Living the Dream

This is the second post on this blog today. If you are looking for the A to Z blog for the letter G, please scroll down. Thanks.

Well, not enough people followed the health rules and thanks to the variants, we’ve found ourselves under another Stay at Home order. The authorities are working hard to get vaccines into arms, but it’s a slow process, made even slower by a shortage of the precious commodity, and vaccine hesitancy, generally caused by one of two things: fear of needles and refusal to trust science, preferring to believe the ridiculous notions that pop up all over the Internet. Afraid the government will be able to track you? I’ve got news for you. If you own a cellphone, they can track you now. And am I seriously worried someone cares what a 70-year-old woman does?

.So, until those who deny COVID 19 exists, refuse to wear masks and practice social distance, and won’t get vaccinated get on board, it will be one lockdown after another with any kind of normalcy far far away.

So, since you’re stuck inside once more, what do you do? It’s April. It’s warm and dry, but if you live in my part of the world, spring is barely three weeks old. We usually still have snow, so it’s too early to plant anything. I can spend my days writing, but I would much rather sit outside in the afternoon and read.

The interesting thing about The Golden Legacy multiauthor box set from the Author’s Billboard is that the title unites the stories under a common thread. They don’t feature the same characters, not even the same time periods, but they all revolve around a captured and cursed pirate treasure. Used for good, the owners are blessed. Used selfishly or for evil, and it vanishes–not forever but until the next generation where someone will use it for good once more.

My contribution to the anthology is the first story, is Twist of Fate.

Can a cursed treasure unite two lonely outcasts?

Overton Stafford, shunned by his family because of a birthmark on his face, made a life for himself as Second Mate on The Golden Fleece. In a battle with pirates, Overton loses his left arm, ending his career. Knowing he will be a wealthy man makes the pain easier to bear, especially when he discovers he can repay a moral debt and help an old friend. When he meets Anna, Overton realizes he wants more from her than a financial partnership.

Anneliese Van Stubel lost her sight at nine as a result of Smallpox. Now eighteen, a ward of the crown because of the Danish Age of Majority law, she lives in limbo, uncertain what will happen to her. When Overton approaches her with the proposition to help her rebuild the plantation, she’s excited with the idea of returning to her home. But her joy fades when her caregiver makes it plain that he has a different future in mind for her, one that will profit him.

Set in a time when brutality against women and slaves was the norm, Overton seeks to change things as he falls in love with the girl who has lost so much.

Here’s a scene from the story to whet your whistle. Remember, this was not a kind, enlightened time.

Aboard The Golden Fleece,

Caribbean Sea off the coast of Tortola,

Lesser Antilles.

August 2, 1734

“And may the Almighty have mercy upon his soul,” Saul Dern, the ship’s doctor and the closest thing to a clergyman aboard The Golden Fleece, intoned before shutting his Bible.

The sun beat down relentlessly on the deck, burning the forty men and the one woman who stood there, some of them scarcely able to stay on their feet.

Grim faced, the would-be minister turned to Sarah, the captain’s eighteen year old daughter. She nodded. Saul mumbled a few words to the men at his side. Without hesitation, they cut the ropes and tipped Captain Carlson’s body into the sea.

Overton Stafford, Second Mate, mopped his brow on the side of his sling as he watched the cadaver, wrapped in sailcloth and loaded down by cannonballs, slip beneath the waves. There, but for the grace and mercy of God, would he be. The cannon shot that had ended the captain’s life had severely damaged his own left arm. Saul was doing his best to save it, but even to Overton’s inexperienced eye, it didn’t look good. But then, nothing did. Given that the main mast was gone along with the top half of the mizzen mast, the ship limped along, heading for a safe port where repairs could be made. The fact that she was able to move even at this reduced speed was a bloody miracle.

Mistress Sarah, now owner and acting captain of the vessel, had wanted to take her father back to Savannah for a proper Christian funeral. Unfortunately, bodies decomposed quickly in this region, and after four days of blistering heat, the ship moving slower than the algae surrounding it, she’d accepted that doing so wouldn’t be wise. As it was, there were enough sweat-soaked, bloody sailors, festering wounds, and prisoners aboard the vessel to contaminate the air.

The captain hadn’t been the only man to die in the pirate attack. Half the crew had perished, but he was the only one who’d been given the respect and honor of a separate funeral. The crewman who’d lost their lives had been consigned to the waters the day after the battle. The brigands who’d died, including their infamous leader, had been unceremoniously dumped aboard the vessel, the ship then scuttled and sent to the bottom of the Caribbean Sea. The dozen injured survivors were shackled below deck, ready to be turned over to the authorities when—and if—they made port. God alone knew how many had managed to escape when it was obvious victory wouldn’t be theirs. Cowards and rats always deserted a sinking ship.

How could this ill-equipped merchant vessel have bested The Dawn, the scourge of the Lesser Antilles? How had they defeated Mad Jack Lessing, one of the most feared pirates in all of the Caribbean? Now, with a portion of her crew and her captain dead, The Golden Fleece shuffled over the green waves, its coffers filled with newly acquired treasure, stolen in the first place from men who themselves had taken it from others. He’d heard one of the prisoners mumbling in Spanish. Tesoro maldito, cursed treasure. Normally, he wasn’t a superstitious man, but what else could explain this strange twist of fate?

Overton shook his pounding head, sweat matting his long, deep brown hair, before trickling down the sides of his face. Cursed or not, David had defeated Goliath. Victory for the ship, but a personal defeat for himself. Fate kicking a broken man while he was down once more.

“Overton, you need to get back to bed,” Saul Dern said, his face creased in concern. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. If you get any weaker, there won’t be much I can do for you.”

“If ye think I’m going to spend what may be me final days amid the stench of yer so-called infirmary, ye’ve another thought coming. If I’m to live through this, then I’ll do it with the Good Lord’s sun on me face.”

Saul shook his clenched fist at him.

“You’re the most stubborn, pig-headed Scotsman I’ve ever met. Have it your way—for now—but sit. You’ll not stand on this deck until you fall and do even more damage to that blasted arm. In an hour or two, you’ll go to your cabin if I have to carry you there myself. Cook is making a fine soup from the fish we caught earlier today. You’ll eat it, or I’ll have O’Hara force feed you, and you know the Irishman would like nothing better than to have you at his mercy. Now, sit, I said, and let me look at that arm.”

Too weak and in more pain than he would’ve believed possible, Overton dropped onto a barrel and let the doctor remove the sling. Gingerly, the man pulled off his shirt sleeve. Every now and then, the heavy cotton caught on the dry blood sticking to it, adding to Overton’s agony. When the arm was freed, the swollen, bloody mass was enough to turn any man’s stomach.

Saul prodded the flesh with his fingers, then shook his head and pursed his lips. Overton had uttered more than a few curses as the doctor had painstakingly removed metal and wood shards, but much of the mast had been coated in boat soup, a mixture of tar and oils meant to preserve the wood, that often caused infection. He’d seen tiny splinters turn septic in a matter of days.

“Life hasn’t been easy for you, but I’m afraid it’s about to get worse. I did my best, but there’s nothing more I can do. The hand’s got to go. Look at it. Even you can smell the putrefaction. The swelling and signs of poison run all the way up your arm. Given the elbow’s been shattered, there’s nothing I can do to restore its mobility. If you want to live—and God alone knows if you do—the arm has to come off. I can leave you the shoulder and bicep if I take it before it worsens. But the choice is yours.”

Overton swallowed the bile rising in his throat. His arm? Give up his arm? Had the Lord not taken enough from him? The love of a mother, a family who cared for him, and now this. A man could replace a lost leg with a wooden one, a lost hand with a hook, but to lose most of the arm? How could such a man serve aboard ship when he wouldn’t be able to do the simplest tasks?

If he did nothing, as Saul had said, he would die. The painfilled part of him suggested the prospect wasn’t without merit, but he wasn’t ready to let that bastard Mad Jack Lessing drag him down to hell along with him. Deep inside, Overton was certain he was meant for better things. Giving up was a coward’s choice. He might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t weak. He’d fought too hard to get where he was to just give up. But to lose the arm…

Before he could answer Saul’s question, the rustle of taffeta announced the new captain’s arrival.

“Mr. Stafford. How’s your arm?” She didn’t wait for an answer and turned to Saul. “Doctor, can you save it?”

“Not and save the man,” Saul admitted.

Hearing it put so bluntly caused the acid in Overton’s stomach to roil.

The captain nodded and turned back to Overton.

“Then we must do what we can to save you, sir, even if we can’t save the arm. A man is more than the sum of his parts.” She sighed. “You must think of the future. I promise you’ll share in the spoils from this victory, a small way to repay you for your loyalty.” She swiped at the tears on her sunburned face. “I’ve lost enough men to my father’s folly and greed, I’ll not lose one more.”

Want to read more?

The Golden Legacy box sets contains five stories by four authors and is available from Amazon for only 99 cents USD or free to read in Kindle Unlimited.

Welcome back to the the A to Z challenge for 2021. Today’s cocktail comes with a bit of backstory. Two years ago, before COVID 19 destroyed all the fun in life, my husband and I attended a charity wine festival and won a year’s worth of wine–a bottle a week. The selection was huge and the fifty two bottles were set aside for special occasions. Some, we didn’t normally drink, like port or champagne, but there is an occasion for everything. Recently, after we came out of lockdown, we went to dinner at a friend’s house. just two couples and I had proof of my negative COVID test as well as the first of my two vaccines. We decided to bring a couple of the remaining wines. One was a muscatel, or muscat wine, way too sweet to drink by itself, but I thought it might taste good over ice. While I was watching yet another rerun of NCIS, I decided to look to see if there were any cocktails made with that wine. Low and behold, I found one.

Today’s letter is G, and the cocktail I found and am anxious to try is called the Golden Ivy. It was created by Simon Difford in 2011 as a Christmas cocktail. As I said, I found the recipe online at https://www.diffordsguide.com It won’t be a cocktail that you’ll drink all night–not if you want to walk away under your own steam. The cognac blends well with the sweet berry taste of the muscat and the dry berry taste of the cranberries.

Make It Your Own

Ingredients:

2 oz cognac, Remi-Martin is suggested

1/2 oz Muscat wine

1 oz cranberry juice

Method:

Stir all ingredients with ice.

strain and serve in a coupe glass

Garnish with an orange zest twist.

Now, doesn’t that look pretty? I can see a Christmas story evolving from this particular cocktail.

Come back tomorrow to see what the letter H will have for you!

Want to see other blog challenges? Check out the master list! https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1mvSm8FsuFVkOQulQ0EgzslGiNd8CZWWrqaRhCG8Sv4o/edit#gid=1500973813

This is the second post today. If you are looking for the letter F in the A to Z Challenge 2021, please scroll down.

Well, here we are in April and for many of us, life is still far from normal. COVID 19 variants continue to ravage our nations faster than we can get life-saving vaccines into willing arms. Easter has come and gone, and for many of us, the celebration was a lonely one without family meals and the rest of the what we took for granted for so long.

Each month, the IWSG posts an optional question to its writer members. This month’s question is:

Are you a risk-taker when writing? Do you try something radically different in style/POV/etc. or add controversial topics to your work?

I have to admit to being a risk-taker, but a rather mild one. When I started writing, I wrote in the third person which I felt suited the stories because they let me see inside more than one characters’ mind. My suspense novels tend to be gritty, with realistic details, and a lot of psychological drama. What they don’t have is a lot of sex. In fact, unless sex between the characters is critical to the plot’s development it isn’t there. I won’t apologize for that. I don’t believe in jumping into bed at the drop of a hat. Society’s views on that may have changed, but once a prude, always a prude. That may be costing me readers who wants sex rather than plot, but as I said, unless it’s needed, it isn’t there.

When I taught English, I worked with several great classics. Some had the omniscient point of view, where you could see inside the heads of multiple characters, but that has fallen out of favor.

Usually I have the standard two-points of view–the hero and the heroine. In Fire Angel, I gave the villain his own point of view as well. It seemed the only way to truly make the story pop.

There didn’t seem to be an effective manner in which explain the killer’s motivation otherwise. It was also a way to allow the readers to feel his almost orgasmic relationship with fire and his need for revenge. Having that information given though the main characters made it far too easy to identify the killer early on in the story. The other option was a confession, a type of verbal storm at the end of the book, that I find imminently unsatisfying in books I read.

In Same Time Next Year, I have two stories folded together, that of an older woman returning to where she was happiest if only for a few weeks, and that of a girl experiencing her first love affair. The book is written as scenes from the present (written in the third person) mixed with her memoirs of the past (written in the first person). The scenes from 1967 touch on a lot of sensitive topics through the lens of time. Few people today realize how women were perceived then, not as equals in any way, but essentially property belonging to either their fathers or husbands. I also touched on the events of the times such as the Vietnam War and how society viewed interfaith relationships, alcohol abuse, gambling, homosexuality, and teen pregnancy. I used the music of the time to set the scene, referring to various songs to set the mood.

My third venture outside the box would be my Christmas stories, Holiday Magic and The Perfect Choice. The two books cover the same time period, the essential difference being the point of view. The heroines are fraternal twins who have always been there for one another. Georgia, in Holiday Magic, has been dealing with a broken heart. Eleni, in The Perfect Choice is searching for the man of her dreams. The stories collide when Eleni asks Georgia to do her a favor. So what you get is a similar story with identical scenes, but each book telling the story from its heroine’s point of view.

Last year, with the pandemic, I started something new to me, books written entirely in the first person. Not only were they written that way, but instead of my usual suspense novels, there are romantic comedies, what’s often referred to as Chick-lit. The first three books in the series I’ve named Cocktails for You, are essentially set pre-pandemic, the fourth book is written in the here and now with the restrictions in place in Canada back in March 2021. The stories, Tequila Sunrise, Champagne Cocktail, Buck’s Fizz, and The Tipsy Pig are all named after cocktails. When I first started writing them, I hadn’t thought of a suitable series name, but then I read an article about how alcohol sales had jumped since the onset of the pandemic. If people were going to drink anyway, why not try something new?

And so far, that is as big a risk as I’ve taken. What about you? Do you take risks in what you read or write?

To read other opinions on this topic, follow the link! https://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

Wow! Hard to believe it’s Hump Day already. When I was working, Wednesdays were the turning point of the week. Now, that I work at home and especially since the pandemic, all the days tend to blend together.

Today’s letter F cocktail is called the French Connection, not because of ancestry, but after a movie in the 70s that featured Gene hackman as Popeye Doyle.

No one knows who invented the drink, but it’s an easy one to make, albeit a sweet drink, but ideal for sipping late at night.

In the past, I’ve often enjoyed this cocktail in the evening. The fruity notes of the cognac blend well with the sweet almond taste.

Make It Your Own

Ingredients

2 oz cognac

1 oz Amaretto

Method:

Add a large ice cube to the glass

Pour cognac over the ice

Add Amaretto

Enjoy!

I’ve given some thought to this and my French Connection romance will deal with an ancestral search that leads to interesting and humorous findings.

Join me again tomorrow as we discover the cocktail behind the letter G

Day five of the challenge seems to be going well. Most of you are probably frantically working to submit your income tax on time. Unless you’re an accountant, that can give you a reason to drink!

Today’s letter E brings a cooler drink for all you tequila lovers out there. Check out Electric Coco. While I haven’t tried it yet, I know some friends who would jump at the chance.

When I visited Mexico, I toured a tequila factory and got to taste some Patron tequila. Very nice stuff.

Make It Your Own

Ingredients:

•  2 oz of Tequila (I recommend silver Patron
• 1 oz Coconut Water
• 1/2 oz pineapple juice
• 1/2 oz orange liqueur
• 3 dashes orange bitters

Method:

• Place all the ingredients in a cocktail shaker full of ice.
• Strain and pour into a glass filled with crushed ice.
• Garnish with a pineapple chunk and pineapple leaves.

While I haven’t come up with any ideas for Electric Coco, I’m pretty sure we’ll be doing something Mexican.

Come back tomorrow to see what I’ve come up with for F.

Want to see other blog challenges? Check out the master list! https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1mvSm8FsuFVkOQulQ0EgzslGiNd8CZWWrqaRhCG8Sv4o/edit#gid=1500973813

Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales. It’s April and yet, things don’t seem much better than they did at this time last year. Here’s hoping that with enough people vaccinated, we can salvage something of summer.

This week, those of you following the scenes from The White Dahlia will notice a big jump in the plot line. For months, I’ve nursed this story, but now I’m working on it full time. The White Dahlia has an end of April deadline, so the story will be moving along far more quickly. To bring you up to speed, signs point to the return of The Chosen and a new Harvester. There has been a bombing. Today’s scene uses the word prompt ORANGE.

Traffic was heavy, but as usual, the cabby drove like a man possessed. Neither of them spoke. When they arrived, Al paid the fare and then followed her to the yellow tape.

She pulled out her credentials.

“Detective Sergeant Reynolds. This is my partner Lieutenant Foster. We’re looking for Lieutenant Mack Rivers.”

The uniformed officer nodded.

“We were told to expect you, ma’am.”

He handed them each an orange hard hat.

“Thank you.”

She put it on, and Al followed suit.

“The lieutenant told me to send you right up. He’s on the third floor. That staircase has been cleared.”

He indicated the exit to his left.

She nodded. “I assume the power’s still out?”

“Yes, ma’am. There were a lot of ruptured gas tanks. It took a while to put out the fire around the van, and it would only take one spark to ignite all the fumes remaining in the structure.”

“Understood.”

She led the way to the stairwell. Once the door closed behind them, Al put his hand on her shoulder to stop her.

“So are you going to let me in on what the hell’s going on?”

His frustrated tone was hard to miss.

“I didn’t want to say anything in front of the cabbie. Jack Ogden has a habit of making those guys talk.” She started up the stairs. “Knowing him, he’s probably standing across the street with the ambulance chasers and other ‘concerned’ citizens. I’m sure you saw them milling around Friday morning. Why go to the movies when you can watch ‘Crime in the City’ for free? If Jack saw us arrive, his nose for news will be twitching like a rabbit’s. He’s probably already hunting down that cab driver, which is why I didn’t say a word.”

He chuckled. “Good point. So what is going on?”

“When I first came to the NYPD, it was with the bomb squad. I acquired a lot of expertise in that area working The Harvester Cases, especially the last two. Chad Markell called Mack Rivers and insisted I have a look at the scene before anyone touches anything. I have a feeling he believes me now, and that this is their work.”

“Son of a bitch. As I recall from what you said, they like to make big, loud exits. When you look at the remnants, will you know if it’s them?”

“Not positively, that will take lab results, but I’ll know if it isn’t. Every bombmaker has his or her own signature.

That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales

Welcome back to the A to Z Challenge Blog. For those who celebrate Easter, I hope it was a safe and happy one. I always see Easter as the first real holiday of the year. Sometimes it’s warm out, but here in Eastern Ontario, Canada, you never know whether or not you’re going to have sun, rain, or snow!

Today’s cocktail isn’t one for the beaches. It’s for those adults who’ve never outgrown their love of hot chocolate. Is there a better cold weather drink? Maybe, since I’m partial to Hot Buttered Rum but this is delicious.

At this point in time, Like the letter A. there isn’t a Cocktails For You novel yet, but the wheels are turning. So far what I have involves a bed and breakfast manger whose inn has been sold to a multinational corporation with plans to renovate the building and destroy its unique atmosphere. Let’s see what else comes to me between now and next winter!

Come back tomorrow for news about a Cocktail with the letter E.

Want to see other blog challenges? Check out the master list! https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1mvSm8FsuFVkOQulQ0EgzslGiNd8CZWWrqaRhCG8Sv4o/edit#gid=1500973813

Happy Easter 2021. Like last year, we need to celebrate from afar. Bunny beers in the driveway two years running. No hugs, no kisses, and the church service attended thanks to You tube. Wow. How things have changed.

When I was a kid, Easter always meant a new outfit, complete with hat, shoes, purse, and gloves. The old Brownie camera came out of the closet and my father would take yet another blurry picture of me.

After more than 60 years, I still remember that hat. The straw was white. the ribbon a moss green velvet and the central flower, a daisy with a green centre. I truly believed it to be the ugliest hat on Earth, an Elmer Fudd hat. In hindsight, that feather creation on my mother’s head was far worse.

As odd as it seems, the other thing I remember is my dad telling us how pretty we looked and singing the opening bars from Easter Parade. I’ve seen the movie countless times over the years and love those old musicals.

Up until last year, I continued the tradition of getting a new Easter outfit, or at least something new to wear each year. This year, I’ve settled for a clean nightgown to wear to the sofa for church. How times have changed.

So with this bit of nostalgia, I wish you all a very happy spring.

Hello. Nice of you to drop by again.

Today, the letter C brings you another delicious beverage usually associated with New Year’s and the rich and famous.

I was fortunate enough to have one of these years ago in Boston at a wedding at a private club downtown. It was delicious, but again, a little above my pay grade.

The Champagne Cocktail is a classic—with a hint of added flavor from spirits, bitters, and citrus peels. Many of the finer bars and restaurants have their own variations of this recipe served worldwide.

How To Make It Yours

INGREDIENTS

• 1 sugar cube
• Angostura bitters
• Champagne
• Lemon or orange twist, for garnish

Method

This one is probably one of the easiest to make. Soak the sugar cube in Angostura bitters and drop into a champagne flute. Top with a luxury champagne or a sparkling wine. Garnish with a lemon or orange twist, and voila!

Champagne Cocktail is also the title of one of my Cocktails for You novels. It’s a Christmas story, one based on the trouble I had years ago trying to find a specific doll for my daughter. If you’ve ever had trouble finding the perfect gift for a child, you’ll empathize with Ronnie.

Do you believe in Christmas magic?

When life gave Ronnie Daniels lemons, instead of lemonade, the single mother learned to make Lemon Drops.

This Christmas, times are tougher than ever, and Ronnie’s number one priority is making the holiday as normal as possible for her five-year-old daughter. All Dottie wants from Santa is a Famous American Ballerina doll. The problem is not only are they expensive, but they’re impossible to find.

After another failed attempt to secure one of the dolls, in her frustration, Ronnie sends a scathing letter to the company, Thomas Toys. As the doll’s manufacturer, one advertising a product they don’t have on hand and can’t deliver before Christmas, it’s their fault that her daughter’s dreams won’t come true.

When the company’s new CEO comes into the bar to apologize for the mishap and try to make amends, Ronnie refuses to listen to him, not just because of Dottie, but they have a complicated history. Determined to fix this, Wyatt won’t back down, and before long the doll isn’t the only thing Dottie and Ronnie want for Christmas.

Champagne Cocktail is available exclusively from Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08Q4LJPCD

Excerpt from Champagne Cocktail:

Black Friday

This was the last straw! Wishing I could throw myself on the ground and indulge in a good old-fashioned temper tantrum, complete with kicking, screaming, and fist pounding—maybe even a little teeth gnashing and biting—I did the adult thing and straightened my spine. Inhaling deeply to slow my heartbeat and breathing, praying I wouldn’t break down in tears in front of everyone, I wrapped my shattered soul in a cloak of dignity and indignation. A strong offense was the best defense, right?

I stared at my nemesis, the expertly coifed and manicured salesclerk who was as out of place in Toys as I would be in Jewelry.

“Why on earth would your store advertise that you have the doll in stock if you don’t? Isn’t that false advertising?”

As a bartender, I dealt with difficult customers on a regular basis. Soothe and schmooze, but Miss Uncongeniality here wasn’t helping. The haughty salesclerk was making me feel more and more inadequate by the minute, as if her inability to provide me with what I wanted was somehow my fault.

She eyed me, her pursed lips and furrowed brow clearly showing how unimpressed she was with my lack of makeup, wool hat, snow boots, sweatpants, and old winter jacket.

Okay. I’ll admit I wasn’t at my best at the moment, but who would be? I’d gotten up at the ungodly hour of four, packed up my five-year-old and dropped her off at the sitters, and had driven more than three hours from Philadelphia to Pittsburgh to be here when the store opened at nine. I’d frozen in line with another fifty or so people tackling the rain and wind—I’d handled the fog on the drive here—waiting for the damn doors to open. Once they did, I’d used every bit of athletic ability I possessed, leaping over slow moving shoppers and the ends of counters in my best Olympic hurdler fashion, taking the escalator two steps at a time to get to the toy department only to stare at an empty shelf. Not a single Famous American Ballerina doll in sight. I unzipped my parka. The more annoyed I was, the warmer I became.

The woman cocked a perfectly arched eyebrow at the baggy sweatshirt I’d grabbed off the chair and shook her head. Maybe it wasn’t the cleanest but let her do better in the dark.

“No, ma’am, it isn’t.”

I didn’t even remember what I’d asked her but being called ma’am sent me rocketing in the wrong direction. My Aunt Wynn, well-loved and as crusty as she could be, had been a ma’am. I was a missus at best, and right now, I was on the verge of a complete meltdown. This couldn’t be happening. Not this year. Damn it!

“The Black Friday Sale information was sent out weeks ago. Unfortunately, Thomas Toys is unable to fill orders for the Famous American Ballerina dolls at this time. The dolls will be available in six to eight weeks. I can give you a rain check for the sale price when it does come in.”

“How wonderful!” Being called ma’am was bad enough, but this just added insult to injury. “That’s only two to four weeks too late for Christmas.” I wanted to tell her where to shove her rain check but seeing the curious looks on the faces of the other shoppers, I swallowed my words.

“Perhaps your daughter would be interested in another of the Thomas Toys’ dolls we have on sale? Why don’t you let me show you a few?”

With a heartfelt, “No, thanks,” I ignored her pinched lipped annoyance and retraced my steps to the parking lot.

“Great, just absolutely frigging great,” I mumbled as I started the engine on my old beat-up Ford and headed back to Philadelphia, tears of frustration dribbling down my cheeks. How the hell was I supposed to make this a perfect Christmas for Dottie if the toymaker had screwed up?

The only Christmas wish my baby had was for a ballerina doll that spun on pointed toes the way she did in her ballet classes. While we both missed Aunt Wynn, the first time I’d seen her face light up since the funeral had been four weeks ago, and I would do everything in my power to see it happen again.

Dottie had been watching one of her favorite children’s shows when the ad for the new Famous American Ballerina dolls came on.

“Mommy, that’s what I want Santa to bring me this year. Look, their legs can be moved into position, just like a real ballerina. Aren’t they beautiful?”

They were also sinfully expensive—as were all Thomas Toys—the old “Quality is our Touchstone” motto the excuse for what I considered price gouging. Costly or not, at that moment I’d sworn that if that was what Dottie wanted, it was what she would get. I’d managed to put away enough for one of them—assuming I could find the damn thing.

Each time Dottie watched her favorite program, those dolls danced across the screen and brought me to my boiling point. So, the manufacturer was to blame for all of this?

Why wasn’t I surprised? The Thomas family and I went way back. I’d attended high school with the privileged twins, and the experience hadn’t been a pleasant one. What I wouldn’t give to come face to face with Wyatt C. Thomas, Senior, CEO, and tell him exactly what I thought of him and his company.

After overcoming years of painful shyness, like my daughter, there were times when I lacked a social filter—I said whatever popped into my head without considering the consequences. At the moment, all of my fury centered on one man and the fact that he was ruining our Christmas. As I pulled on to the highway, the fog now lifted, the idea grew, and I decided to tell him exactly what I thought of him and his marketing practices. Using my phone’s Bluetooth, I settled in to vent.

Have a Happy Easter! Looking forward to seeing you on Monday!

Want to see other blog challenges? Check out the master list! https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1mvSm8FsuFVkOQulQ0EgzslGiNd8CZWWrqaRhCG8Sv4o/edit#gid=1500973813

Hello again and Welcome back.

Today’s drink is one I’ve already used as the title of a Cocktails for you novel. The drink is called a Buck’s Fizz. This cocktail originated in the early 1920’s at Buck’s Club, a men’s club in London, England. Some suggest it might’ve been a way to hide day drinking. I mean, how many of us can honestly say we haven’t had one a wee bit early in the day? A Buck’s Fizz is generally made using one part fresh squeezed orange juice to two parts of Champagne–no cheaper substitutes allowed.

Which brings me to the generic or cheap substitute. About five years later, someone in Paris created the Mimosa, which is similar to a Buck’;s Fizz but using sparking wine, and occasionally an orange liqueur with equal parts orange juice.

I’ll admit that while I’ve had several Mimosas in my day, a true Buck’s Fizz is too rich for my wallet.

How to Make Your Own

Ingredients

• 2 ounces orange juice
• 4 ounces champagne
• Garnish: orange twist

Method

Gather the ingredients.

Build the drink by pouring the orange juice into the champagne glass

Then topping it with sparkling wine.

Garnish with an orange twist!

And, here’s a taste of Buck’s Fizz, a Cocktail’s for You novel.

You can run, but you can’t hide!

In order to escape an arranged marriage to a rude, insufferable man, Jewel Wellington leaves home and The Met to hide with a honky tonk band on a Southern promotional tour. As Jess Wells, she and the other Silvertones step into The Squawking Tomcat, a bar on the outskirts of Alice, Texas, expecting to have a three-week gig. The problem is, the bar’s owner, Lance Corcoran, isn’t expecting an all-girl band.Frustrated at this sudden reverse of fortune, Jess makes a deal with the bar’s owner—pick any song by any artist, and let her prove she and the Silvertones can do it. What she doesn’t expect is to realize that the bar’s crusty cowboy owner is none other the surfer she spent one steamy night on the beach with eight years ago, one she left without saying goodbye.Will Lance recognize her? And if he does, will it cost them the gig?

Buck’s Fizz, like all of my novels is exclusive to Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08Y65XT1D

Excerpt from the novel:

Looking out the partially open window into the darkness, seeing nothing but the reflection of my face thanks to the light from Elise’s electronic reader, I sighed. Who knew life could chew you up and spit you out this way? If I hadn’t hit rock bottom, I couldn’t be too far away.

Up until six months ago, my life had been tolerable, not perfect by any means, at least not as long as my father held a death grip on the purse strings, including my trust fund, which had forced me to live at home. Okay, maybe I could’ve given up some of the perks, but to go from a Manhattan condo to a dive in a neighborhood where the rats were the size of cats was still too big a leap for this poor little rich girl. So sue me!

I’d been one show away from my professional goal, a coveted main role at the Met—that was until my father decided it was time for me to get married, and put all that “singing nonsense” as he called it behind me. There were just two problems with his plan: not only did I not want to give up my singing career, I wasn’t in love. How could I even consider marriage if that vital component wasn’t in the equation?

All I wanted was to be in charge of my own life, make my own choices, and if I made mistakes, so be it. I would own up to them and move on. In the twenty-first century, despite the fact that I was female, that shouldn’t be so hard, and yet…

As the only child of wealthy parents who’d given me pretty much everything I’d ever wanted, I’d had friends, fame, and the job of my dreams. I was almost thirty, but that was still young. I would find my true love in time, and then, the rest of it, marriage and children, would fall into place—or so I’d believed. Unfortunately for me, my father had a different idea. I’d danced at his expense for years; now, it was time to stop being emotional and pay the band.

Emotional? Me? I was the most rational person in either our penthouse condo, our home on Cape Cod, or the mansion in the Florida Keys. I might work in theater, but I wasn’t prone to theatrics, nor did I believe in all the hocus pocus my mother had indulged in for the last thirty years in an effort to deal with the tedium of her life. Not having to work was both a blessing and a curse, and with my father a workaholic, rarely home until late at night, she’d immersed herself in all kinds of New Age thinking, dragging me along as long as she could.

She’d done it all—palmistry, tealeaf reading, visited mediums to connect with the spirits of her past, flooded the condo and the vacation houses with positive energy crystals, had tried Reiki, yoga, and meditation, and most recently was looking into her soul group or family, with a shaman named Bob, helping her prepare for her next reincarnation. Good karma, bad karma. I’d needed her support. Couldn’t she at least wait until this life was over to prepare for the next one?

My father tended to ignore her idiosyncrasies; after all in his world, a happy wife meant a happy life, and if she was off doing God alone knew what, it didn’t matter as long as she entertained his business associates and smiled on cue. But a daughter? That was a different matter altogether, and the reason I was in this van, where the air conditioner had committed suicide yesterday, my long, recently dyed, mouse-brown hair plastered to the back of my neck, driving at night through the desert, on my way to Nowhere, Texas.

Life at home had resembled walking across a mine field. I never knew exactly what might set my father off, and as far as my mother went, she was invisible, preferring to stay out of it. At first, the arguments had been minor, almost trivial, but at the end, they’d become major battles, especially after Montgomery Reginald Harris had been added to the mix. I’d never been one for confrontation, but if I didn’t stand up for myself, who would?

Monte, as he liked to be called, had pockets lined with gold, not that my family needed more money. Sadly, to the rich, the only thing that truly mattered was getting richer. I’d never seen my father as a greedy, covetous man, but then, until this year, I’d probably never seen him for the man he really was. When I did, it broke my heart.

With his nose job, hair plugs, capped teeth, and brooding good looks, Monte considered himself God’s gift to women. In reality, the poster boy for Plastic Surgery R Us was an ass with an overblown, sickening sense of entitlement. He never asked for anything—he demanded it. The first and last time we’d officially gone on a date had been at the end of July, the weekend of my cousin Tara’s wedding. He’d thrown a snit fit when the serving girl had dared allow the condensation on the outside of the water jug to drip onto the sleeve of his shiny, new jacket.

I’d been mortified, hoping against hope that no one would realize we were together. Unfortunately, he and my father had been in cahoots, and Monte had chosen to publicly stake his claim, latching onto my waist, openly proclaiming me his property. I’d struggled momentarily, but then, seeing the paparazzi and the glare in my father’s eyes, afraid His Majesty King Monte would make an even bigger scene, I’d stopped.

Monte had smirked, leaned down, and kissed me, the experience not unlike smooching with a dog that constantly drooled. I’d stepped back and excused myself, running to the ladies’ room to wash my face. What I should’ve done was knee him in the balls before walking away. That would’ve been a Pulitzer prize winning picture for the Society page.

The following morning, I’d tried to reason with my father, but to no avail. After that argument, I realized I wouldn’t get any help from either of my parents and afraid my father would drag me kicking and screaming down the aisle, I stood my ground—and made plans to escape.

Come back tomorrow for another Cocktail for You.

Want to see other blog challenges? Check out the master list! https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/1mvSm8FsuFVkOQulQ0EgzslGiNd8CZWWrqaRhCG8Sv4o/edit#gid=1500973813