Okay, picture this…a woman in her seventies sitting
on the second floor balcony of her house overlooking her perfectly kempt,
picturesque backyard. The backyard is divided into four sections: the vegetable
garden all the way to the left next a clear blue swimming pool, a grassy lawn complete with a long, wooden swing, and to the right what the
woman likes to call her “secret garden.” Here there are birdfeeders and birdbaths
surrounded by a stone path and flora in abundance—confederate jasmine, ferns,
butterfly bushes, and big, poofy, blue hydrangeas even the most seasoned
gardener would envy. The secret garden is shaded by large, leafy
trees and invites all winged creatures to enjoy what it has to offer. It’s
summer and it’s Florida so the air is warm, damp, and tepid. It’s early in the
morning, though, so the air isn’t yet heavy or hot enough to chase her back
into the air conditioning. There’s a languid quality to the air
and the early sun spills like liquid gold through the morning mist. The woman
sips her coffee and watches the birds start to gather in the garden.
Suddenly, there’s a disturbance. The birds scatter from the
feeder as a large squirrel climbs from the trees above and stealthily begins to
shimmy his way down the feeder. The woman sighs. Along the back fence line, she
and her husband have set up feeders designed for these nosy squirrels. They
were a summer craft project for two of her six grandchildren. Yet this squirrel
is deliberately worming his way to her “squirrel-proof” bird feeders instead of
easily partaking breakfast from the squirrel feeders not ten feet away. “I
don’t think so,” she says. She slowly reaches for something set against the
wall to the left. It’s an old BB gun her father gave to her years ago. Still
moving slowly as not to draw the attention of the animal, she rests the butt of
the gun against her shoulder and sights it over the squirrel’s rear-end. A
handful of seconds later, a loud report pierces the peaceful, morning lull.
Birds scatter from the trees. The offending squirrel chitters his way back to
the fence line and over it into the neighbor’s yard after being taught a
thorough lesson.
This is a true story. In fact, I’m related to this woman. She
is my grandmother. Next month when my new Harlequin Superromance novel hits the
shelves, you could say this story is given its very own reincarnation. In the
opening scene of the first chapter, the heroine, Adrian Carlton, is sighting
her seven-year-old’s BB gun over the half-door leading out onto her own covered
porch and she’s about to teach a squirrel a similar lesson. The squirrel gets
away in this version but comes back later for another go-round, resulting in a
trip to the emergency room for the book’s hero, James Bracken, who winds up in
the crosshairs by accident.
Inspiration comes in many forms to the writer. For me and my
July Superromance, His Rebel Heart, one of the many inspirations packed into this
contemporary romance is my grandmother.
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Can a rebel ever change his ways?
Being a single mother and successful florist is tough, especially when your next-door neighbor is the man who shattered your heart. Eight years ago, bad boy James Bracken walked away from Adrian Carlton…and their unborn child. Now he’s back. And Adrian’s desire to protect her son from the truth of his biological father isn’t enough to hide the wild blue eyes of father and son, or to keep Adrian from surrendering to the raw passion between her and James. But is he truly the changed man he claims to be? Maybe this time his rebel heart really is home to stay.
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When it came time for researching His Rebel Heart, I found my
knowledge of BB guns sorely lacking. With a son well on his way to that "cowboy"
age where interest in things like water guns and NERF guns becomes a reality (dear
sweet lord, help me), I realized that I might need to know a bit more and not
just for the purpose of my story. Fortunately, my husband knows quite a bit
about guns and ammunition. He’s a cracking good shot. Or should I say “crack
shot?” (Gun lingo? Not my forte.) When I started asking questions, he not only
gave me the answers I needed, he asked if I would like a shooting lesson.
One afternoon we go into the woods—sans kiddies, of course. The hub tells me to put a few rounds in an old printer that once
tormented me with regular error messages and random whining noises. “Only fair
to put it out of its misery,” the hub tells me before we begin and I heartily
agree. My shoulder tingles from the kick of the old weapon. He teaches me gun safety and marksmanship all in the course of a few hours. All the while, I ask
what might seem like random questions to an outsider. (“If you accidentally
wound up in the crosshairs, how bad would it hurt?” “Would you need
a trip to the ER?” “How long would it take you to heal?”) The hub is accustomed to
me peppering him with strange questions. He’s my live-in scuba diving, automotive,
ammunitions, building and handyman expert. In the rare case he doesn’t
have an answer for me, he does the research himself and gets back to me
quickly. In return for my questions, he asks things like “At what range?” (“Fifteen
to twenty feet,” I answer.) “Where’s the wound?” (I clear my throat and answer
a little sheepishly. “In the hind quarters.” At this, he raises a brow. “It’s
the dude, isn’t it?” he asks. I smile. “Of course!” He shakes his head and the corner of
his mouth lifts into a wry smile. “That’s mean.” “It’s not out of spite,” I
explain. “It's important to the story that I get him to the hospital.” He frowns “Does the shot have to be down below?” “Yes,” I tell him.
“Why?” he asks. “Because it’s funny?” I say, again a bit sheepishly. He
pauses, considers then nods. “You’re right. It is a little funny.”) And we go
back to shooting.
When we’re done with
the BB gun, I expect the lesson to be over. The hub looks around, makes sure
there’s no one in the area and reaches back into the waistband of his jeans.
“While we’re here…” he says and takes out his pistol. I frown. “Is this where
you kill me?” He points to a target twenty feet away. “I want you to practice
with this. Aim for the inner circle.” I give him my I-don’t-like-handguns face.
I don’t. I really, really don’t. It took me a while to reconcile myself with
the fact that we keep weapons in our home. However, I married a man who was
introduced to guns at a very young age and who was raised a hunter and not
likely to change. He understands the responsibilities that go hand-in-hand with
gun ownership. He keeps all his guns locked up tight and up high away from
little hands. When he comes home at night, I hear the comforting clicking sound
which means he’s double- and triple-checking that there’s nothing chambered. (Another
comfort? Knowing that if we’re ever in a bank or a store or anywhere else in public
with our children and there’s a gunman at large, the steadfast and levelheaded
man next to me has a conceal-and-carry and won’t hesitate to defend their
lives.)
Back in the woods, he sees my hesitation and he reminds me of several
break-ins in our neighborhood through the years, most of which took place
during the day. He also mentions the break-in at my other grandmother’s house
months before while she was away from home. I think of the scene in the latter half of the book that I'm dreading writing during which the heroine's life in endangered by her abusive ex-husband. More so, I think of our babies and the
frightening world we live in and I take the pistol. I get another lesson in gun
safety. “Red is dead,” he tells me. “Wait,” I say. “Red means the gun is dead
or the person you’re aiming at is dead?” “The person,” he tells me, making sure
that gets across. I digest that tidbit before the hub teaches me how to load
the clip and how to check to see whether or not there is a bullet in the
chamber. He stands behind me as I face the target. There’s much more of a kick
to the pistol than the BB gun so he stands behind me and fixes both my hands in
place over the gun. I’m shaking like a leaf by this point so he holds my arms
steady as he counts off and I squeeze the trigger. Despite his front braced
against my back and his arms locked on mine, I still shriek like a girl and jerk
at the report, so much so that the empty shell pings back and hits me in the
nose as it is ejected from the gun. The hub curses and says, “Should’ve brought
safety glasses.” “You’re damn right,” I say, shaken up a good bit more. The gun
feels heavy in my hand, a foreign object I sense that I have no business
touching. It occurs to me more than ever that my dislike and fear of guns stems
mostly from the fact that I know nothing about them or how to handle them. So I
listened carefully as he walked me through it again. By the time we are done
and I watch the hub put the now unloaded pistol back into the waistband of his
jeans, I’m still not comfortable with the weapon. I believe firmly that it’s never safe
to be too comfortable with firearms. But I now know enough to use one in
the event that I ever have to. As we walked out of the woods, I tell him how
much I hate that our children live in a world in which we have to learn to use
weapons to protect ourselves. Knowing how much that keeps me up at night, the
hub puts his arm around me and assures me, “You’ll probably never have to.” I say,
“Even if I don’t, all this will be great book fodder one day.” He laughs and
says, “That’s my girl.” (I encourage everybody to learn about gun safety or to take a gun safety course, especially those with access to firearms. You can never be too careful.)
A few days later, the hub gets peppered with more research
questions. He’s out in the garage changing the brakes on the truck. Our son is
sitting next to him on the concrete floor, rearranging the shiny, silver pieces
in the hub’s master socket set. I pick up one of the tools spread across the
floor around them and ask, “What’s this doohickey?” He glances up and answers, “Torque
wrench.” I pick up another tool and ask, “And this one?” He looks at me like I
should know this one. “A crescent wrench,” he says. “Hm,” I reply and glance over
the tools again. “Would you say you need all these to work on car engines, too?”
“This is about your book, isn’t it?” “Yes,” I say. I explain that the hero is a
skilled automotive mechanic. “Why do you ask?” I ask him. He reminds of that
time he was working on his brother’s truck early in our relationship and he
tried to walk me through basic engine mechanics. “Oh,” I say, remembering that interlude
well. Even after the thorough lesson, I failed to understand how an engine
works. I still have only a rudimentary knowledge of engine parts. Battery.
Starter. Spark plugs. That’s about it. It’s really fortunate that I married
such a know-it-all who can tell me these things (and fix them if needed). The
hub smiles and says, “If you’re interested in tools or engines, that usually
means you’re up to something.” “Guilty,” I say with a grin.
In the "Dear Reader" letter at the beginning of His Rebel Heart, I couldn’t help but note my husband’s influence on this
book in particular. It just so happened that over the course of writing the story
that the hero slowly evolved into somebody tall with a beard and at one point
(probably one of my favorite scenes of the book) with a tool belt slung low
around his hips, much like the man I’m married to. (Sh! The name James might come from the hub's middle name, too.) I owe a good chunk of the
character of James to him, just as I owe the opening scene of the book to my
grandmother. Hopefully neither will mind finding small reincarnations of
themselves in the book when they read it.
"I don't want you to be alone..."
Adrian sighed. "James, I have been alone, for a really long time."
"I'm sorry," he said. "Adrian...I am so, so sorry."
When he drew her into his arms, she was helpless to stop him. She felt his lips come to rest on the top of her head. His arms wrapped around her back, closing her in, tightening.
He simply held her, for what seemed like ages.
A small eternity passed in the space of moments. Memories stirred, whispering to life, ghosts of what had been.
When his lips touched hers, it felt so natural. The simple press of his lips brought her back to life. Her heart fluttered, lifting and soaring.
She should have pushed him away. After everything, she should shove him back, make him leave. Instead, she let the moment stretch, deepen until she felt him brush up against the soul she'd buried from everything and everyone...
