Guest Author Dee Davis

CMash December 17, 2012 1 Comment

Do I have a treat for you!!!! Take a break from holiday shopping, grab a coffee, get comfy. Our friend Jessica, from GCP/Forever, is stopping by with a very special guest, author of 24 books, Ms. Dee Davis!!!

DEE DAVIS

Dee Davis has a BA in Political Science and History, and a Masters Degree in Public Administration. During a ten-year career in public relations, she spent three years on the public speaking circuit, edited two newsletters, wrote three award winning public service announcements, did television and radio commercials, starred in the Seven Year Itch, taught college classes, lobbied both the Texas State Legislature and the US Congress, and served as the director of two associations.

Her highly acclaimed first novel, Everything In Its Time, was published in July 2000. Since then, among others, she’s won the Booksellers Best, Golden Leaf, Texas Gold and Prism awards, and been nominated for the National Readers Choice Award, the Holt and two RT Reviewers Choice Awards. To date, she has sold twenty-one books and four novellas, including the A-Tac Series and Set-Up in SoHo.

She’s lived in Austria and traveled in Europe extensively. And although she now lives in Manhattan she still calls Texas home.
Visit Ms. Davis at her website, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest and GoodReads.

GUEST POST

So one of the things I hate most in life is starting over. See, I’ve moved all off my life. Every two years when I was a kid. My dad turned down a commission in the army because my mom didn’t want to move so much. So we think he went out immediately and found a job that meant moving more than the army. I definitely get my passive aggressive tendencies from my father. But I digress. The point is that I always thought that when I found that perfect someone (and I did) that I’d get married, find the perfect house and settle down FOREVER. No more moving.

But life has a way of turning proclamations like that on their ear. And I am hear to tell you that in twenty-three years of marriage, I have moved six times. Which is a much better average than my youth, but still…it’s a lot of new houses and apartments. So you can just imagine when my husband announced that he thought we should leave Manhattan and move to the country. (Suburbs really, but in this part of the world it feels like the country). The soundtrack of Green Acres started playing in my head as I tried to picture myself in Hooterville.

Well, of course that turns out to have been a drastic overstatement. I’ve seen nothing but beautiful villages, most with fabulous shopping and entertainment options close-by. And the houses are to die for. Beautiful turn of the century Victorians. Mid-twentieth century homes that have been beautifully maintained on graceful tree-shrouded lots. And most exciting of all, antique homes built when people like Thomas Jefferson were president. Imagine living in a home with that kind of history.

But the idea, although definitely more palatable, still scares the heck out of me. Did I mention that I don’t like change? But I also know, thanks to all the moving around over the years, that every place has something amazing to offer. And that if you can survive the actual house-hunting, moving period, then only great things await as you explore your new environs. But standing here at the beginning of the quest, I’m still a little panicked. And all I’m talking about is moving house.

What if you found yourself completely adrift? What if the career you’d worked your whole life to be a part of suddenly was taken away. Ended by something completely out of your control? That’s the kind of change that can shake you to the very core. And something so many Americans have had to face of late with our economic challenges.

And that’s exactly where the hero of my latest A-Tac novel, Double Danger, finds himself. After a mission gone horribly wrong, Simon Kincaid finds himself injured, and as a result unable to continue as a Navy S.E.A.L. Not only that, men under his charge were killed during the same mission—one of them his best friend, Ryan. Trying to regroup, and redefine himself, Simon lands a job with A-Tac, a black ops arm of the CIA using the cover of a bucolic NY college as cover. But finding his place in the tightly-knit unit hasn’t been easy. And when all hell breaks loose and he’s reunited with Ryan’s widow, he is forced to face not only his failures in the recent past, but also those from long ago, when he chose to walk away from the only woman he ever loved.

Change is never easy. But sometimes out of great trials come amazing things. All we have to do is open our hearts and embrace the future. (And in my case—give up Times Square!)

ABOUT THE BOOK

After her husband Ryan’s death, Jillian dedicates herself to saving others. She can’t afford to be tempted by Simon, even though his every touch reignites the desire they once shared. But in the last desperate minutes before disaster strikes, their second chance at love might be the most lethal trap of all . . .
Purchase links: Amazon B&N IndieBound

THANKS TO JESSICA, AT GCP/FOREVER, I HAVE ONE (1) COPY
OF THIS BOOK TO GIVE AWAY. U.S. RESIDENTS ONLY

CLICK HERE TO BRING YOU TO
THE GIVEAWAY ENTRY PAGE.

DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me,
in exchange for my honest review.
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or
Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affliate.
I am providing link(s) solely for visitors
that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.

GCP/Forever, Giveaway

GIVEAWAY ENTRY “DOUBLE DANGER” by Dee Davis ENDED

CMash December 17, 2012 28 Comments

DECEMBER 17th to DECEMBER 31st, 2012

DOUBLE DANGER
by DEE DAVIS

SYNOPSIS:

Ignoring his instincts once cost Simon a vital op-and the life of his best friend, Ryan. Now as escalating, violent attacks hit A-Tac, another person he loves is in danger. Homeland Security agent Jillian Montgomery’s investigation has suddenly brought her back into Simon’s life, and unless they can learn to trust each other, their dangerous mission will fail.After her husband Ryan’s death, Jillian dedicates herself to saving others. She can’t afford to be tempted by Simon, even though his every touch reignites the desire they once shared. But in the last desperate minutes before disaster strikes, their second chance at love might be the most lethal trap of all . . .

THANKS TO JESSICA, AND THE VERY

MERRY ELVES AT GCP/FOREVER

I HAVE ONE ( 1 ) COPY OF THIS
BOOK TO GIVE AWAY.
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Guest Author, Partners In Crime Tours

Guest Author CJ West

CMash December 15, 2012 Leave a Comment

Today I have the distinct honor to introduce you to a very busy, talented and author of 7 novels, as he kicks off his virtual tour with Partners In Crime Tours. Please help me give a warm welcome to Mr. CJ West!!!!

CJ WEST

C.J. West is the author of seven suspense novels including The End of Marking Time and Sin and Vengeance, which was optioned into development for film by Beantown Productions, LLC (screenplay by Marla Cukor).
Connect with CJ at his website, blog and Facebook.

GUEST POST

Does This Label Make Me Look Sexy?

My research for Dinner At Deadman’s took me to some places that might make you feel queasy and to some estate sales where people love to browse, but some can’t bring themselves to buy because they feel icky buying something from a dead person. My hero, Lorado Martin, has made a hobby out of spotting the treasure in heaps of old junk and he’s pretty darned good at it in real life, too.

A great example is the brown jacket in my Facebook profile pic. It’s my favorite jacket and I wear it often to conferences and signings. It feels lucky after I’ve worn it so much. You’ll have to judge if it’s sexy or not. My brother Lorado (yes my protagonist is created based on my brother), bought that same jacket from a charity called GiftsToGive. Same color. Same label. Much bigger size! But the price was the big difference. I paid $70. He paid $3.

That started me thinking about how much we pay to feel sexy. The only difference between my jacket and his is the store where it was purchased.

My sneakers are another example. I paid about $30. Kids spend a hundred for the cool brand of sneakers so they can fit in on the playground. Luckily at my age I know I’m cool. I don’t need the right pair of sneakers to tell me so. That doesn’t stop the kids (and even some grown women) from scoffing at the label on mine.

Now I’m going to tell you a secret that could crash the American economy. So keep this to yourself… My brother sells ladies handbags for twenty-five cents. They open at the top. They zipper. And they have a strap to make it easy to carry things around. Still, my daughters both have bags that cost $300 and scream status. (Thanks to their mother. I’d never spend that much money on something so frivolous.)

So why do we spend so much money on things when we don’t need to? According to The Economist, it’s all about sex.

I wonder if we’ll ever evolve to a world where labels don’t make us special. Where frugality reigns and men select women who buy a $10 bag instead of wasting $300. Wouldn’t that be a lifelong recipe for happiness? Men continually complain about how much money their wives spend. Why not pick one who is frugal from the beginning?

Ladies, would you be caught dead with a twenty-five cent handbag? Or would it make you feel smarter than the average mom?

ABOUT THE BOOK

Lorado Martin has loved junk since his grandparents took him bottle digging in the backwoods of New England when he was a boy. The search for antiques and collectibles led him to a unique hobby: digging through the estates of the newly deceased, arranging the sale of goods for the heirs, and keeping the leftovers for himself.

To make a living he builds and maintains housing for recovering addicts and along the way he’s employed a number of his clients. The men wrestle with the siren call of drugs and teach Lorado about the difficult struggle to stay clean one day at a time.

When these two worlds come together, Lorado learns that not every elderly person dies of natural causes and that some estates are sold to benefit a killer. His latest project hits close to home. A woman he’s known since childhood haunts him from a fresh grave. Her grandson, an affable addict who has fallen off the wagon, stands to inherit a considerable sum whether he deserves it or not.

Read an excerpt:

Chapter One
February 17th. Nineteen degrees on a Friday night and I was tucked in a dead lady’s bed trying to convince myself the pressure in my gut wasn’t worth risking the cold oak and then the bathroom tiles. Sound miserable? Not for me. I wasn’t thinking about the punk heir or how silly I looked in a pink comforter covered with big red roses. I was a pig, belly deep in mud. No part of me wanted to move because I’d been treasure hunting all day. Everything was sore, especially my right elbow, but I wouldn’t change a thing.
You’re probably laughing. Picturing a fat guy in a pink blanket who fancied himself a pirate. I was no swashbuckler. Unwanted treasure was my specialty. New England might not have had gold or oil, but it was packed with loot.My ancestors were either cowards or laggards. They landed on the Mayflower and walked inland far enough to get away from the Atlantic storm surge, but not so far they couldn’t run back to the boat if the Indians attacked. I couldn’t run back. I could walk if I lost a few pounds. Okay, probably not.
Every winter New Englanders dreamed of moving to Florida or South Carolina. Adventurous souls picked some island the rest of us had never heard of like Turks and Caicos. Not me. The South Coast was exactly where I belonged. New Bedford was the whaling capital of the world. Every old geezer who croaked had some scrimshaw or an oil lamp or something that had been around a few hundred years.In the old days people had a bottle dump at the back corner of the foundation. Old timers scoured the woods and picked through old homesteads that had rotted into the ground. My grandparents took me along sometimes. They built tiers of wooden shelves in their cellar, a spooky mildew-coated place that had one of the last stone foundations built in the area. They collected thousands of bottles from two-toned brown jugs to tiny blue medicine bottles. One day I found a Fairbanks & Beard soda bottle and my grandfather gave me ten bucks for it. Ten bucks for something I dug out of the ground! I was hooked.I didn’t wait for houses to fall down and their foundations to fill with leaves like my grandparents did. Yuppie kids called me even before their last parent was buried. They saw a house worth two hundred thousand, some cash, and investments. They browsed the jewelry and they were done. The rest of the stuff was just in the way. A bunch of junk that kept them from the big score. They wanted everything gone so buyers could start looking at the house.That was my domain. All the stuff they didn’t want. Some of it was worth a whole lot more than that old F & B bottle with the green glass and jagged top. My last thirty years were dedicated to learning the difference.
At forty miles per hour I could spot a barrel of Lincoln Logs in somebody’s trash and slam the brakes in time to swing around and pick them out before the garbage truck got there. Put me in an old lady’s house and I was in heaven.Everyone had some useless crap that never should have been made in the first place. Once that was gone, every single thing left was useful to somebody. The trick was matching them up. Every fork, can opener, end table, and cheesy 1970’s lamp was dying to make someone happy.In about a week I could have a house open for sale. Posted on Craigslist. In the Standard Times classifieds. A cardboard sign on every main road.

The people would fill the place shoulder to shoulder. Browsing. Smiling and sharing reminders of their childhood. Kids would pick up useless junk and laugh. An hour later an old lady would buy the very same piece. Young and old alike were struck with a combination of nostalgia and bargain fever, but every person who walked through the door had one problem. They were all trying to forget someone died in that house not long ago.
Death never bothered me much.

There’s nothing wrong with dead stuff. Road kill could make a great hat if the bumper didn’t poke a hole in the pelt. It was awful hard to mess up a raccoon’s tail with a car and those rings looked pisser dangling down the back of your neck. When you were seventeen anyway. Or maybe twenty. The raccoon didn’t care. He was gone.
People were different. They knew death was coming and didn’t want to entertain the thought any longer than necessary. Sometimes they got angry when they died. Sometimes I could feel it. That night working in Mrs. Newbury’s house I swore the old lady was watching me. And she wasn’t happy about me rummaging through her stuff.

It wasn’t like she didn’t know I was coming. My parents had known her a long time. They went to school together back when Rochester kids went to New Bedford High. Decades ago.

A year ago she’d hired me to replace her kitchen cabinets. And she walked me through the house when I was done. Showed me her treasures. Pieces of scrimshaw squirreled away in the attic. Plates I had to Google to find out what they were worth. Mrs. Newbury had some great stuff. She knew her grandson, Newb, wouldn’t appreciate any of it. Her telling me was a sign she wanted me to make sure the valuable pieces weren’t thrown away.
Sometime between showing me her house and dying, she’d gotten angry and decided to take it out on my stomach. Maybe I was sleeping on Mr. Newbury’s side of the bed, but that shouldn’t have mattered. They were together in Heaven. Or at least they should have been.

Maybe she’d changed her mind about me selling her stuff to strangers. The closet cramped with fifty years of floral dresses and skirts. Two bureaus overflowing with scarves and socks and underwear. Boxes, purses, and shoe trees pressed into every available space. The clutter slumped against the walls parted just enough to reveal the oak flooring along the weaving path Mrs. Newbury followed to the bathroom. The night light’s glow gleamed off those precious few boards and my gaze fell there as I struggled to sleep in spite of being haunted.

Old people got out of bed to pee a lot. Well, they couldn’t pee a lot, that’s why they got up so often. Anyway, the thing they feared most was a fall at night when no one could hear them and come to help. If you’d seen my big blue coffee cup you’d know I needed to get up a time or two myself. And at three hundred twenty pounds, when I fell there was damage. So I left the night light on even though I wasn’t keen on anyone seeing me wrapped in the old lady’s pink comforter. I’d have been under the pink sheets and rose-patterned blankets, too, if I wasn’t so worried about bedbugs. The look wouldn’t have changed. Only the temperature.

It’d be just like Roxie to swing by for a little action and snap a picture from the doorway. She was a whiz with the Internet. She’d email it to all our friends before I could get dressed and chase her home.
Giving her a key to job sites was a risk, but who knows what’d happen in those old neighborhoods. Junkies read the obits. They’d hack out every length of copper from the cellar if they thought no one was home. If they caught me sleeping and roughed me up, maybe she’d call the cops and save my ass. More likely she’d come by to give me a piece of hers. Sadly, three days after Valentine’s my stomach hurt so much I hoped she wouldn’t come.

My gut rumbled and I pulled the comforter tighter. Damned unromantic.
Wind whistled against the toothless exterior and found its way in through gaps around the windows. I’d pitched the kid a siding and window replacement job, but the only thing the vulture wanted was his grandmother’s place gone in a rush. Forsythia slapped the shingles and tickled the glass. The bushes could have been cut back enough in a day so you could see the street from the windows. The briars and scrub out back mowed with a brush cutter in three hours. Two hundred bucks to triple the yard and jack up the sale price at least three times that. No deal. No cash was going into grandma’s house. He wanted me to wring out every penny. Every cent he could get without lifting a finger or spending a dime.

Thankless cheapskate I worked for. Even worse when he worked for me.
A knot in my gut twisted so tight I forgot my annoyance with the kid.

The cramps forced me to wrestle out of the comforter and lumber down the path, hunched over in the dark, cradling my gut in my arms. On my second step, something jabbed the meat of my right foot. It pressed in so deeply, I hopped and crashed my right shoulder into the doorframe.
I swiped at the sole of my foot, feeling for blood, expecting a staple or a tack. A bit of broken plastic was all I found. It bounced into a corner for me to step on again later. The jostling hurt so much I thought my stomach was going to erupt horizontally. I wished I’d just kept walking and let the plastic burrow its way in. It would have been a lot less painful.

Four hobbled steps carried me through the hall into a bathroom that had been designed for tiny old people. Her toilet was wedged in a corner between the closet and the window. I leaned against the wall. Ignored the ceramic toilet paper dispenser digging into my knee. The cold air rushing through the window. Balanced there in the dark, the pain radiated lower.

Giving birth had to feel like this. It hurt too much to push. It hurt too much not to push.

The contents of my bowels willed themselves free with a liquid rush that went on far longer than should have been humanly possible. Stuff I’d eaten days ago freed itself from my body in a torrent that released so much pressure it felt as good as any orgasm.

Then my entire body seized in a cramp that folded me in half.

Women complain about cramps like it’s the end of the world. If this was what having a period was like, I’d take back every menstrual joke I ever told.

Forty minutes later I was still sitting there with the seat jammed so firmly into my backside the impression wouldn’t fade for a week. I’ll spare you the details, but stuff kept squirting out of me until I swore my intestines were inside out, hanging down there in the bowl getting a rinse.

I hate doctors almost as much as I hate health plans and the government sponsored socialist crap that forced me to pay for something I didn’t want so some lowlife could get free healthcare. My right elbow had hurt for two years before that night and I hadn’t seen a doctor yet. I’d rather wake up wincing in pain than pay some rich boy two hundred bucks to talk with me for seven minutes.
That night it hurt so badly I might have called an ambulance if I could have gotten my pants back on. Might have driven myself in if I could have taken a step away from the porcelain throne, but I was tethered by unrelenting cramps and the fear of my insides splashing all over everything if I stood up.
I clutched my gut and leaned forward, praying that somehow the pain would pass and I’d make it back to bed. Sleep would set me right. Little did I know sleep was coming in a rush. A nasty cramp hunched me right over forward and my foot slipped.

The bolt of pain in my groin erased any memory of the cramps. Blinding, mind-erasing pain that only men experience. My arms shot down to catch myself on the seat and free my crushed testicle.

The toilet seat broke free under my weight and I leapfrogged forward. The sharp edge of the vanity creased my forehead. That was the last pain I felt that night. My vision faded like an old tube TV, closing in from the outside to a point of light. As I lost consciousness I had the distinct feeling the old woman was cackling with delight.

Purchase Links:

AMAZON link
Barnes & Noble link

GoodReads link

Follow CJ’s tour here where you can enter to win a copy of Dinner At Deadman’s.

Giveaway, Guest Author, Showcase

Guest Author Stacy Green and Giveaway

CMash December 14, 2012 7 Comments

So many amazing authors and books, so little time. I’m sure a lot of you will agree with me. When I was contacted by today’s guest, and she explained to me about her charity, I wanted the chance to introduce her to you. Please help me welcome Ms. Stacy Green to our group!

STACY GREEN

Stacy Green is fascinated by the workings of the criminal mind and explores true crime on her popular Thriller Thursday posts at her blog, Turning the Page.

After earning her degree in journalism, Stacy worked in advertising before becoming a stay-at-home mom to her miracle child. She rediscovered her love of writing and wrote several articles for Women’s Edition Magazine of Cedar Rapids, profiling local businesses, before penning her first novel. Her debut novel, Into The Dark, is set in Las Vegas and features a heroine on the edge of disaster, a tormented villain, and the city’s infamous storm drains that house hundreds of homeless. Available November 30^th, Into the Dark may be purchased for Kindle, Nook, Ipad, Kobo and all other digital formats, and on paperback via Amazon.
Connect with Stacy at her website, Facebook, Twitter and Email:
Stacygreenauthor@gmail.com

GUEST POST

I’m very happy to be visiting Cheryl’s blog today. One of the themes in my debut novel, Into The Dark, is about moving on from the past. Both main characters–Emilie and Nathan–struggle with bad decisions made years before, and throughout the book, have to learn from the past in order to ultimately save Emilie’s life.

I didn’t set out with that theme. I just created two characters with littered pasts because I love tortured characters. It wasn’t until halfway through writing Into The Dark that I realized I was drawing on my own personal issues.

My past is nothing like Emilie or Nathan’s, and yet, there are a few major decisions I wish I could take back. Decisions I’ve regretted for years and allowed to affect my outlook on life. In the grand scheme of things, they aren’t huge issues. I chose to major in journalism and put my fiction writing aside, and because I didn’t love what I was doing, I didn’t focus on my career like I should have. That meant not getting the big-time job I was supposed to. Instead, I got married–a decision I don’t regret–the day after I graduated college and took a paltry job at a little paper. I quickly realized I hated reporting, but I’d backed myself into a corner. Years (and huge loans) of college education wasted–or so I thought.

I eventually ended up in advertising until I had my daughter in 2005 and decided to stay home with her–another decision I don’t regret. But I still carried the guilt for my past decisions and felt as though I’d failed everyone who expected me to “be somebody.”

It wasn’t until September 30^th, 2009 that I got my head out of my rear. I’d just dropped my daughter off at daycare for a few hours and was on my way home on a road I travel every day. A road just a few blocks from our house. I was texting and driving. I turned right onto the road, and just ahead was a bridge. I looked down at my phone, and when I looked back up, my Intrepid was about to hit the curved concrete sidewall of the bridge. I braced for impact and remember thinking, “we cannot afford this.” But instead of hitting the bridge and stopping, the car ramped up the curved side, flipped over, skidded across the road on its hood, and ended up facing the opposite direction.
Suddenly the car stops, and I’m hanging upside down, saved by my seatbelt. That’s when the panic hit. All I could think of was “get out, get out, you’re going to get hit.” Both front doors were crushed from the impact, so I had to crawl through the back and out the passenger door.

It wasn’t until I got out of the car and to the side of the road that I realized I’d never let go of my phone. Mercifully, I walked away with only bruises, but the car was totaled. Another round of guilt set in, because my stupidity had earned us a car payment to deal with.

But then I realized I could have died. And I’d wasted so much time feeling sorry for myself, feeling guilty, and not doing the one thing I’ve always been passionate about–writing. And life is simply too short to waste our time being miserable.

So I got serious about writing and my dreams of being published. The idea for Into The Dark had been in my head for a while, and I started the journey of writing it. And because writing what we know is natural, letting go of the past quickly became the theme of my book. It’s taken a long time, but I’ve learned not to live with regrets and to keep looking to the future. We are the only ones who can change our lives, and there’s no reason to wait until tomorrow to get started.

To celebrate the release of INTO THE DARK, I’m giving you THREE ways to win a $25 Amazon Gift Card! Any one of these options will get your name into the drawing, which runs from November 1^st until the end of my blog tour on January 30^th. (see details below)

ABOUT THE BOOK

A two-hundred-mile labyrinth of dark storm drains serves as a refuge for the delusional stalker who will go to any lengths to possess fragile, emotionally isolated Emilie Davis. To survive, Emilie will have to confront the secrets of her past she has kept locked away from everyone, including herself.
Emilie is a master escape artist—she’s fled a manipulative mother and a controlling ex-husband. But it’s impossible to evade a stalker who uses a bank robbery as a ruse to kidnap her. He’s still out there, hiding in the Las Vegas tunnels and dodging police. Emilie’s life careens out of control as her assailant continues his pursuit. She has nowhere to turn but to Nathan Madigan, the hostage negotiator who worked the robbery.
Nathan is haunted by his failure to protect a loved one fourteen years ago and dedicates his life to saving others. Determined to catch the lunatic hunting Emilie, he finds himself losing his professional detachment. He fears history is about to repeat itself if he cannot protect Emilie from the Taker’s obsession.

The police close in on the Taker’s identity as Nathan and Emilie grow closer to each other and to resolving the misery of their own pasts. At the height of The Taker’s madness, his attempt to replace someone he’s lost will either kill them all or set them free.
Purchase links: Amazon (PB) Amazon (EBook) B&N Muse

Read an excerpt:

Nathan peered through the chain link fence. “Is that it?”
“I didn’t even know this culvert was here.” Chris started to climb. “I drive over it every day, too.”
“That’s why they call them box culverts,” Johnson said from the other side of the fence. “You don’t see them unless you’re walking inside.”
“Why couldn’t we just cut this thing down?” Nathan huffed as he made the short trip up and over the wobbly chain link barrier. They were several blocks north of the raucous Freemont Street Experience and looking into the mouth of one of the storm drain entrances.
“Because no one in Metro wants to deal with the city officials over it,” Johnson said.
“Talk about spook central.” Nathan shined his light toward the culvert. Bathed in shadows, it stood silent and empty. A chill of foreboding washed over him.
“Watch yourselves.” Johnson led the way as the three men entered the culvert, weapons ready. “Anything could be lurking.”
Standing water covered the toes of Nathan’s boots. The air was thick with mildew. “Drain’s over there.” He shined his tactical light on the flood map. “To the right.”
The temperature dropped as they entered the large drain. Darkness engulfed them.
Chris’s whistle cut through the eerie stillness. “Wow. It’s a hell of a lot cooler in here. Place smells like feet, but I’ll take what I can get.”
Nathan shined his light on the walls. Colorful graffiti decorated the concrete. “Someone’s a talented artist.”
The darkness thickened with each step. The odor grew increasingly foul.
“Jesus, I can taste the stench in my mouth.” Chris gagged and spit into the dirty water.
Nathan didn’t respond. He was too busy trying to keep the contents of his stomach down and wondering how the people who lived in the tunnels stood the smell and the constant dangers. The drains provided relief from the sweltering desert heat, and free housing, but they were death traps. Large portions ran directly underneath the city streets and inhabitants risked carbon monoxide poisoning and the frequent threat of flooding. Growing up poor in North Las Vegas gave him a better perspective than many, but he couldn’t imagine having no other alternative than to live minute-by-minute.
“We shouldn’t run into any camps,” Johnson said. “They’re deeper in. One of the biggest is right under the Strip.”
“You know we aren’t going to find shit,” Chris choked out. “It’s too dark. Guy planned this for months. He knows his way around. We need to get out of here and check on Adam.”
“Medic called me when they got him to the hospital,” Johnson said. “He’s going into surgery. All we’d be doing right now is sitting around waiting. Still have to do our jobs, Holt.”
“He’s just a rookie. I should have been in front of him.”
“Stop,” Nathan said. “You followed protocol. That was a lucky shot.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
Silence fell over the men as they moved farther into the stinking drain. Something hard crunched underneath Nathan’s boots. He nervously shined his light into the black water. Crawfish swam around his feet, probably on their way to the Las Vegas Wash. A mushy white glob looking suspiciously like used toilet paper floated by, and he focused his light away from the stream. Better not to know what he was stepping on.
A loud splash ahead brought all three to a halt.
“You hear that?” Johnson asked.
“Sounds big.” Chris stepped in front of Johnson and raised his Glock.
“Las Vegas SWAT,” Johnson shouted. “Identify yourself.”
Nothing.
“Maybe it was an animal,” Nathan said.
“That’s even worse than a junkie,” Chris said. “With my luck, Cujo’s
man-eating cousin will show up and give me rabies.”
“They have shots for that now.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”
A second loud splash was followed by the distinct sound of footsteps plodding through the water.
“That’s no dog.” Chris sprinted after the runner with Nathan and Johnson closely following. The beams of their lights flashed haphazardly against the walls making the tunnel even more ominous.
A strange brightness glowed several yards ahead of them. Their quarry came into view. He was too short and stocky to be their man, but he could have information.

Stacy is hosting an incredible Charity giveaway. Here are the directions:

1) Go to the Darkly Fabulous Contest page on my blog and leave a note about which blog you heard of me at. Make sure you are logged in or have left your email address.

2) Donate to HELP of Southern Nevada. The INTO THE DARK Charity Blog Tour is the most important part of my promotion, because I’m trying to raise money for the homeless. You can go to HELP of Southern Nevada, the organization that aids the homeless featured in INTO THE DARK, and donate. Email me the receipt – all you’ve got to do is copy and paste proof of the order into the email. No personal information needed.

3) Email me your receipt of purchase of INTO THE DARK (personal info excluded) OR answer this question: in what state was the Taker born and raised? Email me your answer @ Stacygreenauthor@gmail.com

The homeless living in the storm drains of Las Vegas played a vital part in INTO THE DARK, and I want to give back. From November 1^st until February 28^th, participants will have several options to enter the raffle, including donating to HELP of Southern Nevada. The grand prize will be a $100 donation from me in the winner’s name to the homeless shelter of their choice.

Enter here for the INTO THE DARK Charity Raffle!

Guest Author, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Guest Author Jon Land and Giveaway

CMash December 12, 2012 5 Comments

I have the distinct honor to introduce you to the very busy, multi talented author and fellow Rhode Islander, as he kicks off his virtual tour with Partners In Crime Tours. I ask, if you would please assist me, in giving Mr. Jon Land a very warm welcome to CMash Reads!

JON LAND

Jon Land is the critically acclaimed author of 32 books, including the bestselling series featuring Texas Ranger Caitlin Strong that includes STRONG ENOUGH TO DIE, STRONG JUSTICE, STRONG AT THE BREAK, STRONG VENGEANCE (July 2012) and STRONG RAIN FALLING (August 2013). He has more recently brought his long-time series hero Blaine McCracken back to the page in PANDORA’S TEMPLE (November 2012). He lives in Providence, Rhode Island.

Websites & Links: www.jonlandbooks.com

ABOUT THE BOOK

What if Pandora’s box was real. That’s the question facing Former Special Forces commando and rogue agent Blaine McCracken who returns from a 15-year absence from the page in his tenth adventure.

McCracken has never been shy about answering the call, and this time it comes in the aftermath of deepwater oilrig disaster that claims the life of a one-time mem-ber of his commando unit. The remnants of the rig and its missing crew lead him to the inescapable conclusion that one of the most mysterious and deadly forces in the Universe is to blame—dark matter, both a limitless source of potential energy and a weapon with unimaginable destructive capabilities.

Joining forces again with his trusty sidekick Johnny Wareagle, McCracken races to stop both an all-powerful energy magnate and the leader of a Japanese dooms-day cult from finding the dark matter they seek for entirely different, yet equally dangerous, reasons. Ultimately, that race will take him not only across the world, but also across time and history to the birth of an ancient legend that may not have been a legend at all. The truth lies 4,000 years in the past and the construction of the greatest structure known to man at the time:

Pandora’s Temple, built to safeguard the most powerful weapon man would ever know.

Now, with that very weapon having resurfaced, McCracken’s only hope to save the world is to find the temple, the very existence of which is shrouded in mystery and long lost to myth. Along the way, he and Johnny Wareagle find themselves up against Mexican drug gangs, killer robots, an army of professional assassins, and a legendary sea monster before reaching a mountaintop fortress where the fi-nal battle to preserve mankind will be fought.

The hero of nine previous bestselling thrillers, McCracken is used to the odds be-ing stacked against him, but this time the stakes have never been higher.
Watch for my review in the near future.

Read an excerpt:

The Mediterranean Sea, 2008“It would help, sir, if I knew what we were looking for,” Captain John J. Hightower of the Aurora said to the stranger he’d picked up on the island of Crete.

The stranger remained poised by the research ship’s deck rail, gazing out into the turbulent seas beyond. His long gray hair, dangling well past his shoulders in tangles and ringlets, was damp with sea spray, left to the whims of the wind.

“Sir?” Hightower prodded again.

The stranger finally turned, chuckling. “You called me sir. That’s funny.”

“I was told you were a captain,” said Hightower

“In name only, my friend.”

“If I’m your friend,” Hightower said, “you should be able to tell me what’s so important that our current mission was scrapped to pick you up.”

Beyond them, the residue of a storm from the previous night kept the seas choppy with occasional frothy swells that rocked the Aurora even as she battled the stiff winds to keep her speed steady. Gray-black clouds swept across the sky, colored silver at the tips where the sun pushed itself forward enough to break through the thinner patches. Before long, Hightower could tell, those rays would win the battle to leave the day clear and bright with the seas growing calm. But that was hardly the case now.

“I like your name,” came the stranger’s airy response. Beneath the orange life jacket, he wore a Grateful Dead tie dye t-shirt and old leather vest that was fraying at the edges and missing all three of its buttons. So faded that the sun made it look gray in some patches and white in others. His eyes, a bit sleepy and almost drunken, had a playful glint about them. “I like anything with the word ‘high.’ You should rethink your policy about no smoking aboard the ship, if it’s for medicinal purposes only.”

“I will, if you explain what we’re looking for out here.”

“Out here” was the Mediterranean Sea where it looped around Greece’s ancient, rocky southern coastline. For four straight days now, the Aurora had been mapping the sea floor in detailed grids in search of something of unknown size, composition and origin; or, at least, known only by the man Hightower had mistakenly thought was a captain by rank. Hightower’s ship was a hydrographic survey vessel. At nearly thirty meters in length with a top speed of just under twenty-five knots, the Aurora had been commissioned just the previous year to fashion nautical charts to ensure safe navigation by military and civilian shipping, tasked with conducting seismic surveys of the seabed and underlying geology. A few times since her commission, the Aurora and her eight-person crew had been re-tasked for other forms of oceanographic research, but her high tech air cannons, capable of generating high-pressure shock waves to map the strata of the seabed, made her much more fit for more traditional assignments.

“How about I give you a hint?” the stranger said to Hightower. “It’s big.”

“How about I venture a guess?”

“Take your best shot, dude.”

“I know a military mission when I see one. I think you’re looking for a weapon.”

“Warm.”

“Something stuck in a ship or submarine. Maybe even a sunken wreck from years, even centuries ago.”

“Cold,” the man Hightower knew only as “Captain” told him. “Well, except for the centuries ago part. That’s blazing hot.”

Hightower pursed his lips, frustration getting the better of him. “So are we looking for a weapon or not?”

“Another hint, Captain High: only the most powerful ever known to man,” the stranger said with a wink. “A game changer of epic proportions for whoever finds it. Gotta make sure the bad guys don’t manage that before we do. Hey, did you know marijuana’s been approved to treat motion sickness?”

Hightower could only shake his head. “Look, I might not know exactly you’re looking for, but whatever it is, it’s not here. You’ve got us retracing our own steps, running hydrographs in areas we’ve already covered. Nothing ‘big,’ as you describe it, is down there.”

“I beg to differ, el Capitan.”

“Our depth sounders have picked up nothing, the underwater cameras we launched have picked up nothing, the ROVS have picked up nothing.”

“It’s there,” the stranger said with strange assurance, holding his thumb and index finger together against his lips as if smoking an imaginary joint.

“Where?”

“We’re missing something, el Capitan. When I figure out what it is, I’ll let you know.”

Before Hightower could respond, the seas shook violently. On deck it felt as if something had tried to suck the ship underwater, only to spit it up again. Then a rumbling continued, thrashing the Aurora from side to side like a toy boat in a bathtub. Hightower finally recovered his breath just as the rumbling ceased, leaving an eerie calm over the sea suddenly devoid of waves and wind for the first time that morning.

“This can’t be good,” said the stranger, tightening the straps on his life vest.

* * *

The ship’s pilot, a young, thick-haired Greek named Papadopoulos, looked up from the nest of LED readouts and computer-operated controls on the panel before him, as Hightower entered the bridge.

“Captain,” he said wide-eyed, his voice high and almost screeching, “seismic centers in Ankara, Cairo and Athens are all reporting a sub-sea earthquake measuring just over six on the scale.”

“What’s the epi?”

“Forty miles northeast of Crete and thirty from our current position,” Papadopoulos said anxiously, a patch of hair dropping over his forehead.

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Hightower.

“Tsunami warning is high,” Papadopoulos continued, even as Hightower formed the thought himself.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, we are in for the ride of our lives!” blared the stranger, pulling on the tabs that inflated his life vest with a soft popping sound. “If I sound excited it’s ‘cause I’m terrified, dudes!”

“Bring us about,” the captain ordered. “Hard back to the Port of Piraeus at all the speed you can muster.”

“Yes, sir!”

Suddenly the bank of screens depicting the seafloor in a quarter mile radius directly beneath them sprang to life. Readings flew across accompanying monitors, orientations and graphic depictions of whatever the Aurora’s hydrographic equipment and underwater cameras had located appearing in real time before Hightower’s already wide eyes.

“What the hell is—“

“Found it!” said the stranger before the ship’s captain could finish.

“Found what?” followed Hightower immediately. “This is impossible. We’ve already been over this area. There was nothing down there.”

“Earthquake must’ve changed that in a big way, el Capitan. I hope you’re recording all this.”

“There’s nothing to record. It’s a blip, an echo, a mistake.”

“Or exactly what I came out here to find. Big as life to prove all the doubters wrong.”

“Doubters?”

“Of the impossible.”

“That’s what you brought us out here for, a fool’s errand?”

“Not anymore.”

The stranger watched as a central screen mounted beneath the others continued to form a shape massive in scale, an animated depiction extrapolated from all the data being processed in real time.

“Wait a minute, is that a . . . It looks like— My God, it’s some kind of structure!“

“You bet!”

“Intact at that depth? Impossible! No, this is all wrong.”

“Hardly, el Capitan.”

“Check the readouts, sir. According to the depth gauge, your structure’s located five hundred feet beneath the seafloor. Where I come from, they call that impos—“

Hightower’s thought ended when the Aurora seemed to buckle, as if it had hit a roller coaster-like dip in the sea. The sensation was eerily akin to floating, the entire ship in the midst of an out-of-body experience, leaving Hightower feeling weightless and light-headed.

“Better fasten your seatbelts, dudes,” said the stranger, eyes fastened through the bridge windows at something that looked like a waterfall pluming on the ship’s aft side.

Hightower had been at sea often and long enough to know this to be a gentle illusion belying something much more vast and terrible: in this case, a giant wave of froth that gained height as it crystallized in shape. It was accompanied by a thrashing sound that shook the Aurora as it built in volume and pitch, felt by the bridge’s occupants at their very cores like needles digging into their spines.

“Hard about!” Hightower ordered Papadopoulos. “Steer us into it!”

It was, he knew, the ship’s only chance for survival, or would have been, had the next moments not shown the great wave turning the world dark as it reared up before them. The Aurora suddenly seemed to lift into the air, climbing halfway up the height of the monster wave from a calm sea that had begun to churn mercilessly in an instant. A vast black shadow enveloped the ship in the same moment intense pressure pinned the occupants of the bridge to their chairs or left them feeling as if their feet were glued to the floor. Then there was nothing but an airless abyss dragging darkness behind it.

“Far out, man!” Hightower heard the stranger blare in the last moment before the void claimed him.

BOOK DETAILS:
Genre: Thriller
Published by: Open Road Integrated Media
Publication Date: November 20, 2012
Number of Pages: 390
Purchase links: Amazon B&N IndieBound

Follow Jon’s tour here and enter to win a copy of Pandora’s Temple

THANKS TO AUTHOR, JON LAND, FOR THIS AMAZING GIVEAWAY:
Mr. Land will be giving away 1 ebook set of his McCracken
titles published through Open Road Media.
THE OMEGA COMMAND
THE ALPHA DECEPTION
THE GAMMA OPTION
THE OMICRON LEGION
THE VENGEANCE OF THE TAU
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Guest Author, Showcase, WOW Tours

Guest Authors Hollye Dexter and Amy Ferris

CMash December 11, 2012 1 Comment

If you are a visitor here at CMash Reads, then you know that Jodi, from WOW! Women On Writing, has introduced us to many amazing female writers. And today, we are in for a special treat, we are going to meet 2 authors. So without further ado, Ms. Hollye Dexter and Amy Ferris!!

HOLLYE DEXTER AMY FERRIS

About the Co-Editors:

Hollye Dexter recently completed a second memoir, What Doesn’t Kill You. Her essays have been published in anthologies (Chicken Soup For the Soul, Answered Prayers, and Character Consciousness) and in many online publications. She writes regularly for iPinion Syndicate and AOL Patch News. A singer/songwriter with four albums out, she also founded the award-winning nonprofit Art and Soul, running workshops for teenagers in the foster care system. In 2007 she received the Agape Spirit award from Dr. Michael Beckwith (from The Secret) for her work with at-risk youth. Together, with Amy Ferris she teaches writing workshops, helping others to find their authentic voices. She is on staff for the San Miguel Writer’s Conference and a visiting author at UCLA extension. She lives in Southern California with her husband and three children, where she hikes, plays music and blogs about living an authentic life at www.hollyedexter.blogspot.com

Amy Ferris is an author, editor, screenwriter and playwright. Her memoir, Marrying George Clooney, Confessions From a Midlife Crisis (Seal Press) is off-broadway bound, CAP21 Theater Company, March 2012. She has contributed to numerous anthologies, and has written everything from Young Adult novels to movies and films. She co-wrote Funny Valentines (Julie Dash, Director), and Mr. Wonderful (Anthony Minghella, Director). Funny Valentines was nominated for a Best Screenplay award, and numerous BET awards. She co-created and co-edited the first ever “all women’s issue” of Living Buddhism magazine. She serves on the Executive Board of Directors at The Pages & Places Literary Festival, Peters Valley Arts, Education and Craft Center, and is on the Advisory Board of The Women’s Media Center. She is on faculty at The San Miguel de Allende Writers Conference. She is a visiting teacher at the UCLA Writers Workshop (extension). She contributes regularly to iPinion Syndicate. Her number one goal, desire, dream: Is that all women awaken to their greatness. You can find her blogging in the middle of the night at www.marryinggeorgeclooney.com. She lives in Pennsylvania with her husband, Ken.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Whether it was the one-night stand you always regretted, the family secret you never revealed, or the emotional abuse you endured in silence, there are some things you are so ashamed of you keep them hidden for a lifetime. Shame can hold you back from what you love, diminish your sense of self-worth, and prevent you from fully being who you are. But what happens when you finally relent and share that secret burden?

In Dancing at the Shame Prom: Sharing the Stories That Kept Us Small (September 18, 2012, Seal Press), editors Amy Ferris and Hollye Dexter encourage readers to confront this powerful emotion head-on. They gather together 27 gifted and talented writers who reveal, explore, and embrace the root of their shame, in the process demonstrating the strength that comes from defeating their demons.

In a brilliant display of bravery, these writers share their darkest fears, offer up their most vulnerable moments, and reveal jaw-dropping secrets. Journalist Nina Burleigh discusses the shame she felt at being coerced into posing for “artsy” naked photos in “Year of the Rat.” In “Playing Dead Under the Family Tree,” Monica Holloway shows how her husband’s infidelity initially isolates her with the shame of being alone. Meredith Resnick’s story “Original Bra” weaves together her complicated feelings about body image with her quest to buy her first bra. From spilling long forbidden secrets to revealing their innermost faults, these authors openly share poignant and life-changing moments of humiliation, embarrassment, and despair, along with the wisdom they learned from letting go of the shame that’s been weighing them down.

Freeing, provocative, and audacious, Dancing at the Shame Prom is about divulging the secrets that have made you feel small so that you can stand up straight, let the shame go, and finally—decisively—move on with your life.
Watch for my review in the near future.

THANKS TO CO-EDITORS, HOLLYE DEXTER & AMY FERRIS,
I HAVE ONE COPY OF THIS BOOK TO GIVE AWAY
PRINT-U.S. AND CANADA RESIDENTS OR EBOOK-OPEN TO ALL

CLICK HERE TO BRING YOU TO
THE GIVEAWAY ENTRY PAGE

DISCLAIMER
I received a copy of this book, at no charge to me,
in exchange for my honest review.
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.

Book Review, Guest Author, Showcase, The Story Plant, The Story Plant

Guest Author & Review “Leaves” by Michael Baron

CMash December 8, 2012 Leave a Comment

I am thrilled, no, ecstatic, no, jumping up and down excited, YES!!!

Please indulge me with this introduction. When I first went public with the former CMash Loves To Read, Mr. Aronica, publisher of The Story Plant contacted me to read and review one of his author’s novels, Crossing The Bridge by Michael Baron. And the novel blew me away. Mr Baron went on my “authors to read” list and I have read every one of his books since.

In August of this year, through The Story Plant’s Spread The Word Initiative, I read and reviewed Mr. Baron’s latest novel, Leaves.

Some may know that I am the owner of Partners In Crime Tours, a virtual tour company for authors of mystery and suspense novels. Even though this has always been a favorite genre, I do also enjoy other categories. So on September 7th of this year, I launched Providence Book Promotions, for general literature. And I am honored and humbled for this opportunity that Mr. Aronica has bestowed on me. And that is to, kick off PBP, with one of my favorite authors, Mr. Michael Baron!!!!! YES!!!! I will be reposting my review from August, so without further ado, please help me give a warm welcome to Mr. Michael Baron!!

MICHAEL BARON

I grew up in the New York area and I’ve lived there my entire life. I worked in retail and taught high school English before I got my first book contract. I have gotten several additional book contracts since then, which is fortunate because I didn’t have the patience to work in retail and, while I quite enjoyed teaching, my approach was a bit too unconventional for most school systems. One school administrator told me that, “there are more important things than being a dynamic teacher.” Since I couldn’t name any of those things (at least in the context of school), I figured I didn’t have a long-term future in the profession. Hence, I became a writer, where I believe people appreciate a certain level of dynamism.

Though I started with nonfiction, I have always loved fiction and I have always wanted to write it. Since I can remember, I’ve had a particular affection for love stories. In fact, the very first book-length thing I ever wrote, when I was thirteen, was a love story. Mind you, it was the kind of love story that a thirteen-year-old boy would write, but it was a love story nonetheless. I have a deep passion for writing about relationships – family relationships, working relationships, friendships, and, of course, romantic relationships – and I can only truly explore this by writing fiction. These novels have given me a way to voice the millions of things running through my head.

My wife and kids are the center of my life. My wife is the inspiration for all of my love stories and my children enthrall me, challenge me, and keep me moving (and have served as the inspiration for several of the kids I’ve written about). One of the primary reasons I wrote my first novel,When You Went Away was that I wanted to write about being a father. Aside from my family, I have a few other burning passions. I’m a pop culture junkie with an especially strong interest in music, I love fine food (as well as any restaurant shaped like a hot dog), and I read far too many sports blogs for my own good.

You might have noticed that I haven’t published a photo of myself. This isn’t because I’m involved in the Witness Protection program or because I have an innate fear of cameras. It’s because Michael Baron is a pseudonym. I’m writing these novels “undercover” because they’re not entirely compatible with the nonfiction books I write, and I didn’t want to confuse readers. We’re all different people sometimes, right? I just decided to give my alter ego another name.

You can reach me at michael@michaelbaronbooks.com.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Welcome to Oldham, CT, a small town rich in Colonial heritage while being utterly contemporary. Situated along the Connecticut River Valley, Oldham bursts with color every fall, as the leaves on its trees evolve into an unmatched palette of scarlet, orange, purple, yellow, and bronze. For more than three decades, the Gold family has been a central part of Oldham in the fall, its Sugar Maple Inn a destination for “leaf-peepers” from all over the country, and its annual Halloween party a stirring way to punctuate the town’s most active month.
But this year, more than just the leaves are changing. With the death of their parents, the Gold siblings, Maria, Maxwell, Deborah, Corrina, and Tyler, have decided to sell the Sugar Maple Inn, and this year’s Halloween party will be the last. As October begins, the Golds contend with the finality that faces them, and the implications it has for a family that has always been so close. For some, it means embracing new challenges and new love. For others, it means taking on unimagined roles. And for others, it means considering the inconceivable. Complicating it all is a series of “hauntings” that touch each of the Gold siblings, a series of benign interventions that will remain a mystery until October draws to a close.
Filled with romance, tension, and unforgettable family drama, LEAVES is the first in a series of novels about a world and a family that readers will want to make their own.

Purchase links: Amazon B&N IndieBound

My review, originally posted August 29th, 2012

My Thoughts and Opinion:
Michael Baron has been compared to Nicholas Sparks, but since I have not read any of Mr. Sparks books I can’t compare, but what I do know is that when I first went public with my blog, Mr. Baron’s publisher contacted me to read the author’s book Crossing The Bridge and I instantly became a fan. However, I did recommended his books to another book blogger, Ann from Ann’s Reading Corner who has read Mr. Sparks’ novels and she stated “personally I like Michael’s novel much better than Sparks novels” (you can see her review here). Crossing The Bridge was a short read but written with such tenderness and emotion that it was hard to believe a male author had penned it. Since then I have read every book written by him and we have both grown. His books became full length novels, books that I would anxiously wait for and I am coming up on my 3rd blogiversary. His répertoire of books that I have read are The Journey Home, Anything, Spinning, When You Went Away, and A Winter Discovery. And now Leaves.

Leaves takes place over a period of less than a month’s time. Four siblings have decided that it is time to sell their parents Inn that they have helped with, even as children, since their parents have passed away. Their parents hosted a yearly event and would open the Inn’s door to the small and quaint town of Oldham with a big Halloween party. And this year will be bittersweet as it will be the last day before the new buyers take ownership the next day. In the days before the party, the reader is introduced to the siblings and also a look into their family dynamics.

Mr. Baron has the gift and ability to sweep you away from reality into the story like the winds of autumn sweeps the last leaves off the trees. The characters are so life like that they become one’s own family. The story felt like a real life event, whereas you are looking forward to see what happens as he counts down the days to the Halloween party but then on the other hand, you know that the story will end but don’t want it to be over. His manner of writing flows and is so realistic that it transports the reader right into the middle of the plot. This is the first time that I have read a book that every one of the senses was a vivid experience. Mr. Baron, has shared his music on Spotify to listen to and hear as you are reading, the details of Deborah’s cooking made my mouth water and could imagine the smells in the kitchen, I could create the imagery of seeing the settings, I was able to feel the emotions and tender touches of the characters. And as the days kept getting crossed off the calendar and getting close to the end, I didn’t know whether to read faster to see what happened or read slower so that I could savor this book and not have it end. The ending bittersweet, which I did not see coming (sorry but I will not include a spoiler). The ending is too special to even hint at what happens.

Knowing the style of Mr. Baron’s work, when I read the following from the prologue, I knew that this book, like his others, would tug at my heart strings, take me away and that I would have a difficult time putting it down.

For this October, certain threads would fray and certain binds would loosen. Unspoken words woud be uttered at last while things that needed to be said would be withheld. Tradition would be honored and the past would be rejected. One heart would beat for another’s for the first time, while one heart would stop beating forever. And a message would be delivered that was essential to all who heard it.

Mr. Baron’s, Leaves, is a poignant, compelling, moving, passionate, feel good read. Once the last word is read and the book closed, the characters live on in one’s heart and mind. An absolutely recommended read!!

Read an excerpt:

The River Edge Café had been open for business since the late ‘90s, when a husband-and-wife team made a killing during the tech stock boom and decided to “chuck it all” and follow their passion for fine food. Located on the water between Oldham and Essex, it was popular for its ambitious menu, its beautiful setting, and its attentive staff. However, it had recently lost two executive chefs in quick succession, leading to rumors that the owners were impossible taskmasters and maybe even a little abusive. Deborah didn’t necessarily believe these unfounded stories, but they made her wary through the entire interview process, and even now, in her third meeting with the couple, she wondered if there was something less than genuine behind Carla Bonner’s ubiquitous smile or Vince Travers’s persistence.
“We want you here, Deb,” Vince said. People didn’t really call her “Deb,” but Vince seemed to insist on it. He had been doing so since they first met half a decade ago. “There are maybe two dishes on the menu we think we need to keep. The entire rest of the menu would be yours.”
“It would be like having your own restaurant without the hassle of ownership,” Carla said. Deborah had been in precisely that situation her entire adult life, so she wasn’t sure why Carla thought this was a selling point.
“I’m completely willing to wait until the middle of November if you want to take a couple of weeks off between jobs,” Vince said. “Trina’s an excellent sous chef and she’s doing a great job of holding the fort for us. To be honest, if we weren’t so intent on recruiting you, we’d give her the job right now.”
“That’s very flattering,” Deborah said, wondering how resentful Trina would be of her if she decided to take the position.
This wasn’t the first offer Deborah had received, though it was certainly the most aggressive. She got a couple of calls as soon as word got out about the sale of the Inn. The people buying the Sugar Maple even made her an extremely attractive offer to stay precisely where she was. She never seriously considered it, though. It was hard enough cooking there now that both of her parents were gone. It would be impossible to take direction there from someone else and even harder to watch the inevitable changes they made. Deborah imagined herself collapsing into tears the first time they replaced a table lamp. She was convinced that when she walked out of the Inn at the end of the Halloween party she would never again set foot in the place just so she could remember it forever the way she wanted.
None of the offers she’d received so far had seemed very appealing. She knew that she was running the risk of seeming like a prima donna and she also knew that she should be eternally grateful for the attention, but she couldn’t allow herself to take a position unless it sang out to her. She even considered trying to find a job in a diner or a coffee shop somewhere – something completely one-dimensional with little or no room for personal investment – just to recalibrate. But of course that was ridiculous. How long could she flip burgers before she started slipping exotic ingredients into the ground beef? She had enough money saved to get by for about six months, and if it took that long to find the right spot, that was fine with her.
“I’m not trying to flatter you,” Vince said. “I’m trying to employ you. Your customers will flatter you every time the waitstaff delivers one of your inventions.”
Deborah smiled. The “Deb” thing aside, she’d always liked Vince and she wished the rumors weren’t causing her to question his sincerity. That was the pernicious thing about rumors.
“The package you’re offering is great,” she said, nodding to both Vince and Carla. “I’ve always been fond of this restaurant, and you have a great kitchen. I just need a couple of days.”
“Of course,” Carla said. “Take as long as you must.”
Vince patted her hand. “We’re here for you, Deb. Call me anytime if you have questions. I gave you our home number, right?”
“You did, yes. I just want to take a little longer to think. I’ll call you on Monday.”
Deborah stood and shook their hands. The fact was, she already made her decision, but it didn’t seem polite to turn them down flat. The River Edge Café was a fine restaurant and it did have a sensational kitchen. The more time she spent there, though, she realized there wasn’t anything about this place that felt like home.
She drove through downtown Oldham on the way back to the inn. Waiting for a couple of pedestrians to cross Hickory, she noticed the sign for Sage, the gourmet shop that had opened a couple of weeks earlier. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t visited it yet. When a car pulled out of the parking space across from the store, she decided the time was right. The store was in a moderately large space between a music store and a bookstore. Deborah had a hard time remembering what was in the space before (there had been several shops there over the past few years), but the new owner had done a great job of remodeling it. Lots of blond wood fixtures, warm lighting, and handwritten signage. There was a refrigerator case housing artisanal cheeses and sausages in understated, small-production packages.
Deborah liked being here immediately. Maybe it was the slack-key guitar music coming from the sound system or that one of the front tables was dedicated to the small Tuscan pasta manufacturer she “discovered” a couple of years ago and had used exclusively at the inn ever since. Deborah knew this would be a place she’d visit often. She’d been to all the gourmet shops in the area, and was frustrated by the sameness of them. It was almost as though some food rep came along and set each one up based on some model. This place had a decidedly individual point of view, though. The shelf of spices was an asymmetrical jumble of bottles and tins of different sizes. Next to it was a card that read, “This might not be the prettiest display of spices you’ve ever seen, but it’s hopefully the best. I’ve compared everything on this shelf to the competition and only carry the ones I love the most.” Deborah agreed about the mustard seed, the ground coriander, and the smoked paprika, but she would have chosen a different Telicherry peppercorn.
A man walked up to her while she was standing at the display. “Find anything you like?”
She turned to look at him. He was a little over six feet and lean. And he had very expressive eyes. “Krendahl has better peppercorns,” she said.
“You’re right, but they only sell from their catalog. I tried, believe me. They also import this fabulous five spice powder, but again, I couldn’t get it. Think I should change the card in the spirit of full disclosure?”
Deborah laughed. “Your secret is safe with me. You’re the owner?”
He extended his hand and Deborah took it. “Sage Mixon.”
“Deborah Gold. So the store is named after you and not after” – she reached for a bottle – “Brookfield’s hand-rubbed Albanian.”
He smiled. “You obviously know your spices. Are you in the food business?”
“I’m the chef at the Sugar Maple Inn – at least I am until the end of the month.”
“Moving on to bigger and better things?”
Deborah rolled her eyes. “That part isn’t at all certain at the moment.” She turned toward another display. “I’ve never seen these preserves before.”
“They’re incredible. They’re all made by a single dad out of a barn in New Hampshire. He sweetens them with a ‘proprietary blend’ of fruit juices and balances each with some kind of spice or infusion. The lemon marmalade is mind-boggling.” He picked up a jar and handed it to her. “He adds a touch of Thai basil. It’s amazing what happens.”
Deborah examined the jar in her hand. If nothing else, Sage was an excellent salesman. Of course she would buy this. Before she did, though, she spent another half hour in the store walking from display to display. Sage stayed with her when he wasn’t helping other customers, and it became obvious that there was a story behind everything he carried. She hoped the visitors who flitted in and out appreciated the thought that went into this. More importantly, she hoped that – appreciative or not – the visitors were plentiful. Oldham needed more stores like this one.
By the time she’d finished shopping, Deborah had the marmalade, a salsa from Nogales, a bottle of raspberry thyme vinegar made a half hour away, and a package of stroopwafels made in Montana, of all places. She didn’t need any of it. She certainly had access to just about everything she wanted from the network of suppliers she’d developed over the years. But it was fun buying here and she definitely wanted to support the place.
“Come again soon,” Sage said as he packaged her purchases. “I will. Definitely. Hey, come by the Inn for dinner sometime in the next month.”
“I might just do that. I mean if you know this much about food, you might actually be able to cook.”
Deborah laughed. “Yeah, it’s a possibility.”
He smiled and his eyes danced. Deborah would definitely be back soon.

Guest Author, Showcase

Guest Author Michaelene McElroy and Giveaway

CMash December 6, 2012 1 Comment

I am excited about today’s guest because this is her first time visiting us here at CMash Reads. I was contacted by frequent visitor, author and friend, Melissa Foster (Come Back To Me, Megan’s Way and more great books) to ask if I would host today’s guest. And every author that Melissa has recommended have been amazing authors. So there was no hesitation. I ask that you please help me welcome Michaelene McElroy to our group!!!

MICHAELENE McELROY

Michaelene McElroy makes her debut as an author with The Last Supper Catering Company. She lives on four acres in the woods on an island in the Puget Sound of Washington State where magic is ever present.
Visit Michaelene at her website, Facebook and Twitter.

ABOUT THE BOOK

The Last Supper Catering Company is the humorous and heartwarming story of B. Thankful Childe-Lucknow. Turned out with red corkscrew hair, one eye brown, the other green, and gifted with the power to hear the voices of the departed, B. Thankful is cast aside by the town, and lives an isolated upbringing in the woods with Big G, Little G, and Tyler Lucknow.

Tragedy, followed by the discovery of a long-forgotten paint-by-number picture of the Last Supper, thrusts B. Thankful from the safety of everything she has ever known.

Beyond the boundary of her sheltered life, B. Thankful discovers the world’s hard edges as well as its beauty. More importantly, with the help of a cast of quirky and tenderhearted souls (both earthly and heavenly), she discovers why God made her special.

Reviews:
“The Last Supper Catering Company is beautifully crafted, a throwback to a style half forgotten yet sorely missed.” — Nick Bantock, Author/Artist Griffin and Sabine Trilogy

“…With tones of To Kill a Mockingbird and Forrest Gump, this novel tenderly declares its own delicious literary voice of innocence and courage, with rich, full characters and marvelous sightings of what the world could be…A literary gem that begs to be savoured…” – Tess Wixted, Associate Editor, Life As A Human

Read an excerpt:
Following are excerpts from Chapters Three, Four and Five: The year is 1968. Since B. Thankful’s birth in 1950, and her shunning by the town for being “different,” B. Thankful has lived in the woods, protected by Big G, Little G, and Daddy from the outside world, but that’s about to change forever, and it all starts with a wish.

THREEWhen I was seventeen, Daddy took up with the sickness that’s got no cure. As Daddy had no people of his own to care for him, Little G had me move him from his cabin across the river into our house. Though the times had somewhat changed, some folks still saw the world in either black or white, and those same folks didn’t take to Little G swirling the colors together. From the day we moved Daddy in, she made sure her shotgun was always loaded and near the front door. That’s how much she loved Daddy.
I, too, would have done anything for my Daddy, and there must have been some part of him that knew it to be true. One morning, when I finished telling Daddy one of my stories, he rested his tired hand on mine. He watched the curtains lazily rising and falling with the breeze; his tapered breath, best it could, doing the same. Daddy’s speech came out slow, the space between each word giving thoughtful consideration to the next.
“You know what would make me happy before I die, B.?”
Daddy had never before mentioned the absolute, and I was so taken aback by his matter-of-fact way, I lost my reply, could only shake my head. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I wanted to know, fearful if he leaned toward suffering, he might ask me to help him cross over before the hour God intended.
Between breaths as light as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, Daddy said his wish wasn’t for himself, but for Little G, who seemed as near as Daddy to calling an eternal time out. My heart started beating fast because I knew what Little G was longing for, and had been longing for it ever since Big G’s passing, seven years prior.
It was all I could do not to call out my own wish: Please don’t say it, Daddy. Please don’t say it. And then the three words never meant to line up one behind the other did just that: jellied pig’s feet. I grew up spying that nasty concoction in the icebox, and no matter how many times I saw it, it turned me shrill. Tired of my shrieks, Big G hid the jellied pig’s feet under a plastic shower cap, but it was a useless cover up. And, try as I might, I couldn’t hide my disgust when Big G spooned the whole wobbly mess onto a plate and Little G slathered horseradish mustard over each nasty bite. The way it quivered up to Little G’s mouth made it look as if the pig’s feet were making one last attempt at a getaway.
But here’s the thing I’ll never forget–the sound of pleasure coming from deep within Little G, the pure joy lighting up her face, and that same joy resting on Big G’s face as she watched her girl. A kind of holy communion took place between the two of them, like Daddy and me sharing a Banner Bar.
If I could bring a final joy to Daddy by fixing jellied pig’s feet for Little G, I would just have to pull on my big girl boots and make Big G’s god-awful dish. I owed them both that much…FOURNext morning, on the sly, I thumbed through Little G’s recipe box, where I found a worn- out piece of paper with the ingredients for jellied pig’s feet. I recognized Big G’s stiff letter-by-letter way, but she didn’t spell out how much of this or how much of that to use. Deep down in her belly know-how, Big G understood numbers had nothing to do with the righteous power of food; a person’s loving intention was the main ingredient necessary for an eternal soul-to-soul union.
If still alive, Big G could have taught me how she made her jellied pig’s feet with so much love it had reached right in and took hold of Little G’s senses for all of time. Without Big G’s help, my Daddy’s final wish, the only thing he ever asked of me, wouldn’t come true. I couldn’t let that happen. Hard pressed to make Daddy’s wish come to pass, I gave birth to the most far-fetched plan I ever hatched.
I went searching for Little G’s old wooden picture box and found it in the sideboard. If you put Little G in an angry state of mind around you, she took your picture out of the box and placed it in an old medical book under diseases. When things went right again between you, back to the box you’d go. That is, everyone but Little G’s ex-husband, Useless, who ran out on her when she was pregnant with Momma. His picture was permanently glued in the old medical book under warts…
…Thumbing through pictures of long gone strangers, looking for a picture of Big G, I discovered there were notes on the back of each picture…
…There were pictures of folks who loved stews; cornbread (some the way those up north ate it, and those who were staunch in the way of the south); ice cream in every flavor imaginable; barbecued ribs; thick slices of ham with their eggs–sunny side up, scrambled, poached, wrecked on a raft; mustard pickles on buttered rye bread; potatoes–fried, hash browned, boiled, baked; you name it. And some folks yearned all the cold winter long for cobblers filled with the fat berries and juicy peaches only found in the heat of summer.
Finally, I found what I was looking for and sat down at the kitchen table with a picture of Big G. Unlike Little G, who was about as big as a minute—but don’t let that fool you, that woman was strong—Big G was a tall woman with broad shoulders, large hands, and a vestigial third tit. I kid you not. And she wore a look in her eyes that told you she didn’t have the time for much more than a postcard conversation.
Like I said before, the departed had been sharing their stories with me for as long as I can remember, but Big G had never dropped so much as a single word anywhere close to my ear. I closed my eyes, rested my hand on Big G’s picture, and put my plan to the test. My thumb tapped out:
I-n-e-e-d-t-o-t-a-l-k-t-o-y-o-u-a-b-o-u-t-y-o-u-r-j-e-l-l-i-e-d-p-i-g-s-f-e-e-t-B-i-g-G.
Since only Big G had the answer I needed, I couldn’t give up hope. I tapped and tapped. Waited and waited. If by some miracle I reached her, I figured Big G might start with a “Howdy, B. Thankful,” or “Isn’t this a hoot!” But when Big G suddenly came through, she got right to the point, like a postcard. Fortunately, without Wish you were here!
“Ask when the pig was slaughtered, and to see the blood. It should be deep red, not rusty in color. Look for meaty feet. Peel the skin back to see the flesh.”
Somewhere around “peel back,” all of my insides started churning. I was glad for the chair beneath me, for my own feet turned jellylike and would have left me lying in a pool of quiver.
A quick rap to the side of my head brought me back to attention. I rubbed my eyes to prove I was seeing things with my daytime mind and not dreaming. As if she hadn’t dropped dead seven years back, there sat Big G at our kitchen table, just as nonchalant as could be.
I had never actually thought about, or, for that matter, desired to talk face-to-face with the departed; hearing their voices was quite enough. As was its job in the past, my thumb was busy tapping away, but it wasn’t spelling anything. While I was gawkin’, Big G went on talkin’, not giving me one iota of a chance to ponder how this wonder of wonders was possible. As always, Big G’s manner was direct, her words lean.
“You won’t find the soul of this dish in words or numbers. You’ve got to go beyond what you see, into what you feel. I can show you how. Let’s fetch supplies and get to work.” Well, so much for pleasantries…FIVE…It was getting late by the time I got home from my day with Big G, and I found Daddy and Little G in full slumber exactly where I had left them. After I fixed them a simple supper of collard greens and cornbread, which they mostly just poked at, I tucked them into their beds and, as if they were my own children, told each a special story I made up just for them. When I was certain they were asleep, I went about my business in the kitchen with Big G. We had no more than started when Little G called out, “Who are you talking to?”
Big G gave me the hush signal, as if I might tell Little G her dead momma was visiting, and maybe she’d like to put on her chenille robe, come out, and chew the fat with her. I waved Big G off.
“Nobody, Little G. I’m just singing. Are you all right? Do you need anything?”
When she didn’t answer, I hurried down the hall. Frail as a baby bird, Little G was perched on the edge of her bed, her skinny legs dangling over the side. Little G stared down at the very close veins on her hands, and then into my eyes.
“You sure there’s nobody else in the house but your daddy?”
I didn’t think myself lying when I nodded my head. Really, there was no other body in the house…
…Back in the kitchen… For old time’s sake, we kept one of Big G’s aprons on a hook near the pantry. When I slipped it over my head, an unfamiliar sensation moved through my body. My insides grew fuller and my skin turned as tight as a ready to burst watermelon left too long on the vine…
…Please don’t think me crazy, but I got the feeling I wasn’t alone in my own body, someone else working from inside me, tying the apron strings. I looked over to where Big G had been sitting, but the chair was empty; only her picture remained, leaned up against the honey jar. I panicked.
“Big G, where are you?”
“I’m right here, B. Thankful.”
Oh, mercy! Saints preserve me! I swear what happened is not one of my stories. I wouldn’t know how to make this up. If I’m lyin’, let me be dyin’. When Big G’s voice sat in the curve of my ear, I was fine with that, recognized it for what it was. I was even getting used to having her come back for a visit. What I was not ready for was Big G inside of me.
“Get out! Get out!”
“Now, don’t go all haywire on me, B. I’m new to this, too. We don’t wanna get stuck in some oddball way that would be hard to explain, do we? Shouldn’t we give God’s handiwork a try?”
Soon as Big G mentioned God, I recalled Little G saying God had chosen me to do Him a favor one day, and then Daddy telling me God sent me here to do something great. Just in case this was it, peculiar as the setting was, I handed myself over.
“Okay,” I said, same as if Big G told me she was going outside–no mind about it, really. But I had a question I needed answered. “Do I have to talk out loud to you, or can you hear me through my thoughts?”
“Good question. Let’s find out.”
I screwed up my forehead and concentrated, then asked with my mind, “What do I do first?”
“Put all the ingredients on the counter,” Big G answered. It worked! Big G heard my thoughts.
I laid out the ingredients on the kitchen counter: pig’s feet, celery, carrots, garlic, black peppercorns, and bay leaves. My movements were Big G’s movements–quick and sure; my hand, her hand that knew her old knife, had lived all the stories held in its handle. We had become woven into a tapestry of good cookin’ know-how. Together we trimmed the feet, plucking out a bristly stray hair, and then christened the pig’s parts under cold water and scrubbed away anything unholy.
“Good job, B. Now, one more time in clear water, honey, then light the stove.”
Once the fire got going and we put the pot on the stove, Big G started humming Down by the Riverside. My own vocal chords strummed along with her until we were humming in fine harmony.
“I’m like a ventriloquist who swallowed her dummy,” popped into my head.
“Not funny!” But Big G was laughing when she said it.
When the water came to a boil, I carefully set the feet to cooking.
“Now’s the time to add a little salt. Salt now will enter the meat in a slow way; salt at the end will simply sit on top. You don’t want that. And not too much now, you want to add a little more when the time comes to add the vegetables. Okay, B., take some of those peppercorns, about the size of a blackberry not quite ready to pick, and set them down on the board for cracking.”
I gave them a whack and some of the peppercorns turned buckshot, flying out from under the knife.
“Now add the peppercorns and two bay leaves to the pot. Wait.” Big G had me taste a bay leaf. “No, make that two and a half bay leaves.”
Once the liquid came to a boil, I turned it down to a simmer. For the next two hours, the pig’s feet simmered in a relaxed way, the pointed hooves floating to the top and bouncing up and down in a circle like fishing bobbers.
In their own time, the bay leaves gave themselves up to the broth and the peppercorns released their fiery oils. A meaty, yet delicate fragrance tinged with sharpness rose from the pot and found its way into my lungs. A burst of aliveness sent me spinning through the kitchen, where the temperature was no less than a hundred and ten degrees. But I was cool as a cucumber as we sliced through carrots without effort, orange coins stacking up neatly, then chopped sweet celery, and garlic, sticky and sure of itself.
One time, when I was a smidge of a girl, my Daddy woke me from a sound sleep in the middle of the night and carried me outside, where the cold air of winter stung my face, and rain rushed from the sky, as if late for a reunion. Daddy pointed up, and I was put out he woke me just to show me a full moon. Before I had a chance to start squawking, Daddy turned me around to the sky opposite the moon and I witnessed a most rare and mysterious sight–a moonbow. Mystifying as that moonbow was, it paled in comparison to the sanctified magic spinning around Big G and me in our kitchen.
It was around midnight when Big G gave me the go ahead to add the vegetables. I watched as the carrots, celery, and garlic took a slip slide from the board and joined the bobbing hooves.
“Now’s the time to see if a little more salt is needed.”
Oh, jeez, I knew that meant I was gonna have to taste the broth. You’d a thought I was about to take a dose of cod liver oil the way my face squeezed up. With more than an ounce of queasiness, I dipped the spoon into the broth, tiny rafts of pepper floating on the surface. Trying to buy time, I blew on it and blew on it until Big G cleared her annoyed throat.
When my lips touched the edge of the spoon, I tasted how the pork had turned the broth meaty and salty; the fat was smooth on the inside of my mouth. The pepper and bay leaves didn’t bite back; they laced the broth with their spicy perfume. None of the ingredients stood in front of the other; they worked together in harmony.
Big G let out a little sigh, as if she had sampled the broth and found it just right. It was then I knew it had all come together, and I quickly doused the flame beneath it.
“Nice call, B. You recognized the moment of perfection all on your own. Now you need to strain it off. Set the colander over my big earthenware bowl and run some cold water alongside it. The cool water will keep the steam from taking over. Go slow so you don’t burn yourself.”
I watched the broth fill the colander, with fall-off-the-bone tender meat, and vegetables right behind. With the flesh shrinking up some during cooking and the bones of the pig laid bare, a deep and abiding respect for the animal rose within me.
The next part of my job took some getting used to, but with Big G’s expert hand I learned how to crack the joints to extract all the meat. Once the vegetables had been added and the strained broth poured over the meat, I looked upon my very first batch of jellied pig’s feet. By the grace of God, and Big G’s help, I had been shown how to recreate the meal that, even across the great divide, forever linked two souls together.
The most important ingredient not found in the words or numbers was Love. Remember me, for I will remember you.
That ready to pop feeling I had when Big G entered my body was plucked from me, and a big sigh went along with it. I opened my eyes and there sat Big G wearing a blue ribbon smile.
“Well, that was different. I gotta say, B. Thankful, traveling light is a lot better than being stuck in a body. I forgot how tight they feel. And, double G-daughter of mine, I am so proud of you. You accepted your calling with willingness and grace.”
“What calling is that, Big G?”
Big G puffed up as if ready to recite a script she had rehearsed over and over again, her manner of speech, preacher flavored.
“B. Thankful Childe-Lucknow, God has chosen you to walk among the dy —”
An urgent call from Little G sent me running to her room before Big G could finish her sermon…

Purchase Links: Amazon B&N

MICHAELENE McELROY IS HOSTING A SPECIAL GIVEAWAY.
HERE ARE THE DETAILS:
As the story for The Last Supper Catering Company unfolds, B. Thankful learns about the power of food prepared with love, the communion that takes place between the giver and receiver, and the eternal bond that remains even after the giver has departed from this world to the next. When B. Thankful discovers that her ability to hear the voices of the departed is the magic needed to fulfill the wish of the dying, she becomes a conduit between earth and heaven (where the recipe now resides).

Close your eyes and let your heart lean back in time to a moment when you tasted food prepared with so much love, it’s the one meal you would want for your last supper. Who prepared your favorite dish that will forever sing Remember me, for I will remember you? Send in your stories and recipes and the winner will receive an autographed copy of The Last Supper Catering Company.
Visit Michaelene’s blog here to enter.
Giveaway ends December 21st. Good Luck

DISCLAIMER
No items that I receive
are ever sold…they are kept by me,
or given to family and/or friends.
ADDENDUM
I do not have any affiliation with Amazon.com or
Barnes & Noble. I am an IndieBound affliate.
I am providing link(s) solely for visitors
that may be interested in purchasing this Book/EBook.