mountain View Nursing Home. Since I’m a new employee, I was one of the lucky ones.” She jerked her chin to the older man. “Is this your grandpa Ed?” He’d really gone downhill since their wedding two years ago.

“Yes. He’s a new resident here. The family moved him in after he set fire to his kitchen last month. He’s becoming more and more forgetful.” Dalton reached to touch her cheek, his calloused fingertips so familiar as they trailed down her face. God help her, she wanted to lean into him. “Why aren’t you working at Dr. McGrath’s in Charlotte anymore?” Dalton eyes searched hers, no doubt for answers and to gage her reactions. He was always good at gaging her feelings, especially after the miscarriage last spring. She’d sunk into a deep depression for several weeks. “Where are you living?” his voice was pained, worried.

“With Callie. I missed a lot of time both after the miscarriage and our breakup and lost my job. I moved in with my sister until I could get on my feet more. I’ve been working at the hospital for a month, now.” Meanwhile Mandy’s heart kept pounding a slow pained beat over losing the only man she’d ever loved. To say nothing of all their hopes and dreams she thought they’d shared.

Dalton’s lips thinned. “No one asked you to move out. That was your decision. You know damn well I was working long hours to save up to remodel the kitchen. Where or how you came up with the idea I was seeing another woman, I’ll never understand. Then that crazy idea of a cruise coming out of the blue—”

She reared back. “Crazy?”

Grandpa Ed elbowed Dalton. “See here, young man, don’t you call Ophelia crazy.”

“Her name isn’t Ophelia, Grandpa. She’s my wife, Mandy.” His piercing gaze locked onto hers in condemnation and his fingers tucked into the front pockets of his jeans. “Why, baby? Why were you in such a rush to end our marriage? To move away? Did I ever mistreat you? Lay a hand on you in anger? Call you names? Did I stop showing you how special you were to me?”

A veil of tears blurred Mandy’s vision. She had to admit, he hadn’t. “No,” she forced out on a whisper, her palm somehow found itself on his heart, feeling the strong beat. She had so many regrets.

“Was that cruise we’d argued about worth so much? Worth more than our marriage? I mean you never mentioned going on one before. Our goals had always been fixing up the house and filling it with children. The doctor saw no reason why you couldn’t conceive again, you know that.”

She nodded and swiped away tears. “You’re right.”

He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her palm. “Have dinner with me tonight. We need to have a long talk.”

Now that she’d had two months to think about her behavior the last couple weeks she and Dalton were together, she was ashamed over how she’d pushed him so hard for a cruise to the Caribbean. What she wasn’t sorry for were her allegations about another woman. Especially when she’d returned to their house, a few days after she’d left, to try to work things out.

To her pained surprise, she’d found a redhead snuggled in her and Dalton’s bed, the blankets Mandy had picked out to match their redecorated bedroom were pulled over part of the strange woman’s auburn hair. It sure hadn’t taken her husband long to replace her. Or had her accusations been right all along? She’d quietly stepped back into the hallway and closed the door. Then she’d snatched her suitcases off the floor, snuck down the steps, and stormed out of their dream house, fixer-up though it was.

A five-dollar bill waved in front of Mandy’s face jarring her from her thoughts. “How about a kiss for me, pretty lady with the cute ass.” Whoever the middle-aged man was, he reeked of eggnog—a lot of eggnog, heavy on the rum. He glanced over her shoulder and leered at her festive green and white striped elf tights. “That’s one fine sight back there.”

Dalton swore under his breath, stepped in front of her, and glared at the man.

Since she was determined to raise as much money as she could for a library at the nursing home, Mandy moved between them and pointed two fingers to her eyes. “Here, buster. Keep your eyes focused here.” She snatched his money and cupped his face in her hands to keep control as she laid a chaste kiss on him. “Merry Christmas and thanks for your heart’s goodness to donate to our cause.” She pivoted to shove his money into her kiss jar. His hand cupped her bottom and she shrieked in shock.

Grandpa Ed yelled, “Get your grubby hands off my sweet Ophelia. No one kisses Ophelia, but me.” He smacked his cane across the drunken Romeo’s shoulders.

Dalton grabbed the strange man’s shirt and lifted him off the floor. “You touch my wife again and you’ll have to suck your meals through a freaking straw.”

At that precise moment, Mandy didn’t know who she was more upset with. The man who’d had the audacity to cop a quick feel or her estranged husband who felt he could just strut in here and take charge of her life.

Dalton set the man’s feet on the floor and the wild-eyed male scampered off. Her husband whipped out a five. “I want a kiss, too. It’s a damn shame when a man, who’s been crazy with worry over his absent wife, has to pay to kiss her once he’s found her again.”

“I am not kissing you.” Oh, but she wanted to. Heck, she’d pay him for a kiss. She’d missed him so much. Still, there was the matter of his working such long hours in his construction business and the redhead in their bed mere days after Mandy had moved out after their big blowup.

He pulled out a twenty. “Twenty-five dollars.” He tucked the money in the neckline of her top, his knuckles brushing the fullness of her breasts. “You used to like my kisses. Let’s see if you still do.”

All her girly bits were singing “Here Comes Santa Claus” as Dalton’s fingers forked into her long hair and his head lowered. Once his soft lips covered hers, she moaned and wrapped her arms around his neck. Home. Silent words of hurt, loneliness, and need were spoken during the kiss. Once he pulled away, there was a sheen of moisture in his eyes. “Have dinner with me tonight. We need to talk and straighten this mess out. I want you back, Mandy, in the worst kind of way.”

Would that be a good idea? A long talk would require honesty. A lot of honesty.

 Thank goodness the lady in charge of the activities chose that moment to start the senior conga line to “Jingle Bell Rock.” Grandpa Ed hobbled over to grab some silver-haired lady’s ample swaying hips. “Ophelia, I’ve been looking for you!”

“It seems like Grandpa Ed can’t quite remember the color of Ophelia’s hair or the size of her hips,” Amanda said with a tinge of humor as the conga line slowly meandered through the activities room.

Dalton had moved behind her and wrapped his arms around her midriff, drawing her into the warmth of his firmly muscled body. “I hope I never forget the wheat color of your hair or the feel of your body.” He pressed a kiss to her neck and she worried about how good all of this felt. They had so much to work through. “Although I must say your boobs have gotten bigger. I don’t recall them being this large.”

She hoped he kept his arms banded under her chest and didn’t lower them. If he did, he’d feel her growing baby bump.

Read more about Vonnie Davis at www.vonniedavis.com

Olympics, Brain Overload, and Publishing--Oh My! ~ Vonnie Davis

I always look forward to the Olympics. The best of every country competing. As a mother and grandma of youngsters who devoted themselves to various sports, I know the discipline and sacrifice they've given on the high school and collegiate levels. My grandson Ryan will be wrestling for MIT this winter--not that I'm bragging, mind you (Cheezy Grin)--the team's name? "Tough Nerds." I kid you not.

No one in my family has ever aspired to participate in the Olympics, but that doesn't deter from my enjoyment of the events. It's as if each athlete is a part of me. Yes, I am an emotional ninny.

I've been mentally bogged down of late. So much so, I feel as if my mind is a filing cabinet of storylines and I can't keep them straight. I literally have to ask myself what story I'm going to work on today. Hangs head in shame. Today I worked on three: The Roses Christmas short story, A Christmas novella, and a contemporary romance with a plot thinner than a sneeze. Oh, and a synopsis of a book I've yet to write; the fourth bear-shifter story in my Highlander Beloved series. I've no clue if I can generate interest in it, or not.

I'm trying because I've been getting a lot of emails from readers asking for more stories in the series. The latest was from an author who told me my bears were a topic of conversation at her local RWA chapter meeting. They probably wondered what kind of simple-minded fool would write a paranormal that didn't fit half of the rules. She gave me a list of the three shifters they wanted books about. One was married, but they wanted to hear how he met his love and got his HEA. I don't think I can convince my editor to go for all three, so I'll pitch one at a time.

If I were to label what kind of romances I write, I'd have to say anything but Regencies and futuristics. The variety of my published things makes it hard to market myself. My name is my brand. Most readers expect a certain level of humor in my stories. My editor tells me my humor should be greatly reduced, my plot lines are heavy, like my hips, aaaaand first person is preferable to third.

It's like the punch line:  "Just when I learn all the answers, they change the questions." Yeah, that's the state of publishing right about now.

If you've never read book one of my bear shifters, A HIGHLANDER'S OBSESSION, Amazon's Buy Link is: https://amzn.com/B00ILX9WC0

Forgive a proud grandma. My son made several slide shows to play at Ryan's high school graduation party. Unfortunately, Ryan is typically the shortest one in the group. Why do dark-haired wrestlers have blond hair in some of the pictures? They bleach their hair during districts and regionals. Ryan, who damaged his knee in the finals, took second place in the state at 170 pounds. Once the slide show starts, click on the arrows in the lower right corner so it goes full-screen and crank up the volume..
https://www.dropbox.com/s/tp8hrgrf4x51vcw/Friends%20-%20Good%20to%20Be%20Alive.mp4?dl=0

"But I Don't Write Erotic!" I Gasped.

A couple of weeks ago, I received an email from Long and Short Reviews (LASR) that they'd reviewed one of my books, For the Love of a Fireman. They ranked this romantic comedy four and a half stars and wrote a lovely review. I was pleased because I knew the rating would make it eligible for voting as book of the month. Yay me!

Part of the review read:

"This book has it all – humor, excitement, a bit if heavy hitting drama, romance, some eccentric but adorable characters, rambunctious dogs and last but not least, sexy shenanigans. For the Love of a Fireman is complete entertainment.

When I got this book, I had no idea there was BDSM in it, but the premise sounded so good, I took a chance. I’m happy to say that it’s light BDSM, and the heroine was the one being introduced to it. I actually liked how the author presented it, explored it between her characters and made it about emotions, trust and other positives that helped Barclay and Molly’s relationship grow. Because the lifestyle is a tad unconventional, the author used it as part of the internal plot conflict. It worked.

For the Love of a Fireman is truly delightful. It’s sexy, funny and warmhearted with just the right amount of external conflict to keep a reader engaged and fascinated. I had an awesome time reading this novel and have no problem recommending it to other romance readers. The story is that good."

Most of you realize I'm known for writing with the bedroom door wide open, if the characters even make it to the bedroom. To me, this is real life. I'd wanted to try a bit of Domination and submission, or D/s in my story. So I did. I didn't go into it heavily. I approached it more philosophically and with strong doses of humor. Most readers liked it. A few reviewers said they didn't. Such is life.

This was also a book that was never edited. I emailed it to my editor at HarperImpulse and she sent it on through the pipeline. Two weeks before release, I was frantic waiting for my edits to arrive, so I emailed her. "Where are my edits?"

"Your books are always so lovely, I didn't feel the need to edit, I just sent it on through." GASP! Lovely? Nothing I write is lovely or grammatically correct or plot hole free. Dear Lord, help me, I'm going to have an unedited book floating around out there. The final book of the series was never edited either! *bangs head on desk*

All that aside, I got an email from LASR on June 30th. For the Love of a Fireman  is up for Erotic Book of the Month. Erotic! But I don't write erotic! All I did was sprinkle in some references to Domination and submission. Okay, so they may have been some hot sprinkles, but we don't need to go there.

Won't I be pleased as punch to promote the upcoming vote? The winner of Erotic Book of the Month will be announced tomorrow. Honestly, I don't know how I get myself into these messes. I'm not fit to be left alone.

Take the past couple of weeks, for example. My editor at Random House and I have been going round and round about a single title she wants me to write based on Calvin's and my experience traveling home from our granddaughter's wedding. Our flight was delayed, then changed to another gate in a difference concourse, and finally cancelled. My mind got to working...two strangers in an airport, eager to get home...their flight gets cancelled...they start talking...and then. By the time Calvin and I got to our hotel room provided by the airline, I'd had chapter one roughed out in my mind. Chapter two was formed by the time I'd showered and collapsed between the sheets. The story was flowing out. A great sign, right?

I sent my editor the first three chapters. She "said" she loved it and passed it onto her boss who said she had some concerns. My over-the-top descriptions, for one. My humor, secondly. My use of polysyllabic words. Couldn't I "dummy it down"?

My humor and over-the-top descriptions are part of my voice. As for using polysyllabic words, how many times have we all looked up a word in the dictionary? Our vocabulary levels are enriched by the experience. But I know not all readers have a dictionary, much less one nearby or on their eReaders.

So I toned down my descriptions. I removed most of my humor. I used simple sentences, avoiding compound and complex ones. I used words I felt everyone should know. I sent the dummied version back.

It was returned.

They didn't like my title. No problem. I've had nearly every title I've chosen changed. It's not my strong suit. I accept that. They didn't like my characters' names down to the dentist the heroine worked for and told me what to use. I could feel my undies bunch and twist. Choosing names does not come easily for an author. My description of the heroine's hair frizzing like Marge Simpson's had to go. I loved the visual. I still had too much humor. Then they changed my plot. Grrrr! They wanted the abusive ex-boyfriend to approach the heroine, give his smarmy apologies and promises, and for her to vacillate between the hero, who's treated her well and the jerk. I couldn't see writing about a smart, sassy woman for three-fourths of the book only to have her turn into an easily conflicted, indecisive woman. Surely the reader wouldn't buy it.

I was livid.

I wrote an email stating what I would change and what I wouldn't. I told them what my characters' names would be AND my plotline. I left it percolate for two days, taking a little of the venom out each day. Meanwhile, the publisher had evidently put the book on their release calendar. I sent a calmer version of my original email. My editor replied that all was good, giving me the date I'd need to have the manuscript to her and it's release date. "Oh," she wrote, "Make sure it's erotic."

Erotic Dead Faint

For the Love of a Fireman is on sale for .99 -- https://amzn.com/B00PV4YCXG

If You're Going to Travel, You Might Want to Go Without Me.

We've been talking about traveling off and on at The Roses of Prose lately. Yesterday's topic was a new kind of driver's license that one could use to travel from Canada to Mexico to the Caribbean and back home to the States again, eliminating the need for a passport.

I've been fortunate to travel to a lot of places, both as a single woman and in the thirteen years Calvin and I have been married. Some trips were trouble free. Some were not. A couple remain practically unbelievable. However, if you know me--the magnet for the absurd--you'll understand situations like this really could and did happen.

In 2000, I went on a 7-day cruise to the Caribbean with another single lady from my church. We flew to Florida to meet our ship. Unbeknownst to us, our luggage flew to Costa Rica for a sight-seeing trip of its own. Although we each had a carryon, I'd never traveled like this before and I'd used mine for all the things I couldn't cram into my suitcase. Like two nightgowns, a swimming suit, my jewelry, make-up, camera, three books, and five pair of shoes. Hey, don't judge.

We stood in our cabin waiting for our luggage to arrive. As the shoreline began to fade, we knew we were in trouble. So we hurried to the office to ask if they knew where our luggage was. No, they didn't. After much discussion, the ship gave us new luggage and a $200. onboard stipend to buy some new things. As a plus-sized woman for eons, I can assure you there was nothing in the ship's stores to fit me since the largest size they carried was a size 6. Even my earlobes are larger than that! I bought men's clothes much to my chagrin.

As for lingerie, I hand washed what I'd worn that day in our sink every night and hung it on the towel rack. What parts weren't dry by morning got singed with the blow dryer.

Anytime we went on shore, I bought t-shirts, bright scarves, and gauzy skirts. I looked like a flea-market gypsy.

At the end of the cruise, we flew back to Baltimore-Washington airport. Our new luggage flew to Portland, Oregon. So, we literally lost our clothes coming and going. A couple of weeks after I'd gotten home, the airlines dropped off my travel-weary suitcases at my front door. The attached tags told of their journeys. Too bad they hadn't taken any pictures, but then I'd packed the camera in my carryon.

After Calvin and I married, we traveled to Baton Rouge, Louisiana several times to visit his best friend since the second grade, Robert or Biscuit, as he was called. Biscuit passed of a massive heart attack while talking to his mother on the phone. He called her every day. We were shocked by the news and Calvin took it especially hard.

There were so many memories. The two had boarded the bus together to leave for the Army after they'd gotten their bachelors and the draft hung over their heads. Once their enlistment was over, they pursued their Masters at Howard University. Calvin in American Literature and Biscuit in Biology. They lived in a house in Washington, D.C. along with 2 other men. Enter visions of Animal House. So, Calvin and Bob had a long history. Calvin went on to teach English for 40 years. Bob eventually headed the Science and Biology Departments at Southern University. The two talked weekly by phone and laughter filled the house. Bob could have you laughing at hello; he was that kind of man.

Making last minute flight arrangements had us flying from Lynchburg, VA, to Charlotte, NC, to Memphis, TN, to Baton Rouge.  Heavy thunderstorms kept our plane on the tarmac in Memphis for 4 hours--with no air conditioning and no operational restrooms. Mention no available bathrooms and my bladder rears its nervous, ugly head.

When we finally took off, a planeful of sweaty passengers applauded. We arrived in Baton Rouge to a semi-dark airport. The huge storm had knocked out the power and the airport's interior was nearly dark. My bladder was in major panic mode! Stiff from sitting so long, we hurried off the plane and through the concourse lit by emergency lighting. Believe me, my night vision can find a restroom in darn near total darkness!

Locating the car rental agency was another matter. With the mass power outage, there was no record of our online rental agreement. Thank goodness I'd run off copies of everything, showing our credit card was indeed charged. We traveled to the hotel, having missed Bob's viewing with the flight's delay.

Did I mention our luggage never arrived? Oh yeah. We had a color-coordinated funeral to attend the next day with zero clothes. We were told everyone was expected to wear either ivory or black. No flowers were to be ordered unless they were ivory or white. Any colored flowers were set off to the side so as not to ruin the color scheme.

The next morning, we were up early with directions to a nearby mall and a rental car with a dead battery. We called a taxi, paid it to wait while we ran in, bought new clothes, kept them on, rushed out, tearing all tags off each other, and hopped in the backseat for a fast ride to the church. Calvin's hearing aid broke in the taxi. He couldn't hear the service. Back at the hotel that night, exhausted by the heat and humidity of Louisiana in May, Calvin was trying to get out of stiff, unwashed new clothes to shower. His glasses broke in half. Poor, typically calm guy yelled, "What else can possibly go wrong?"

The commode overflowed in our room.

Our rental car with the dead battery was finally replaced with another. We drove to the airport the next day with our new things in a shopping bag. The lady at the check-in counter at the airport told me we still owed over $800. for our flight tickets home. Remember that huge power outage at our arrival? All computer records were supposedly wiped out. So I showed her my printed copies of plane reservations and payments. After keying in information, she finally found our paid records. We were good to go. At last!

Not quite...

Unfortunately, she'd keyed us in as two travelers, with no luggage, going one way, and purchasing our tickets  within an hour of departure. Red flags went off to Home Land Security. We passed through normal security with my leading Calvin by the hand and repeating everything the security people asked him.

We were told to step to the side where we were slapped against the wall and frisked. Then we were separated. I was questioned on one side of the corridor by an armed guard. Calvin was questioned, too, on the other side.

Now, remember, his hearing aid is broken so he can't hear and with no glasses, he can't even see the security guard's mouth move to realize he's being questioned. The security guard yells, "What's wrong? Can't you speak English?" Oh, this isn't good, thinks I. Calvin needs help. So I patted the arm of my interrogator and said, "Hold on, I'll be right back. I need to go help my husband."

I hurried over to tell the man with Calvin that he couldn't hear or see because both his hearing aid and glasses broke during our two-day trip. I laughed. "What are the odds of that? Right?" The man had zero sense of humor. In fact, he scowled at me as if I were daft.

Meanwhile, the officer I'd walked away from thinks I'm up to something evil and calls for backup. More Homeland Security guards come running with guns drawn (I'm not making this up, folks!). Four men grabbed me. I beat them with my purse and may have questioned their paternity status which they seemed to take offense to. And all the while I kept thinking this can't be happening! We're in the United States! We were born here. Have never committed a crime... Wait, does beating an armed security guard about the head with my purse constitute a crime?

Calvin's eyesight was just good enough he could make out that shadowy male figures are shoving his wife around. He yells, "Get your filthy hands off my wife!" Which might not have been the best thing to say at the moment.

We were slammed against the wall again. Frisked for the second time. Our shoes removed and the linings cut out. My purse was emptied. My lipstick--a most dangerous weapon--was tossed. So were pens, batteries from my camera, make-up, and then they found our medicine bag. Calvin is an insulin dependent diabetic, so I had to produce documentation as to what all the medicines were and their use. Thank goodness I had that with me.

Two Dangerous Terrorists

Finally, all at once, the guards all walked away. Calvin and I embraced each other in blessed relief. One man spoke over his shoulder, "You're free to go."

Where? We'd missed our flight!

There are more stories and I won't bore you, but if you're planning a trip, you might want to go without me.

If you'd like to read more stories--fictional, this time--from Vonnie Davis, go to her Amazon page: http://www.amazon.com/Vonnie-Davis/e/B0059HUKMC/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1462844663&sr=1-2-ent