WELCOME JULIE TETEL ANDRESEN

JULIE TETEL ANDRESEN

Julie Tetel Andresen’s seemingly disparate writing activities – fiction, non-fiction and essays in foreign languages – all arise from a unified sense of her writing self.

As a professional linguist, she loves language, while as a romance writer she loves the language of love; and when learning a foreign language, she loves nothing more than exploring the limits of her ability to express herself in that language on paper.

In her academic writing, she has long been devoted to exploring the history of linguistics, and this disciplinary exploration parallels her devotion to writing historical novels. In her most recent academic work “Linguistics and Evolution” (Cambridge 2014), she shows the ways that the history of linguistic theory and practice informs the current state of the discipline, and this sense of the past pressing on the present informs her time-slip series.

Her writing activities have always been entwined temporally. She wrote her first historical “My Lord Roland” while writing her PhD dissertation “Linguistic Crossroads of the Eighteenth Century,” and all her early academic articles were written mostly in French. Twenty novels and dozens of journal articles later, she wrote her Regency novella “French Lessons” while waiting for the 2012 autumn meeting of the Cambridge Press Syndicate to decide to issue her a contract for “Linguistics and Evolution.” At the same time, she happened to be in Ho Chi Minh City learning Vietnamese and happily writing her Vietnamese essays.

She firmly believes that one type of writing strengthens the others. Her historical novels have honed her craft of plotting and sub-plotting, while her time-slip series has given her the Kraft (in the German sense of the word ‘power’) to handle the long historical arc and multiple characters involved in “Linguistics and Evolution.” Her professional study of language, in turn, makes her sensitive to the vocabulary and rhythms of speech in other places and time periods; while writing in a foreign language– be it French, German, Romanian, or Vietnamese – is to her like the pianist warming up with scales and arpeggios or the yogini trying out a new asana. Can she get her leg behind her head in Romanian?

No? Well, then how about triangle pose? Can she get into full lotus in Vietnamese? Again, no? Let’s see about half-lotus.

Andresen grew up in Glenview, Ill. She holds a bachelor of arts degree from Duke University and a doctorate from the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. She has taught at Duke University for the past 20 years where she specializes in linguistics.
Connect with Julie at these sites:

Julie has also uploaded a short story entitled The Wedding Night onto her website (http://www.julietetelandresen.com) that readers can download for free.

Q&A with Julie Tetel Andresen

When did you develop a passion for linguistics?
Ever since I was about five years old. I remember lying in bed at night in the room I shared with my
older sister, making up new words that I would teach her. When I discovered there were other
languages in the world, with the words already made up, I couldn’t get enough. I didn’t know,
however, that there was such a thing as a discipline of linguistics until I was working on my Masters in French.   After that I was hooked.

How do you bridge your career as a romance writer with your life as a professional linguist and
academic?
The two activities wrap around another almost every day in my life, and this has been the case for the last twenty years or more. Today I’m at a resort on the Black Sea in Bulgaria. My friends are on the beach. I can’t tan, since I have redhead skin and was told by a dermatologist years ago to stay out of the sun. I’m happy enough, however, because I’m on the balcony of my room overlooking the sea, and working on the some of the early chapters of the forthcoming Wiley-Blackwell book, Languages of the World, skyping with my co-author, Phillip Carter. When I take a break from this, I’ll probably download a werewolf story or a panther shape-shifting story. I got into these subgenres in the past few months. At the moment, I can’t get enough of them.

How do your two writing careers strengthen each other?
All good writing is story telling, and this applies to academic writing, as well. I love reading about
language, and the question is always, “What story is this linguist telling me?” I am currently reading
The Last Speakers by David K. Harrison, and it’s a wonderful world tour of the stories of speakers of
endangered languages. My favorite linguist may well be Stephen Levinson. Although it might not seem like his Space in Language and Cognition would make for a gripping story, I read the book (several times, actually), enthralled by the world Levinson was opening to me. Following a good (academic) argument is like reading a well-plotted novel.
I think it was Fred Astaire who said: “If I don’t dance for one day, I feel it. If I don’t dance two days in a row, the audience will feel it. If I don’t dance three days in a row, I should find another job.” Having two writing careers keeps me in writing shape. It’s cross training. Yoga and Pilates.

You have lived and traveled all over the world – to France, Germany, Vietnam, Romania,
Greece, and Brazil just to name a few places. How did this influence your writing?
I’ve always loved historical romances, but I began my time-slip series when I realized I wanted to write about the places I’m visiting in the here and now. I love it when a place is a kind of character in a novel, ever-present and shaping events. I also happen to love botanical gardens and the tropics, so I find myself gravitating toward southern latitudes and the equator, where everything is lush. When I write a story and find I need to check out the details of a place I’m using as a setting, I can easily persuade myself I need to revisit the location in order to make sure I have the details right. While writing The Emerald Hour, I made sure to revisit the spectacular Jardim Botânico in Rio. In fact, it would have been irresponsible of me not to revisit the location.

Your collection of books explores so many points in history. Is there one era that has a special
place in your heart?
This is a choosing-among-children question, only slightly less difficult to answer than, “What’s the
favorite book you’ve written?” All historical periods are fascinating. Especially the present one, since I’m living in it.

ABOUT THE BOOK

The lovely Anne Chisholm is tricked into a handfast—the custom of marriage for a year and a day when a couple plights their troth—with Alexander Sutherland only to discover that her new husband is wanted for treason by the English authorities, in particular, by her father.

BOOK DETAILS:

Publisher: Julie Tetel Andresen; 1.01 edition
Publication Date: August 3, 2011
Number of Pages: 92
ASIN: B005FY0WYU

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WELCOME JULIA ASEL THOMAS

JULIA ASEL THOMAS

Julia Asel Thomas writes stories with vivid descriptions, authentic dialogue and revealing narration. Her debut book, Loving the Missing Link, presents the engrossing and moving story of a young, small town girl who grows up, lives and loves while trying to find a balance between despair and hope.

Like the protagonist in her debut book, Loving the Missing Link, Julia Asel Thomas knows small town life. However, Julia’s experiences were quite different than Cheryl’s. Julia is the middle child of seven children and the daughter of a church organist and a business manager. Growing up in the small town of Hamilton, Missouri, Julia’s family enjoyed a reputation as a bright and interesting family. Julia thrived on the quiet and carefree life she lived in that gentle place.

When Julia was in high school, she earned a scholarship for a trip to Cali, Colombia as a foreign exchange student. The experience, although it only lasted a few brief months, had a profound influence on the rest of her life. After her time abroad, Julia realized in a very real way that, although customs may differ from culture to culture, the substance of human emotions is constant. We all need love. We all need to feel secure. We all have happy moments and sad moments. Back from Colombia, Julia become ever more interested in capturing these human emotions through music and writing.

After high school, Julia took a break before going on to college. During this time, she married her husband, Will. Will joined the Air Force, and Julia accompanied him to bases around the country, taking college classes in each town where they resided. Their two children were born in Las Vegas, Nevada, while Will was stationed at Nellis Air Force Base. Married in 1976, Julia and Will are thrilled to celebrate each new anniversary and look forward to staying together for life.

Julia began writing fiction at the age of ten, when her 5th grade teacher gave her the assignment to write about “My Worst Day.” Julia took the opportunity to concoct every possible disaster a young child could face during the course of a normal day. The teacher loved her work and asked her to read it to the class. From then on, Julia wanted nothing more than to be a writer.

In 2007, Julia began earning her living by writing articles, press releases and website content for a number of clients. As she settled into a routine of working every day on her writing, the old urge to write fiction resurfaced. In 2012, Julia started with a story she had written in 1985 and continued it to create the story in Loving the Missing Link.
After Julia’s husband, Will retired from the Air Force, they moved back to Missouri and now live in Kansas City, Missouri. Find out more about this author by visiting her online:
Connect with Jlia at these sites:

GUEST POST

“Life Long Learning and Self-Education”

Is education an institution, run by the government, prestigious private organizations or religious groups? When I was younger, I thought so. The trouble with that attitude is that I still wanted to keep learning whether I was ensconced in one of those organizations or not. And, especially in the digital age, there is no reason learning has to end when the school doors close. Lifelong learning and self-education have become increasingly popular these days, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

I began my quest for self-education during the years I was following my husband around in his Air Force career. I did go to college off and on as I was able. But there were always in-between times when I would arrive at a college town at the wrong time to begin the semester when it started. Yet, I didn’t want to put my education on hold for those months. That is when I became involved in self-education.

Yet, even then learning outside of school was not a new concept for me. My mother read to me, and all my brothers and sisters, nearly every day of our early childhood. My father also read to me at night sometimes later on, usually out of a chapter book like Tom Sawyer. Music in our house ran the gamut from Tchaikovsky to Johnny Cash. It was an intellectually rich environment to grow up in.

As I grew older, I began to choose my own intellectual adventures. Someone would talk about a subject that I didn’t know much about, and I was off to the library to learn more. If I knew someone who was familiar with the subject, I would pester them until they told me enough about the subject to satisfy my curiosity.

I once took an English course in which we were asked to read, “Working” by Studs Terkel. The book is a series of interviews with everyday people about their jobs. I found it fascinating. After that, I always asked the people I met about their jobs. About whether they enjoyed their jobs, what their responsibilities were on the jobs, and about how they got their jobs in the first place. This is one instance where traditional education spurred me on to pursue a different kind of education outside the classroom.

Now, whenever I learn about a new subject, I get on my computer and find out what I can. The biggest challenge is sifting through all the dreck to discover reliable information. But, after doing this for years, I have learned more about how to find those sites and how to evaluate them.

I am much older now than I was when I spent those Saturdays running off to the library, but I am not too old to keep learning. I don’t think I ever will be. My father once told me, “No matter what you lose in this life, no one can ever take away your education.” I have remembered that statement through the good times and the bad. I am more committed than ever to exploring my interests and the world around me.

I think I will be like my mother as I get older. She lamented one day that she didn’t understand why she was still stuffing her head full of information, even though she believed she would never have the opportunity to use any of it. I hope I was able to reassure her and help her see that education is useful, but it is also an end unto itself. No matter how old you get or what your circumstances may be, life-long learning is a joy and a quest that is well worth the effort.

ABOUT THE BOOK

Loving the Missing Link is a fabulous tale about love, success, hope and music. During the 1970’s. Young Cheryl Simpson feels trapped in her small Missouri town. As her mother tries to help her find a way up and out, Cheryl begins to feel that it is all an impossible dream. She sees herself living a boring and dismal life for the rest of her days. Just at the moment when she is about to give up on happiness, she gets the opportunity to join her high school band. The band promises a connection with the world outside her town, but Cheryl does not see any future for herself in music. It is just a tool to get where she wants to go. However, Cheryl’s mother arranges for Cheryl to take private lessons with an accomplished musician, who helps her realize the beauty and awesome power of music.

Still, Cheryl feels that small-town inferiority and finds it too hard to believe that she could ever be anyone special out in the “real” world. On the eve of a music contest that could help her earn a music scholarship, Cheryl begins to panic. Scared and feeling alone, Cheryl runs off with her high school sweetheart and gets married, leaving the band behind.

During the next years, Cheryl and her husband make a life for themselves. Cheryl meets friends along the way who help guide her to becoming the woman she wants to be. She becomes interested in the arts again. All the while, Cheryl and husband Jerry face the challenges of homelessness, miscarriage and an extra-marital affair before an unexpected disaster brings Cheryl’s life crashing to the ground. Cheryl survives, with the help of her extraordinary friends and her life-long love for music.

BOOK DETAILS:

Publisher: CreateSpace
Publication Date: August 6, 2013
Number of Pages: 190
 ISBN10: 1480106240

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WELCOME RUSS WHITNEY

RUSS WHITNEY

Russ Whitney is an entrepreneur, philanthropist, and best-selling author who is a leader in the business, real-estate investment, and financial training fields.  Personally and through his companies, he has supported a wide range of charitable organizations including domestic-violence shelters, youth programs, and Salvation Army services.  Whitney is the author of more than thirty books, workbooks, and home-study courses including Building Wealth, The Millionaire Real Estate Mentor, and The Millionaire Real Estate Mindset.
Connect with Russ at these sites:

GUEST POST

The following excerpt is taken from the book Inner Voice: Unlock Your Purpose and Passion by Russ Whitney.  It is published by Hay House (Available September 23, 2013) and available at all bookstores or online at: www.hayhouse.com

In my search for the meaning of life, I’ve come to understand that life is essentially a game, a game that consists of a daily search for the truth with the creator of your understanding. When you realize this, it gets easier to live in the present. If you think about professional sports, this makes sense: The players prepare for the game, play it, learn from it, and then play the next one. They don’t spend a lot of time beating themselves up over something they did that they can’t do over. They don’t spend a lot of time worrying about the next game; they understand the difference between preparation and worry. When they are playing the game, that’s all they’re focused on: playing the game right now. And that’s what you should focus on: playing the game of life right now in the here and now—that is, today!

The game of life is a lot like any game that’s played under a time clock. For example, in a basketball or football game, there are 60 minutes on the clock. The game starts, it’s played for an hour, and then it ends. It’s done. The scoreboard tells you whether you won or lost. And regardless of how you did in that game, you go on to the next one and the score starts over at zero.

In life, each “game” is one day. Today. Our season—instead of being a period of months, as in sports—is our lives. But if you ask professional sports players if they spend any time or energy while they’re on the field or the court thinking about the last game or their next game, they’ll most likely tell you no. They are focused on the now, on the game they’re playing at the moment. That’s how winning seasons are achieved and championships are won: one day at a time, one game at a time.

This isn’t to say that players don’t train; they absolutely do. They practice, they study their opponents, and they develop their skills. They have goals and strategies to reach those goals. But when they’re “in the game,” that’s the only place where they are. When they get “out of the game,” when they are distracted even for a moment, is when they make mistakes. They know it, and that’s why they exercise the discipline to stay entirely in the present, in the game, while they’re playing.

Of course, the “game of life” isn’t about making baskets or touchdowns. As I’ve said, it’s a daily search for the truth with you and the God of your understanding. A key word there is daily; the time clock is today. That doesn’t mean that we can’t have plans and goals for tomorrow, next week, and next year. We can, and we should. We just can’t live in those goals; we have to stay in today. If we don’t, we fall into anger, anxiety, frustration, fear, and doubt. We start to play the “what if” game: “What if this happens?” “What if that happens?” “What if I don’t have enough money?” “What if I get sick, have an accident, or experience some other crisis?” Play that game, and you’ll be filled with unnecessary anxiety. When you worry, you’re essentially planning for bad things to happen. The way to avoid worry is to stay in the present. Today all is well, and you know what you have to do today. Keep it there.

If God didn’t build us with enough energy to be in tomorrow, He certainly didn’t give us enough energy for yesterday. Usually when we go into yesterday, we go into guilt, shame, and resentments. Certainly we all have happy memories, and we should treasure them. But most of the time, when we go back to yesterday, we waste a lot of time beating ourselves up about things we can’t change. We focus on mistakes and regrets. That’s time off today’s clock.

If the game of life is a search for the truth and the time clock of life is today, you need a scoreboard to determine if you’re winning or losing. Your scoreboard doesn’t count points. Instead, it’s a ratio that measures how happy, joyful, and spiritually free you are against your feelings of anger, anxiety, frustration, fear, doubt, guilt, and shame.

One more critical thing to remember about living in the present is this: Where you are today isn’t where you were yesterday or where you’ll be tomorrow. You must keep seeking, keep learning, keep doing, keep taking action so that the plan for your life will continue to unveil itself.

ABOUT THE BOOK

“Inner Voice: Unlock Your Purpose and Passion” traces how one man’s struggle to find the true meaning of life evolved into a worldwide movement known as the Inner Voice way of life. Internationally recognized businessman, financial expert, and real-estate icon Russ Whitney spent five years and 20,000 hours researching and developing the program. It is built on simple yet powerful principles and strategies that guide readers through identifying their purpose; developing their passion; and living a life of peace, joy, and success that is richer and more fulfilling than they ever dreamed possible. “Inner Voice” is a dramatic departure from Whitney’s earlier best-selling books, which all focused on financial success, real estate, and wealth-building strategies. In “Inner Voice, ” Whitney explains the happiness that can be found in humility; the importance of living in the moment; the need to understand, recognize, and master the immutable law of powerlessness; and how to surrender and find solid answers and peace with what you can’t control. He teaches readers to use life-changing tools, including the Discovery Chart, two-way conscious contact, and Character Asset Checklist to achieve and maintain a connection with the Inner Voice. A step-by-step guide demonstrates exactly how to apply Inner Voice principles and strategies on a daily basis to be free of anxiety, frustration, fear, doubt, guilt, and shame so we can live the life our Creator intended for us.

BOOK DETAILS:

Publisher: Hay House
Publication Date: September 2013
Number of Pages: 204
ISBN: 978-1-4019-4345-5

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 Posted in Guest Author, Harper Collins/William Morrow, Partners In Crime Tours, Showcase

Guest Author J. A. JANCE

 CMash  September 9, 2013  2 Comments on Guest Author J. A. JANCE

WELCOME J. A. JANCE

J.A. JANCE

A voracious reader, J. A. Jance knew she wanted to be a writer from the moment she read her first Wizard of Oz book in second grade. Always drawn to mysteries, from Nancy Drew right through John D. McDonald’s Travis Magee series, it was only natural that when she tried her hand at writing her first book, it would be a mystery as well. J. A. Jance went on to become the New York Times bestselling author of the J. P. Beaumont series, the Joanna Brady series, three interrelated thrillers featuring the Walker family, and Edge of Evil. Born in South Dakota and brought up in Bisbee, Arizona, Jance lives with her husband in Seattle, Washington, and Tucson, Arizona.
Connect with Ms. Jance at these sites:

              

ABOUT THE BOOK

With Second Watch, New York Times bestselling author J. A. Jance delivers another thought-provoking novel of suspense starring Seattle investigator J. P. Beaumont.

Second Watch shows Beaumont taking some time off to get knee replacement surgery, but instead of taking his mind off work, the operation plunges him into one of the most perplexing mysteries he’s ever faced.

His past collides with his present in this complex and thrilling story that explores loss and heartbreak, duty and honor, and, most importantly, the staggering cost of war and the debts we owe those who served in the Vietnam War, and those in uniform today.

READ AN EXCERPT

Prologue

We left the P-­ 2 level of the parking lot at Belltown Terrace ten minutes later than we should have. With Mel Soames at the wheel of her Cayman and with me belted into the passenger seat, we roared out of the garage, down the alley between John and Cedar, and then up Cedar to Second Avenue.Second is one of those rare Seattle thoroughfares where, if you drive just at or even slightly below the speed limit, you can sail through one green light after another, from the Denny Regrade all the way to the International District. I love Mel dearly, but the problem with her is that she doesn’t believe in driving “just under” any speed limit, ever. That’s not her style, and certainly not on this cool September morning as we headed for the Swedish Orthopedic Institute, one of the many medical facilities located in a neighborhood Seattle natives routinely call Pill Hill.

Mel was uncharacteristically silent as she drove hell-­ bent for election through downtown Seattle, zipping through intersec­tions just as the lights changed from yellow to red. I checked to be sure my seat belt was securely fastened and kept my backseat-­ driving tendencies securely in check. Mel does not respond well to backseat driving.

“Are you okay?” she asked when the red light at Cherry finally brought her to a stop.

The truth is, I wasn’t okay. I’ve been a cop all my adult life. I’ve been in gunfights and knife fights and even the occasional fist­fight. There have been numerous times over the years when I’ve had my butt hauled off to an ER to be stitched up or worse. What all those inadvertent, spur-­ of-­ the-­ moment ER trips had in common, however, was a total lack of anticipation. Whatever hap­pened happened, and I was on the gurney and on my way. Since I had no way of knowing what was coming, I didn’t have any time to be scared to death and filled with dread before the fact. After, maybe, but not before.

This time was different, because this time I had a very good idea of what was coming. Mel was driving me to a scheduled check-­ in appointment at the Swedish Orthopedic Institute surgi­cal unit Mel and I have come to refer to as the “bone squad.” This morning at eight a.m. I was due to meet up with my orthopedic surgeon, Dr. Merritt Auld, and undergo dual knee-­ replacement surgery. Yes, dual—­ as in two knees at the same time.

I had been assured over and over that this so-­ called elective surgery was “no big deal,” but the truth is, I had seen the videos. Mel and I had watched them together. I had the distinct impres­sion that Dr. Auld would be more or less amputating both my legs and then bolting them back together with some spare metal parts in between. Let’s just say I was petrified.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“You are not fine,” Mel muttered, “and neither am I.” Then she slammed her foot on the gas, swung us into a whiplash left turn, and we charged up Cherry. Given her mood, I didn’t comment on her speed or the layer of rubber she had left on the pavement behind us.

I had gimped along for a very long time without admitting to anyone, most of all myself, that my knees were giving me hell. And once I had finally confessed the reality of the situation, Mel had set about moving heaven and earth to see that I did something about it. This morning we were both faced with a heaping helping of “watch out what you ask for.”

“You could opt to just do one, you know,” she said.

But I knew better, and so did she. When the doctor had asked me which knee was my good knee, I had told him truthfully that they were both bad. The videos had stressed that the success of the surgery was entirely dependent on doing the required post­-surgery physical therapy. Since neither of my knees would stand up to doing the necessary PT for the other, Dr. Auld had reluctantly agreed to give me a twofer.

“We’ll get through this,” I said.

She looked at me and bit her lip.

“Do you want me to drop you at the front door?”

That was a strategy we had used a lot of late. She would drop me off or pick me up from front doors while she hoofed it to and from parking garages.

“No,” I said. “I’d rather walk.”

I didn’t add “with you,” because I didn’t have to. She knew it. She also knew that by the time we made it from the parking garage to the building, we would have had to stop to rest three times and my forehead would be beaded with sweat.

“Thank you,” she said.

While I eased my body out of the passenger seat and straight­ened into an upright position, she hopped out and grabbed the athletic bag with my stuff in it out of the trunk. Then she came toward me, looking up at me, smiling.

And the thought of losing that smile was what scared me the most. What if I didn’t wake back up? Those kinds of things weren’t supposed to happen during routine surgeries, but they did. Occa­sionally there were unexpected complications and the patient died. What if this was one of those times, and this was the last time I would see Mel or hold her hand? What if this was the end of all of it? There were so many things I wanted to say about how much I loved her and how much she meant to me and how, if I didn’t make it, I wanted her to be happy for the rest of her life. But did any of those words come out of my mouth? No. Not one.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said calmly, as though she had heard the storm of misgivings that was circling around in my head. She squeezed my hand and away we went, limping along, the hare patiently keeping pace with the lumbering tortoise.

I don’t remember a lot about the check-­ in process. I do remember there was a line, and my knees made waiting in line a peculiar kind of hell. Mel offered to stand in line for me, but of course I turned her down. She started to argue, but thought better of it. Instead, she took my gym bag and sat in one of the chairs banked against the wall while I answered all the smiling clerk’s inane questions and signed the countless forms. Then, after Mel and I waited another ten minutes, a scrubs-­ clad nurse came to summon us and take us “back.”

What followed was the change into the dreaded backless gown; the weigh-­ in; the blood draw; the blood pressure, temperature, and pulse checks. Mel hung around for all of that. And she was still there when they stuck me on a bed to await the arrival of my anesthesiologist, who came waltzing into the bustling room with a phony smile plastered on his beaming face. He seemed to be having the time of his life. After introducing himself, he asked my name and my date of birth, and then he delivered an incredibly lame stand-­ up comic routine about sending me off to never-­ never land.

Gee, thanks, and how would you like a punch in the nose? 

After a second wait of who knows how long, they rolled me into another room. This time Dr. Auld was there, and so were a lot of other people. Again they wanted my name and date of birth. It occurred to me that my name and date of birth hadn’t changed in the hour and a half during which I had told four other people the same, but that’s evidently part of the program now. Or maybe they do it just for the annoyance factor.

At that point, however, Dr. Auld hauled out a Sharpie and drew a bright blue letter on each of my knees—­ R and L.

“That’s just so we’ll keep them straight,” he assured me with a jovial smile.

Maybe he expected me to laugh. I didn’t. The quip reminded me too much of the kinds of stale toasts delivered by hungover best men at countless wedding receptions, and it was about that funny, too. I guess I just wasn’t up to seeing any humor in the situation.

Neither was Mel. I glanced in her direction and saw the icy blue-­ eyed stare my lovely wife had leveled in the good doctor’s direction. Fortunately, Dr. Auld didn’t notice.

“Well,” he said. “Shall we do this?”

As they started to roll me away, Mel leaned down and kissed me good-­ bye. “Good luck,” she whispered in my ear. “Don’t be long. I’ll be right here waiting.”

I looked into Mel’s eyes and was surprised to see two tears well up and then make matching tracks down her surprisingly pale cheeks. Melissa Soames is not the crybaby type. I wanted to reach up and comfort her and tell her not to worry, but the anesthesiologist had given me something to “take the edge off,” and it was certainly working. Before I could say anything at all, Mel was gone, disappearing from view behind my merry band of scrubs-­ attired escorts as they wheeled me into a waiting elevator.

I closed my eyes then and tried to remember exactly how Mel looked in that moment before the doors slid shut between us. All I could think of as the elevator sank into what felt like the bowels of the earth was how very much I loved her and how much I wanted to believe that when I woke up, she really would be there, waiting.

Chapter 1

Except she wasn’t. When I opened my eyes again, that was the first thing I noticed. The second one was that I was “feeling no pain,” as they say, so the drugs were evidently doing what they were supposed to do.I was apparently in the recovery room. Nurses in flowery scrubs hovered in the background. I could hear their voices, but they were strangely muted, as if somebody had turned the volume way down. As far as my own ability to speak? Forget it. Someone had pushed my mute button; I couldn’t say a single word.

In the foreground, a youngish woman sat on a tall rolling stool at the side of the bed. My initial assumption was that my daughter, Kelly, had arrived from her home in southern Oregon. I had told her not to bother coming all the way from Ashland to Seattle on the occasion of my knee-­ replacement surgery. In fact, I had issued a fatherly decree to that effect, insisting that Mel and I would be fine on our own. Unfortunately, Kelly is her mother’s daughter, which is to say she is also headstrong as hell. Since when did she ever listen to a word I said?

So there Kelly sat as big as life, whether I had wanted her at the hospital or not. She wore a crimson-­and- g ray WSU sweatshirt. A curtain of long blond hair shielded her face from my view while she studiously filed her nails—­ nails that were covered with bright red polish.

Having just been through several hours of major surgery, I think I could be forgiven for being a little slow on the uptake, but eventually I realized that none of this added up. Even to my drug-­ befuddled brain, it didn’t make sense.

Kelly and I have had our share of issues over the years. The most serious of those involved her getting pregnant while she was still a senior in high school and running off to Ashland to meet up with and eventually marry her boyfriend, a wannabe actor named Jeff. Of course, the two of them have been a couple for years, and my son-­ in-­ law is now one of the well-­ established members of the acting company at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival in Ashland, Oregon.

The OSF offers a dozen or so plays a year, playing in repertory for months at a time, and Jeff Cartwright has certainly paid his dues. After years of learning his trade by playing minor roles as a sword-­ wielding soldier in one Shakespearian production after an­other or singing and occasionally tap dancing as a member of the chorus, he finally graduated to speaking roles. This year he was cast as Laertes in Hamlet in the Elizabethan theater and, for the first time ever in a leading role, he played Brick in the Festival’s retrospective production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in the Bowmer Theatre. (I thought he did an excellent job, but I may be slightly prejudiced. The visiting theater critic for the Seattle Times had a somewhat different opinion.)

It was September, and the season was starting to wind down, but there was no way for Jeff to get away long enough to come up to Seattle for a visit, no matter how brief, and with Kayla and Kyle, my grandkids, back in school, in fourth and first grade, respec­tively, it didn’t seem like a good time for Kelly to come gallivant­ ing to Seattle with or without them in tow just to hover at my sickbed.

In other words, I was both surprised and not surprised to see Kelly there; but then, gradually, a few other details began to sink into my drug-­ stupefied consciousness. Kelly would never in a mil­lion years show up wearing a WSU shirt. No way! She is a Univer­sity of Oregon Duck, green and yellow all the way. Woe betide anyone who tries to tell her differently, and she has every right to insist on that!

To my everlasting amazement and with only the barest of fi­nancial aid from yours truly, this once marginal student got her BA in psychology from Southern Oregon University, and she’s now finishing up with a distance-­ learning master’s in business ad­ministration from the U of O in Eugene. She’s done all this, on her own and without any parental prompting, while running an at-­ home day care center and looking after her own two kids. When Kelly turned into a rabid Ducks fan along the way, she got no complaints from me, even though I’m a University of Washington Husky from the get-­ go.

But the very idea of Kelly Beaumont Cartwright wearing a Cougars sweatshirt? Nope. Believe me, it’s not gonna happen.

Then there was the puzzling matter of the very long hair. Kelly’s hair used to be about that same length—­ which is to say more than shoulder length—­but it isn’t anymore. A year or so ago, she cut it off and donated her shorn locks to a charity that makes wigs for cancer patients. (Karen, Kelly’s mother and my ex-­ wife, died after a long battle with breast cancer, and Kelly remains a dedicated part of the cancer-­ fighting community. In addition to donating her hair, she sponsors a Relay for Life team and makes certain that both her father and stepfather step up to the plate with cash donations to the cause on a yearly basis.)

As my visitor continued to file her nails with single-­ minded focus, the polish struck me as odd. In my experience, mothers of young children in general—­ and my daughter in particular—­ don’t wear nail polish of any kind. Nail enamel and motherhood don’t seem to go together, and on the rare occasions when Kelly had indulged in a manicure she had opted for something in the pale pink realm, not this amazingly vivid scarlet, the kind of color Mel seems to favor.

Between the cascade of long blond hair and the bright red nail polish, I was pretty sure my silent visitor wasn’t Kelly. If not her, then, I asked myself, who else was likely to show up at my hospital bedside to visit?

Cherisse, maybe?

Cherisse is my daughter-in-­law. She has long hair and she does wear nail polish. She and my son, Scott, don’t have kids so far, but Cherisse is not a blonde—­at least she wasn’t the last time I saw her. Besides, if anyone was going to show up unannounced at my hos­pital bedside, it would be my son, not his wife.

I finally managed to find a semblance of my voice, but what came out of my mouth sounded croaky, like the throaty grum­blings of an overage frog.

“Who are you?” I asked.

In answer, she simply shook her head, causing the cascade of silvery blond hair to ripple across her shoulder. I was starting to feel tired—­ sleepy. I must have blinked. In that moment, the shim­mering blond hair and crimson sweatshirt vanished. In their place I saw a woman who was clearly a nurse.

“Mr. Beaumont. Mr. Beaumont,” she said, in a concerned voice that was far too loud. “How are you doing, Mr. Beaumont? It’s time to wake up now.”

“I’ve already been awake,” I wanted to say, but I didn’t. In­stead, looking up into a worried face topping a set of colorful scrubs, I wondered when it was that nurses stopped wearing white uniforms and white caps and started doing their jobs wearing clothes that looked more like crazed flower gardens than anything else.

“Okay,” I managed, only now my voice was more of a whisper than a croak. “My wife?”

“Right here,” Mel answered, appearing in the background, just over the nurse’s shoulder. “I’m right here.”

She looked haggard and weary. I had spent a long time sleep­ing; she had spent the same amount of time worrying. Unfortunately, it showed.

“Where did she go?” I asked the nurse, who was busy taking my blood pressure reading.

“Where did who go?” she asked.

“The girl in the sweatshirt.”

“What girl?” she asked. “What sweatshirt?”

Taking a cue from me, Mel looked around the recovery room, which consisted of a perimeter of several curtained-­ off patient cubicles surrounding a central nurses’ station. The whole place was a beehive of activity.

“I see nurses and patients,” Mel said. “I don’t see anyone in a sweatshirt.”

“But she was right here,” I argued. “A blonde with bright red nail polish a lot like yours. She was wearing a WSU sweatshirt, and she was filing her nails with one of those pointy little nail files.”

“A metal one?” Mel asked, frowning. “Those are bad for your nails. I haven’t used one of those in years. Do they even still sell them?”

That question was directed at the nurse, who, busy taking my temperature, simply shrugged.

“Beats me,” she said. “I’m not big on manicures. Never have been.”

That’s when I got the message. I was under the influence of powerful drugs. The girl in the sweatshirt didn’t exist. I had made her up.

“How’re you doing, Mr. B.?” Mel asked. Sidling up to the other side of the bed, she called me by her currently favored pet name and planted a kiss on my cheek. “I talked to the doctor. He said you did great. They’ll keep you here in the recovery room for an hour or two, until they’re sure you’re stable, and then they’ll trans­fer you to your room. I called the kids, by the way, and let every­body know that you came through surgery like a champ.”

This was all good news, but I didn’t feel like a champ. I felt more like a chump.

“Can I get you something to drink?” the nurse asked. “Some water? Some juice?”

I didn’t want anything to drink right then because part of me was still looking for the girl. Part of me was still convinced she had been there, but I couldn’t imagine who else she might have been. One of Ron Peters’s girls, maybe? Heather and Tracy had both gone to WSU. Of the two, I’d always had a special connec­tion with the younger one, Heather. As a kid she was a cute little blond-­ haired beauty whose blue-­ eyed grin had kept me in my place, properly wrapped around her little finger. At fifteen, a barely recognizable Heather, one with hennaed hair and numer­ous piercings, had gone into full-­fledged off-­the-­rails teenage re­bellion, complete with your basic bad-­ to-­ the-bone boyfriend.

In the aftermath of said boyfriend’s death, unlamented by anyone but Heather, her father and stepmother had managed to get the grieving girl on track. She had reenrolled in school, gradu­ated from high school, and gone on to a successful college experi­ence. One thing I did know clearly—­ this was September. That meant that, as far as I knew, Heather was off at school, too, work­ing on a Ph.D. somewhere in the wilds of New Mexico. So, no, my mysterious visitor couldn’t very well be Heather Peters, either.

Not taking my disinterested answer about wanting something to drink for a real no, the nurse handed me a glass with water and a straw bent in my direction. “Drink,” she said. I took a reluctant sip, but I was still looking around the room; still searching.

Mel is nothing if not observant. “Beau,” she said. “Believe me, there’s nobody here in a WSU sweatshirt. And on my way here from the lobby, I didn’t meet anybody in the elevator or the hall­way who was wearing one, either.”

“Probably just dreaming,” the nurse suggested. “The stuff they use in the OR puts ’em out pretty good, and I’ve been told that the dreams that go along with the drugs can be pretty convincing.”

“It wasn’t a dream,” I insisted to the nurse. “She was right here just a few minutes ago—­right where you’re standing now. She was sitting on a stool.”

The nurse turned around and made a show of looking over her shoulder. “Sorry,” she said. “Was there a stool here? I must have missed it.”

But of course there was no stool visible anywhere in the recov­ery room complex, and no crimson sweatshirt, either.

The nurse turned to Mel. “He’s going to be here for an hour or so, and probably drifting in and out of it for most of that time. Why don’t you go get yourself a bite to eat? If you leave me your cell phone number, I can let you know when we’re moving him to his room.”

Allowing herself to be convinced, Mel kissed me again. “I am going to go get something,” she said.

“You do that,” I managed. “I think I’ll just nap for a while.”

My eyelids were growing heavy. I could feel myself drifting. The din of recovery room noise retreated, and just that quickly, the blonde was back at my bedside, sitting on a rolling stool that seemed to appear and disappear like magic at the same time she did. The cascade of swinging hair still shielded her face, and she was still filing her nails.

I’ve had recurring dreams on occasion, but not very often. Most of the time it’s the kind of thing where something in the dream, usually something bad, jars me awake. When I go back to sleep, the dream picks up again, sometimes in exactly the same place, but a slightly different starting point can lead to a slightly different outcome.

This dream was just like that. I was still in the bed in the recov­ery room, but Mel was gone and so was my nurse. Everyone else in the room was faded and fuzzy, like from the days before high-­ def appeared. Only the blonde on the stool stood out in clear relief against everything else.

“Who are you?” I asked. “What are you doing here? What do you want?”

She didn’t look up. “You said you’d never forget me,” she said accusingly, “but you have, haven’t you?”

I was more than a little impatient with all the phony game playing. “How can I tell?” I demanded. “You won’t even tell me your name.”

“My name is Monica,” she answered quietly. “Monica Welling­ton.”

Then she lifted her head and turned to face me. Once the hair was swept away, however, I was appalled to see that there was no face at all. Instead, what peered at me over the neck of the crimson sweatshirt was nothing but a skull, topped by a headful of gor­geous long blond hair, parted in the middle.

“You promised my mother that you’d find out who did it,” she said. “You never did.”

With that she was gone, plunging me into a strange existence where the boundaries between memory and dream blurred some­how, leaving me to relive that long-­ ago time in every jarring detail.

BOOK DETAILS:

Genre: Fiction/Suspense/Mystery
Published by: William Morrow
Publication Date: 9/10/13
Number of Pages: 368
ISBN: 9780062134677

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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.
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 Posted in Mailbox Monday, Meme, Monday Memes

Mailbox Monday

 CMash  September 9, 2013  3 Comments on Mailbox Monday

September is being hosted by Yolanda @ Notorious Spinks Talks

Mailbox Monday was created by Marcia of A girl and her books and is now on tour.

According to Marcia, “Mailbox Monday is the gathering place for readers to share the books that came into their house last week. Warning: Mailbox Monday can lead to envy, toppling TBR piles and humongous wish lists.

Click on title for synopsis via IndieBound (I am an IndieBound affiliate)

         

Tuesday:  Getting Rowdy by Lori Foster from Media Muscle (The Book Trib)

                     Necessary Lies by Diane Chamberlain (personal purchase)

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 Posted in Giveaway, Winners

And the winner is…….

 CMash  September 7, 2013  1 Comment on And the winner is…….

…..of A Southern Place by Elaine Drennon Little

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11 Josie Haney Hink Be a Public Follower of ‘CMASH Loves to Read’
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 Posted in Giveaway, Winners

And the winner is…….

 CMash  September 7, 2013  1 Comment on And the winner is…….

…..of Love Gone Mad by Mark Rubinstein

CONGRATULATIONS!!

12 Maureen Carol Be a Public Follower of ‘CMASH Loves to Read’
An email has been sent and the winner has 48 hours to respond or another winner will be chosen.  Thank you to all that entered.

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