The Authors’ Billboard’s 2020 fabulous Christmas Box Collection, DEAR SANTA, is filled with 18 brand new stories about characters who have special wishes to ask the big guy during this season.
Most of us have had experiences when something we’ve desperately wanted is so close that Santa seems the perfect person to ask for the miracle. When one believes, it’s amazing the conflicts that are overcome and the surprises that can follow. You’ll be amazed by each of these fantastic holiday books full of Christmas cheer and thrilling romance we’ve written for your entertainment.
Mimi Barbour – Alone at Christmas: Being alone is Tara’s worst nightmare, especially during the holidays. Her wish comes true when she finds Mr. Right injured and stranded, but will they survive the dangerous storm?
Rebecca York – Christmas Miracle 1935: Can he trust her enough to help free her father from jail?
Patricia Rosemoor – Marrying Molly: Dear Santa, Please let me meet a McKenna man who will help me end Sheelin O’Keefe’s horrible curse on both our families. Molly Kavanaugh
Susanne Matthews – What Dottie Wants: All Ronnie wants is to give Dottie a great Christmas, but not being able to find the doll she wants may make that impossible.
Traci Hall – Christmas Kiss: Can a teenage crush become forever love?
Angela Stevens – Dear Sinterklaas: Dan had his heart stolen by a girl on summer vacation, now it’s Christmas time, and with a little bit of magic from Sinterklaas, he hopes to make his Christmas wish come true.
Melinda Colt – Saving Maddie: The only reason demons exist is because angels do, too.
Stacy Eaton – Finding Love with Dear Santa: All Faith wants is to get her life back on track.
Stephanie Queen – He Has Santa: A second chance hockey romance.
Josie Riviera – A Chocolate Box Christmas Wish: He’s been all over the world. She’s a home-town girl. Can a holiday wish bridge the gap?
Mona Risk – Dalia’s Christmas Wish: Will the doctor make the right decision between an angry fiancée and a medical emergency?
Rachelle Ayala – Toy Soldier Christmas: Can a toy soldier make her wish come true?
Dani Haviland – A Plate of Christmas Cookies: Is it too much to ask for a second miracle?
Taylor Lee – Please Christmas: Be Done: When his 7 year old son ran away looking for Santa… and all his teenage daughter wants for Christmas is for it to be done….the district attorney concedes not only did he lose his wife to cancer, but he was in danger of losing his children.
Susan Jean Ricci – Cruising for Mr. Right: Can a widow discover second chance romance aboard a Christmas cruise and make the right choice between two adoring men?
Alyssa Bailey – Christmas Wishes and You: Beth’s Christmas Wish of a Second Chance at Love could happen if only she would be willing to risk her heart… again.
Nancy Radke – Zsuzsa’s Christmas Wish: She asks Santa for a strong man to help corral a mule that won’t stay home, and is given a rancher who plans to corral her.
Carmen DeSousa – Chicago Hope: Aspiring journalist Maura Hall dreams of changing the world, but she’ll settle for Chicago.
Welcome back to this week’s Tuesday Tales, the weekly blog post where a small group of authors share their work in progress with you. My last few posts have been on the gory side, but now I’m going to put you to work and make you think.
I’m continuing with The White Dahlia, Book Four of The Harvester Files. Enjoy!
“Both on cruises? That’s a hell of a coincidence. Were they traveling alone?”
“It looks that way. At the time Rachel disappeared, I questioned her boyfriend, but he had a rock solid alibi. He was four thousand miles away in Anchorage, Alaska. When I told him Rachel had vanished, he was sure something bad had happened to her. He didn’t believe she would voluntarily run off since her music meant everything to her. She was a gifted pianist on scholarship at Juilliard. Her aunt reported her missing. The woman swore Rachel had returned to New York. Apparently, she’d messaged her when the ship made port, promising to phone as soon as she got back to her apartment. She never did. According to the vessel’s records, the woman debarked and collected her luggage. Customs agreed she made it through passport control. Then, she vanished.” He snapped his fingers. “She might as well have been abducted by aliens. There were no leads, nothing.”
“And the new case?”
“It’s as if Rachel’s case simply multiplied itself. After her cousin fell and broke her leg the week before they were set to sail, Rebecca decided to take the trip anyway. She was on vacation for a couple of weeks. No one filed a report until she failed to turn up at work three weeks later. I spoke to the cousin.She figured Rebecca was mad at her for screwing up. Like Rachel, Rebecca made it through customs and passport control, and then poof!”
Her eyes narrowed in speculation. “You think there’s some kind of predator who hunts single women on cruise ships, and then what? Kidnaps them, keeps them until he’s bored with them, kills them, freezes them, and while they’re turning into ice cubes, goes out hunting again?”
“I don’t know what I was thinking, but it definitely wasn’t that. Interesting theory. I was working under the assumption they’d somehow been dragged into the sex trade, maybe picked up at the port by an uber driver. Your theory doesn’t contradict that, especially considering the brand, but if they were singled out on board … That’s something to consider. If a friend offered you a ride, you might not think twice about accepting. The thing is, no one remembers seeing either of them leaving the port, but you know what a zoo that place is, especially with three thousand people rushing to get to their buses, and there aren’t any cameras outside.”
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.
Welcome to this week’s Tuesday Tales. Yesterday was Thanksgiving Day in Canada. There is a lot I’m not grateful for so far in 2020, but the fact that I and my loved ones are all healthy, is truly something to celebrate.
This is picture prompt week. One a month those of us who are part of this blog have a picture rather than a word prompt to work with. Sometimes the pictures lend themselves easily to the texts; at others, we have to be creative. Since I’m trying to provide the first chapter as closely as I can before i start jumping ahead in the story, I’ve done just that. As always, picture prompt scenes are limited to 300 words. Here’s the prompt I chose.
“The tattoo,” she answered. “I was going through the latest missing persons’ reports earlier tonight, and I saw it. Show him, Mitch.”
The coroner bent down once more and gently turned the body onto its side, flesh slipping out of place as she did. On the left shoulder blade, an angel’s wing, beautifully depicted and lifelike, stood out against the darkened skin where the blood had pooled, the name, Sally, engraved under it.
“It looks like you’re right, but we won’t be sure until we have fingerprints and DNA,” he answered, running his hand through his hair, the sweat turning his gel to goo. “In the meantime, we can assume this is what’s left of Rachel Livingston, surviving twin, but she didn’t have that horseshoe when she disappeared. Is some pimp starting a new stable—pardon the pun—or have you seen that mark before?”
She shook her head. “What can you tell me about her?” The sergeant’s voice was low as if she were trying not to breathe too deeply. He didn’t blame her.
“Rachel worked part-time at The Burger Barn. She disappeared twenty-three months ago. Apparently, she left for a cruise vacation and never made it back.”
“If that happened twenty-three months ago, why was she in your latest report?”
Sergeant Reynolds moved farther away from the body to let the coroner’s assistants who’d just arrived get closer to it.
Al followed her, hoping the stench would ease, but the smell wasn’t any less repulsive here.
“Because last week, another case landed on my desk. Young girl working with a law firm failed to return after her cruise vacation. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to bring Rachel up again since I was at a dead end.”
That’s it. Stay safe and don’t forget to check out the other Tuesday Tales.
Photo by Anna Tukhfatullina Food Photographer/Stylist on Pexels.com
Happy Thanksgiving! Yes, it’s October. Did you know that Canadians have been celebrating Thanksgiving since the late sixteenth century, roughly 40 years longer than Americans? In fact, ten different countries celebrate Thanksgiving: Canada, China, Germany, Grenada, Japan, the Norfolk Islands, South Korea, Liberia, Vietnam, and of course the United States. Not everyone celebrates at the same time nor in the same way, but the theme, one of gratitude, is universal. Check this link to learn more. https://finance.yahoo.com/news/9-other-countries-celebrate-thanksgiving-110021067.html
2020 has made it hard for many to be grateful for much. In my bubble of ten, which includes my daughter and her family, we managed to get together for the traditional meal, but this year, our son who lives two hours away couldn’t make it. COVID 19 kept him in a different bubble. Our son who lives in Norway doesn’t usually get home for this holiday, but while he came to Canada at least once a year in the past, he’s not doing any traveling now.
The second wave of coronavirus has hit Canada, and it’s worse than it was the first time around–not as bad as in other countries, but far worse than we would like. We managed to flatten the curve late last spring, but it’s climbing steeply again. Once more, facemasks, social distancing, and staying within your bubble are the orders of the day. Restrictions are increasing, and with flu season also on the horizon, as well as the typical fall allergy and common cold season, getting together with friends and family may be a thing of the past once more.
But, I do have several things to be thankful for. So far, my family remains healthy. My grandchildren are growing into responsible teenagers, my books are selling, and I still have ideas and the ability to turn them into stories. Yesterday, I met a new fan, a reader who loves my books, always something that makes an author feel good.
Since we were unable to travel this year, I upgraded my car to a newer pre-owned one that I adore. At the end of the month, we are having our family room redone. It’s the one room in the house we use more than any other, so why shouldn’t it gave the first makeover?
The next thing I have to be grateful for are my close friends, those I see in person, those I’ve been unable to see because of the pandemic, and those I only know virtually. So far, while many have struggled with health issues, everyone continues to soldier on. This will pass–not today, not tomorrow, possibly not even next year, but we will get by.
So, as I stop and reflect on the day, I also look to the future and pray you all stay safe. Hopefully, by this time next year, we’ll be able to look back and say, I’m glad that’s over!
This year, the authors of the ABB will seek once more to make the NY Times and USA Today Bestseller list and you can help. Do you get your ebooks from sources other than Amazon? Do you read on a Nook? An I-Pad? A Kobo? If so, Dear Santa is available to you on your favorite reading platform.
Dear Santa, A Christmas Wish contains 18 Christmas novellas, each as unique as its author. My contribution to the set is entitled, What Dottie Wants.
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 doesn’t back down, and before long the doll isn’t the only thing Dottie wants for Christmas. But can Ronnie let bygones be bygones?
Here’s a taste of the story.
I stared at 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?”
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.
“No, ma’am. The 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 raincheck 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 raincheck, but seeing the others watching us, 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.
The only Christmas wish my five-year-old daughter 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 sinfully expensive—as were all Thomas Toys, the old “Quality is our Touchstone” motto the excuse for what I considered price gouging, but 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 necessarily 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. Using my phone’s Bluetooth, I settled in to vent.
“Siri, take a note. Mr. Thomas, have you forgotten what it’s like to be a parent? Do you have any idea what you’ve done by marketing a toy no one can buy? Have you ever looked into the eyes of a child you love more than life itself and said, ‘Hey kid, let me shatter your dreams?’ As the mother of a five-year-old girl who had her heart set on a Famous American Ballerina doll, I can’t believe you would do this to her, to us.”
I went on and on, accusing him of everything from pimping the dolls to destroying Christmas and threatening to boycott the company and enlist hundreds of others to do the same. Once I’d spewed all the venom inside me, I felt slightly better.
I doubted anyone would bother to read the letter, but I was sick and tired of people in positions of power stomping all over the rest of us. It was true I had no family, only a handful of friends, and my youngest neighbor was Mr. Garvey, an eighty-year-old man bound to a wheelchair, but the toymaker didn’t need to know that.
In the meantime, I would do whatever it took to find a Famous American Ballerina doll. Perhaps one of my regulars might be able to hook me up with someone on the black market. I mean if they could make knock-off Gucci purses and Rolex watches, why not ballerina dolls? I pictured myself in a dark alley, waiting to hand my hard-earned money to someone named Bubba. There was nothing I wouldn’t do to get Dottie her Christmas wish this year.
Christmas is coming and the Authors’ Billboard have a brand new collection of Christmas novellas for you. Dear Santa, A Christmas Wish features 18 wonderful stories sure to make your heart happy. Since the book is available from many distributors, we hope you’ll find your favorite and download it for only 99 cents! https://books2read.com/DearSanta
To whet your appetite, Book Bites 13 offers you the first chapter of each novella in the set.
This link will take you to your favorite online store where in some cases, the sampler is free. Enjoy.
Welcome to this month’s IWSG blog post. This month’s question: When you think of the term working writer, what does that look like to you? What do you think it is supposed to look like? Do you see yourself as a working writer or aspiring or hobbyist, and if latter two, what does that look like?
As a former high school teacher, retired from that occupation more than ten years now, I can say that I am definitely a working writer. In the last seven years, I have published 28 novels and 3 short stories. I also edit for other writers–a select few because I need my time for writing since I have six projects to finish by March 1st, 2021 and will be adding more as the year passes. The only thing that may interfere with my plans would be if I came down with COVID 19. At my age, I wouldn’t have an easy time of it.
I tend to work Monday to Friday as I did teaching. I get up each day, usually between six and seven a.m. and work on either writing, editing, blogging, or promotion until noon. After an hour break for lunch. I’m right back at it until 4:00 p.m. sometimes longer if I have a deadline.
A screwup with WordPress cost me my blogsite and hours of frustration a few weeks ago, and I spent a lot of time trying to fix it. One thing I learned from the experience was to write down my passwords. Things you think easy to remember tend to vanish from your mind in time. Because I used a free site, I didn’t have anything to prove it was mine. Who keeps emails from eight years ago? But it won’t happen again. This old dog learned a new, if painful trick. Now, the hard part is building up my followers list once more. So if you care to follow me, please do.
So what does being a working writer look like physically? I have a dedicated office, a desktop computer as well as a laptop, and shelves full of my favorite books as well as my own. You’ll usually find me in my nightgown or pajamas until my noon break, although I do take min breaks to make the bed, get coffee, etc. Sadly, as much as I love to read, I find it hard to find the time now. Reading was something I used to do on vacations, but since the virus all vacations and holidays have been put on hold. That just gives more time to work.
To me, if something is a job, then it has to be taken seriously with time invested in it. How about you? Where do you fit in the scheme of things?
Check out other writer’s responses by clicking on a mane on the list!
Today has finally arrived! So many things have been cancelled and changed by 2020, it’s good to see something happen on time. This collection is going to knock your socks off.
It features eight unique and unusual love stories that tackle the tough issues we face every day – racial acceptance or intolerance, whether black, brown, red or yellow, differing religious views, sexuality, family and social values, and so much more.
Let’s look a little closer at Same Time Next Year, my book in the box set.
Same Time Next Year is a novel within a novel.
For three short weeks, Twyla Lancaster was the fairy tale princess who’d found her prince, but just like that, reality ripped them apart. Now, fifty years later, she needs to know why the only man she ever loved broke his promises. As she writes her memoir and learns more about that summer, she realizes things were not what they seemed.
Hormones raced, promises were made, but Twyla left Michael Morrison high and dry, and within weeks, married someone else. Grieving the loss of his parents and her betrayal, he turned his back on love, focusing on his military career. Now, goaded by his sister, he agrees to attend a wedding and reunion, knowing Twyla will be there. It’s time to find out why she lied to him all those years ago.
The moment the star-crossed lovers see one another, love blooms between them, but when Michael discovers Twyla’s secret, he’s devastated. Is love enough to erase fifty years of pain and betrayal?
In this book, I take you back to 1967. It may be a walk down Memory Lane, but many of the things that were part of my reality and Twyla’s were not the best. In 1967, the society was far more closed-minded than it is today, and women’s rights were in their infancy. There was no acceptance of sexual diversity, religious intolerance ran rampant and the disparity between the rich and the poor wasn’t a boundary many could cross.
Twyla, the teenage daughter of rich American protestants, people who can trace their history to the Mayflower pilgrims, falls in love with a poor Irish Catholic Canadian. While Mom’s busy with cards and booze, unsupervised, Twyla enjoys and unprecedented freedom, one that leads to a whole new world of discovery.
But the magic she finds in Michael’s arms is short-lived, when her father’s company goes broke and the family is forced to leave unexpectedly. When Twyla discovers she’s pregnant, she tries to reach Michael, but he never returns her message. To avoid scandal, she turns to her brother’s lover who agrees to marry her.
Now, fifty years later, Twyla wants to know the truth and goes back to the scene of the crime looking for answers. What she finds isn’t what she expected.
Pick up your copy of Invincible Diversity today. Only 99 cents or free to read in Kindle Unlimited.
The Blue Dragon is a modern historical romance, set in 2006.
True love never dies.
Gravely wounded in Afghanistan, Samantha Collins returns to Canada to discover a previously unknown relative has died and made her heir to the family estate. The bequest consists of a century-old farmhouse and an orange tabby. Alone, having given up on love, marriage, and children, facing a grim future, Sam opts to move into the house until she decides what to do with it. When she opens the door, she gets more than she bargained for. Nobody mentioned Great-aunt Esther was a hoarder.
Following his divorce, Phil Austin returns to South Creek. An architect who prefers restoring old buildings to designing new ones, he’s intrigued to learn one of the area’s century-old houses may be sold. Picturing the house converted to an inn, when Phil knocks on the door, he gets more than he expected. The new owner is the woman he loved and lost fifteen years ago.
Stunned to find the only man she ever loved on her doorstep, Sam is carried away by his ideas for the house. Torn between hope and despair, she agrees to his business proposal. As they renew their friendship and they sift through the trash and treasures Esther Cohen left behind, can they find the courage to open their hearts to one another again?
Here’s a taste of what’s inside!
The hot water cascading over her shoulders and sluicing down her back eased Sam’s pain as had the two extra-strength analgesics and the muscle relaxant she’d taken. Occasionally, her sleep was interrupted by dreams recalling the mortar attack that had claimed Keisha, Grady, and Russell, leaving his fiancée and baby girl to plan a funeral rather than a wedding. Spasms of pain, like she’d experienced last week after her flight from Paris, brought back the memories, too—and then there were loud noises.
Corporal Newman had lived. They’d even shared the physio room at the US Regional Medical Center in Landstuhl, Germany. Fortune had certainly made a mess of things. Newman now walked on artificial legs, she’d gotten a medal, more pain than she could ever have imagined, and an iffy future, while three others who’d had so much to live for had died.
The doctors in Germany had prescribed antibiotics, anti-inflammatories, and had recommended something stronger for pain, but she’d seen too many soldiers hooked on those drugs. As soon as the pain was tolerable, she’d refused them and had gone with something non-addictive. It had taken months of rehab before she’d been able to walk again, her hips and femurs more metal than bone. If she had problems down the line, she would consider more surgery, but for now, she’d make do with things as they were. Sometimes the analgesics helped, sometimes they didn’t, but at least she was in control—and when the pain got too bad … well, that’s what wine was for.
Turning off the tap, she stepped out of the shower stall, dried off, making sure not to look at the angry scars crisscrossing her abdomen, back, and legs. The doctors claimed they would fade in time, but from what she could see that might be decades. She grabbed a second towel, rubbed her short hair dry, and pulled on the hotel’s terry robe. Going into the room, she opened the bottle of merlot she’d picked up on the way home, poured herself a glass, and sat on the leather chair.
When she’d checked in, still in full dress uniform, new medal pinned to her chest, she’d requested an easy chair for her room, explaining about her injuries. Within an hour, a leather recliner with all the bells and whistles had been delivered with a “Thanks for your service” note.
Too bad her service hadn’t been enough to save the others, but she’d done her duty to her patient. Wasn’t that all that really mattered?
The heavily French-accented words her grandmother had said to her more than twenty-five years ago echoed inside her head as loudly as if she were standing next to her.
“Ma pauvre petite. You are always so hard on yourself. You are one little girl. You can’t save the world. That’s for the Bon Dieu.”
Why had she never considered how hard life must’ve been for her? Marie-Hélène Leclerc Cowan, a Creole with café au lait colored skin slightly darker than her own, would’ve suffered from racism, too.
“Talk about being between a rock and a hard place.”
Sighing, Sam reached for Aunt Esther’s letter, ripped open one end of the envelope, and slipped out the sheet of thin blue paper. No, she couldn’t save the world, but maybe she could do something for a lonely, old lady who’d died heartbroken and alone.
The onion skin paper was brittle. People had stopped using this stuff when she’d still been a kid. The ink was light, hard to read as if the writer had barely had the strength to pen the letter, the script spidery, but by turning on the lamp closest to her, Sam was able to decipher it.
Dear Samantha,
Not a Jewish name, nor a French one, but one considered the feminine version of Samuel which is. I do not suppose that mattered to your mother or grandfather, although Elizabeth was our mother’s name. Today, it does not matter to anyone. How the times have changed, but the hatred is still there, as you well know. I fear nothing will ever change that. Too many have died in the name of God or greed, humanity’s new God of choice. Perhaps someday, things will change, but not I fear in my lifetime.
Imagine my surprise at discovering I not only had a grandniece, but one who chose to follow in my beloved Ezekiel’s footsteps, although he was in the navy not the army, but service is service. When I saw you on that television program, I recognized you instantly. You resemble my mother—not completely since your complexion is darker—but enough for me to see the family connection. The private investigator confirmed my suspicions. Like myself, your life has not been an easy one, losing those you loved at a young age.
If you are reading this, it is because I never got up the nerve to contact you before my death. You see, I did not know what you might know about me or whether you would somehow blame me for your grandfather’s alienation from the family. I will admit I was angry with him for choosing an outsider over his heritage, but when I met Ezekiel, I finally understood what he meant when he said, “The heart wants what it wants, kleyne shvester.” No one, not even Charles who was a good, loyal friend, could ever replace Zeke. I have mourned him most of my life. I was thirty when his ship sank, all hands aboard lost, the bodies never recovered.
I am returning to you what should have been Ezra’s in the first place, although I have sold most of the land. I kept our special places—the woods where Zeke and I loved to walk, with the pond and the stream running through it where we used to wade after our picnics. That is where he first kissed me, where he asked me to wait for him and marry him when he came home from the war. He carved our initials in the oak tree. I visited the tree every day, until my heart started acting up. Then, I went as often as these old bones would allow until I had to stop.
Charles will have given you my ashes. I broke with tradition by requesting cremation. You would have received a lovely urn, but I have no desire to stay in a flower vase. I want you to take my ashes and return them to the earth by scattering them under a small stone cairn I built next to the tree with our initials on it. Knock down the stones, mix my ashes with the earth where I buried the lock of hair we exchanged the day he left, and let us be together at last. Do it on September third, the day he proposed. That’s all I ask of you. In exchange, I have left you all of my greatest treasures. Treat them kindly, especially the blue dragon. It’s the last thing he ever gave me.
Esther Cohen
Sam dropped the paper onto the table and swiped at her eyes. Why the hell was she crying this time? Weeping served no purpose. It didn’t fix anything—never had, never would—and yet there was no way she could prevent herself from giving in to despair. She’d done too damn much of it this past year, and now she was all blubbery over an old lady’s letter.
“Face it. You get weepy over a damn television commercial,” she muttered. “A living example of Thalia and Melpomene, the Greek muses of comedy and tragedy, laughing one minute, crying the next. Just like that damn mask you’ve dragged all over the bloody world because he gave it to you!”
Standing, she limped over to the floor to ceiling window overlooking the town square, unable once again to stop the tears dribbling down her cheeks. Fifteen years of suppressed emotions let loose at last. What did she expect? Sooner or later, you had to pay for your mistakes.
She wrapped her arms around herself. How long had it been since there had been a special someone in her life? How long since she’d had a shoulder to cry on? Arms to comfort her? Someone to sit by the bed and care whether she lived or died? The flowers she’d received on her birthday—Christmas Day, a holiday she’d stopped celebrating long ago—had come as a surprise, but there’d been nothing since then, not even a good luck message when she’d finally been released from the rehab center. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Ryerson’s letter sent in March that had reached her last month, she would’ve had no place to go. Now, she had a house, but how long would she be able to live there before Fate exacted her final revenge?
Shoving aside the sheer curtain, she looked down at the main street of the strange town, a place she’d heard of once before but never expected to visit. South Creek, population twenty-one thousand, was a bedroom community for Ottawa, the nation’s capital. At one time, it had been a dairy farming area, but one by one the family farms had given way to progress. What would it have been like eighty-five years ago when her grandfather had left?
Grab your copy today. Only 99 cents for a limited time! Free to read in Kindle Unlimited.
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Living the Dream 