Deadly Intent blog tour for July 31st
Captain's Log, Stardate 07.31.2009
The complete schedule of the Deadly Intent blog tour is here.
Laura Domino reviews Deadly Intent.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Deadly Intent blog tour for July 30th
Captain's Log, Stardate 07.30.2009The complete schedule of the Deadly Intent blog tour is here.
I’m blogging about my continuing journey as a published author on my friend Tasra Dawson’s blog
My hero, Dr. Devon Knightley, talks about his own spiritual battles on Laura Domino’s blog
I'm on the blog of my friend and fellow Love Inspired Suspense author Janet Dean with a guest blog post about my heroine, Naomi, and her family pressures--which I hope/think a lot of you will relate to!
Excerpt - MAGGIE ROSE by Sharlene MacLaren
Today's Wild Card author is:
and the book:
Maggie Rose – 2nd in the Daughters of Jacob Kane series
Whitaker House (June 8, 2009)
The year is 1904, and Maggie Rose, the spunky, twenty-year-old middle daughter of Jacob Kane, feels compelled to leave her beloved hometown of Sandy Shores, Michigan, to work for a charity that transports New York City's abandoned children to loving families across the U.S. – the historic "Orphan Trains." When a newspaper reporter comes to research the orphanage for an article, Maggie is struck by his handsome face—but concerned by his lack of faith. Will she be able to stay focused on her mission? This second in MacLaren's Daughters of Jacob Kane series picks up where the popular Hannah Grace left off.ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Born and raised in west Michigan, Sharlene MacLaren graduated from Spring Arbor University, married her husband Cecil, and raised two daughters. She worked as a school teacher for over 30 years, then upon retirement began writing fiction, and now has six successful novels under her belt. The acclaimed Through Every Storm was Shar’s first novel to be published by Whitaker House; in 2007, the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) named it a finalist for Book of the Year. The beloved Little Hickman Creek series consisted of Loving Liza Jane; Sarah, My Beloved; and Courting Emma. Faith, Hope, and Love, the Inspirational Outreach Chapter of Romance Writers of America, announced Sarah, My Beloved as a finalist in its 2008 Inspirational Reader’s Choice Contest in the category of long historical fiction. Her other books include Long Journey Home, and Hannah Grace, the first in her Daughters of Jacob Kane series.Visit the author's website.
Product Details:
List Price: $9.99
Paperback: 429 pages
Publisher: Whitaker House (June 8, 2009)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1603740759
ISBN-13: 978-1603740753
AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:
Maggie Rose Kane settled her temple against the smudged window, blinked hard, and fought back another wave of nausea as the smoke from her seatmate’s cigar formed cloud-like ringlets before her eyes and floated past her nose. Why, her lungs fairly burned from the stench of it, as if she’d been the one chain-smoking the stogies for the past five hours instead of the bulbous, gray-haired giant next to her. Even as he was dozing this afternoon, slumped with one shoulder sagging against her petite frame, the vile object hung out the side of his mouth as if permanently attached. She couldn’t even count the number of times she’d wanted to snatch it from him and snuff it out with the sole of her black patent leather shoe.
“Next stop, Albany,” announced the train conductor, making his way up the aisle.
With a quick intake of air, Maggie lifted a finger and leaned forward. “Excuse me, sir.”
The conductor stopped, turned, and tipped his hat to her in a formal manner. “Yes?”
“Is this where I should disembark in order to change over to the New York Central?”
Tilting his head to one side and slanting a reddish eyebrow, he released a mild sigh that conveyed slight annoyance. “If that’s what your ticket says. You’re goin’ to New York, aren’t you?”
She gave a hasty shake of her head and adjusted the plume hat that had barely moved in all these many hours. Surely, by now, the slight wave in her hair, as well as the tight little bun at the back of her head, would be flatter than a well-done pancake. “Someone’s to meet me at Grand Central,” she explained.
He nodded curtly. “Get off here then and go to the red line, then put yourself on the 442.” This he said with a matter-of-fact tone, as if anyone with a scrap of common sense ought to know about the 442.
Sweaty fingers clutched the satchel in her lap as she peered up at him, debating whether or not to admit her ignorance. “Oh, the 442.” She might have asked him at least to point her in the right direction once she disembarked, but he hurried down the aisle and pushed through the back door that led to the next car before giving her a chance. The train whistle blew another ear-splitting shriek, either indicating that the train was approaching an intersection or announcing its scheduled stopover in Albany.
“What’s a pretty little miss like you doin’ going to the big city all by yourself?” asked the man beside her. Not wanting to invite conversation with the galoot, especially for all the smoke he’d blow in her face, she had maintained silence for the duration of the trip. Still, it was her Christian duty to show him respect, so she pulled back her slender shoulders and tried to appear pleasant—and confident. After all, it wouldn’t do to let on how the combination of her taut nerves and his rancid cigar smoke had stirred up bile at the back of her throat. For the twentieth time since her departure on the five a.m. that very morning—when her entire family, including her new brother-in-law and adopted nephew, had bid her a tearful farewell—she asked herself, and the Lord Himself, if she hadn’t misinterpreted His divine call.
“I’ve accepted a position at the Sheltering Arms Refuge,” she replied with a steady voice. “I’m to assist in the home, and also to work as a placing-out agent whenever trips are arranged.”
He quirked a questioning brow and blew a cloud of smoke directly at her. She waved her arm to ward off the worst of it. “It’s a charitable organization for homeless children. Using the U.S. railway system, we stop in various parts of the Middle West and place children in decent families and homes, mostly farms. Surely you’ve heard announcements about trains of orphans coming through?”
He looked slightly put out. “’Course I heard of ’em, miss, just haven’t never run across anyone actually involved in the process of cartin’ them wild little hooligans clear across the country.” He took another long drag and, fortunate for Maggie Rose, blew it out the other side of his mouth so that, this time, it drifted into the face of the man across the aisle. Apparently unruffled, he merely lifted his newspaper higher to shield his face.
“Where you from, anyways?”
“Sandy Shores, Michigan.” Just saying the name of the blessed lakeshore town made her miss her home and family more than she’d imagined possible. Goodness, she’d left only this morning. If she was feeling homesick already, what depths of loneliness would the next several months bring?
“Ah, that near Benton Harbor?”
“Quite a ways north of it, sir.”
He seemed to ponder that thought only briefly. “What made you leave? You got home problems?”
“Certainly not!” she replied with extra fervor, offended he should think so. In fact, she might have chosen to stay behind and continued life as usual, helping her dear father and beloved sisters at Kane’s Whatnot, the family’s general store. But God’s poignant tug on her heart would not allow her to stay. I sincerely doubt Mr.—Mr. Smokestack—would follow such reasoning, though, so why waste my breath explaining? she thought.
“Well, you can see why I asked, cain’t you? It’s not every day some young thing like yourself up and moves to a big place like New York, specially when she don’t even know her way around.”
“I’m sure I’ll learn quickly enough,” she said, trying to put confidence in her tone. “I hear there’s to be a big subway system opening soon, which should help in moving folks around the city at great speeds.”
He nodded and took another long drag from his dwindling cheroot. “Sometime in the next month or two, is what I hear,” he said, blowing out a ring of smoke. “That’ll be somethin’, all right. Before you know it, there’ll be no need for any four-legged creatures.” He chuckled to himself, although the sound held no mirth.
As they approached the station, the train’s brakes squawked and sputtered, and the mighty whistle blew one last time. Outside, steam was rising from the tracks, and Maggie Rose noticed a couple of scrawny dogs picking through a pile of garbage. Folks stood in clusters, perhaps anxious to welcome home loved ones or to usher in long-awaited guests. A tiny pang of worry nestled in her chest at the sight of such unfamiliar surroundings.
When the train came to a screeching halt, the passengers scrambled for their belongings, holding onto their hats as they snatched up satchels and crates bound in twine. Some of them were dressed formally; others looked shoddy, at best, like her seatmate with his week-old beard and soiled attire. Another puff of smoke circled the air above her, and it was all she could do to keep from giving him a piece of her mind—until the Lord reminded her of a verse she’d read the night before in the book of Proverbs: “He that oppresseth the poor reproacheth his Maker: but he that honoureth him hath mercy on the poor” (Proverbs 14:31).
Was she not traveling to New York out of a sense of great compassion for the city’s poor, lost children? And if so, what made her think the Lord exempted her from caring for people of all ages? Moreover, why had she spent the better share of the past several hours judging this man about whom she knew so little?
My child, you are tempted to look on his countenance and stature, whereas I look on the heart. The verse from 1 Samuel came to mind—oh, how the truth of it struck her to the core. Without ado, she looked directly at her seatmate, smoke and all. “And where might you be headed, sir?”
“Me?” A look of surprise washed over him. “My sister just passed. I’m goin’ to her funeral in Philly.”
A gasp escaped. “Oh, my, I’m…I’m sorry to hear that.” Silently, she prayed, Lord, give me the proper words, and forgive me all these many hours I might have had the chance to speak comfort to this poor soul.
He dropped what remained of his cigar on the floor and ground it out with his heel, stood to his feet, and retrieved his duffle from under the seat with a loud sniff. “Yeah, well, we weren’t that close. She quit speakin’ to me after I married my wife, her bein’ a Protestant and us Catholics.” He followed that up with a snort. “My brother died last year, and she still refused to acknowledge me at his funeral, even though my wife passed on three years ago.”
Blended odors of sweat, tobacco, and acrid breath nearly knocked her over as she stood up and hefted the strap of her heavy leather satchel over one shoulder, but newfound compassion welled up in her heart, lending her fortitude. The line of people in the aisle was moving at a snail’s pace, and she decided to make use of their extra seconds together.
“But you’re going to her funeral anyway?”
He nodded halfheartedly. “It’s my duty to pay my respects. She won’t know it, but I will.”
“Yes, and you’ll feel better afterward for doing so.” Suddenly, she had more to say to the man, but the line of anxious passengers was picking up speed, and he squeezed into the tight line. She followed in his wake, doing her best to keep her footing as folks shoved and jabbed. My, such an impetuous, peevish lot, she thought, then quickly acknowledged her own impatience.
“Watch your step, ladies and gentlemen,” the conductor said. One by one, folks stepped down from the train. Her fellow rider took the stairs with ease, then turned abruptly and offered her his hand. Another time, she might have pretended not to notice and used the steel hand railing instead. Now, however, she smiled and accepted his grimy, calloused palm.
“Thank you.”
Drooping eyes looked down at her. “New York, eh? You sure you don’t want to purchase your ticket back home? Ticket booth’s right over there.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, and for the first time, she sensed that he was toying with her.
“Absolutely not!” Pulling back her shoulders, she gave her head a hard shake, losing a feather from her hat in the process. She watched it float away, carried by the breeze of passengers rushing by. “When the Lord tells a body to do something, you best do it, if you want to know true peace,” she said, lifting her eyes to meet his. “This is something He told me to do—to come to New York and see what I can do about helping the deprived, dispossessed children, just as I’m sure He prompted you to attend your sister’s funeral.”
Surprisingly, he chuckled and bobbed his head a couple of times. “Can’t say for sure it was the Good Lord Hisself or Father Carlson, but one of ’em convinced me to come, and now that I think on it, I’m glad.”
Out the corner of her eye, Maggie Rose sought to read the myriad signs pointing this way and that, hoping to find one to point her in the right direction. Slight queasiness churned in her stomach. Dear Lord, please erase my worries about finding my next train, she prayed silently. The man ran four grimy fingers through his greasy hair. Absently, she wondered if he intended to clean himself up before attending his sister’s burial service.
“You take care of yourself, little lady. It’s a mighty big world out there for one so fine and dainty as you.”
A smile formed on her lips. Fine and dainty. Had he made a similar remark to one of her sisters, Hannah Grace or Abbie Ann, an indignant look would have been his return. She extended her hand. “I’ll do my best, Mr.….”
He clasped her hand and gave it a gentle shake. “Dempsey. Mort Dempsey. And you are?”
“Maggie Rose Kane.”
He gave a thoughtful nod. “Has a nice ring to it.” Then, tipping his head to one side, he scratched his temple and raised his bushy brows. “At first glimpse, you look a bit fragile, but I’d guess you got some spunk under that feathery hat o’ yours.”
Now she laughed outright. “I suppose that’s the Kane blood running through me.
We Kane sisters are known for our stubborn streak. It runs clear to our bones.”
Several seconds ticked by. Mr. Dempsey glanced around. “You got any more baggage, miss?”
“My trunk’s due to arrive at the children’s home the day after tomorrow.” She gave her black satchel a pat. “I’ll make do with what I have till then.”
In the next silent pause that passed between them, a pigeon swept down to steal a crumb, a stray dog loped past, and in the distance, a mother hushed her crying babe. Mr. Dempsey removed his pocket watch. “Well, listen, little lady, my train for Philly don’t leave for another hour yet. What say I take you over to the red line? Number 442, was it?”
“Oh, but you needn’t….”
He’d already looped his arm for her to take. The man’s stench remained strong, yes, but Maggie Rose found that, somehow, in the course of the past few minutes, her nose had miraculously adjusted.
My, but the Lord did work in wondrously mysterious ways! Why, just this very morning, Jacob Kane, her dear father, had prayed that God might send His angels of protection to lead and guide her on her way, and now look: Mort Dempsey was taking her to her next connection.
Imagine that—Mort Dempsey, God’s appointed “angel.”
They parted ways at the Albany platform where she could board Number 442.
When she arrived at New York City’s Grand Central Terminal, Maggie Rose saw a confusing mass of railroad lines converged in a place that also contained more people than she thought inhabited the earth.
Mr. Dempsey may have been an unlikely angel, but her next escort fit the bill with utmost perfection. She scanned the crowd and saw a pleasant-looking man, probably not much older than she, standing to one side and holding up a hand-printed sign that read: “Miss M. Kane.” Dressed in an evening suit, a bowler cap, and a bright-red bow tie that was almost blinding, he was searching the crowd with expectant eyes. When their gazes met, a broad smile formed on his face.
“Miss Kane?” he asked, greeting her with the warmth of a clear summer morning.
“Yes!” She had to tell her feet to walk in ladylike strides, even though her travel-worn body wanted to slump into the nearest bench with relief. They shook hands, and he introduced himself as Stanley Barrett, an employee—but more of a lifelong resident—at the children’s home. The Binghams had welcomed him through their doors many years ago when he’d lost both his parents in a fire.
“You must be tired,” he said, freeing her of her satchel without a moment’s hesitation, which suited her just fine. As it was, her shoulder ached from the weight of the bag, which held important papers, several personal possessions, some toiletry items, and the changes of clothing she would need until her trunk arrived.
Dusk had settled on New York City, so, without ado, Mr. Barrett led her like a pro through the throngs and straight to their carriage, waiting with numerous sets of nearly identical horses and black carriages lined up in long rows outside the terminal. Such efficiency impressed Maggie Rose, and she told him so. “I grew up here, so getting around is easy for me,” he explained, helping her onto the carriage. “You’ll catch on, especially once the subway station opens. But don’t worry; we usually travel in pairs or larger groups, anyway.”
Driving the carriage, he kept up his constant prattle as he dodged fast-moving streetcars, stray dogs, scurrying pedestrians, and the occasional motorcar. Even at this late hour, the city buzzed with activity such as Maggie had never seen. Why, in Sandy Shores, everything closes up tighter than a drum at five-thirty, she thought—that is, everything but the several saloons and restaurants. Here, though, people of all genders, races, sizes, and ages roamed the streets. Some were selling wares, others begging for quarters; some were huddled on street corners, others sitting on crates or boxes, perhaps looking for a place to lay their heads for the night.
“I can imagine what you’re thinking,” Stanley said as he maneuvered the carriage onto Park Avenue, heading north, and clicked his horse into a slow trot. “You’ve probably never seen anything like this place. Mrs. Bingham says you hail from some little town in Michigan. What part?”
“The west side, smack on the shores of beautiful Lake Michigan, about halfway up the state. The town is small, yes, but thriving. We have one main street running east and west—Water Street—with lots of little stores and businesses on either side. Don’t be running your horse too fast going west, though, or you’ll fall into the harbor,” she joked. “’Course, the railroad docks and barges would stop you first, I suppose.”
He chuckled, and she decided she liked the smooth tenor of his quiet laughter. “Of all the orphanages in the city, how’d you decide on the Sheltering Arms Refuge?” he asked. “We’re a lot smaller than the Foundling Hospital and the Children’s Aid Society.”
“Someone seeking financial support for your fine organization spoke at our church more than a year ago. I believe his name was Mr. Wiley.”
“That’d be Uncle Herbie—Mrs. Bingham’s brother.”
“He showed us a few pictures and talked a great deal about the destitute children wandering the city—‘street Arabs,’ he called them. Ever since then, the Lord has kept up His constant nudging, so after much correspondence back and forth, not to mention the process of convincing my father to let me loose, I’ve finally arrived!”
Stanley glanced casually in both directions before urging his horse through the intersection at East 50th and Park Streets, crossing streetcar tracks and skirting a good-sized pothole. Their amiable conversation continued, but she had to concentrate to drown out all the commotion going on around her, not to mention the smells—a blend of fried food, gasoline, manure, and rancid garbage. And the sounds! Why, the very streets seemed to reverberate with the clamor of loud conversations, tinny barroom music, thudding horses’ hooves, barking dogs, and the occasional baby’s cry from some upstairs flat.
Stanley Barrett veered the carriage onto East 65th Street, crossed Lexington, 3rd, and 2nd, and made a right on Dover, driving another couple of blocks before directing the horse up a long drive to a stately three-story brick structure. Maggie’s very senses seemed to stand on end. “Is this it?” she asked, feasting her eyes on the edifice, which appeared bigger than what she’d imagined from looking at the few photos she’d received.
Stanley guided his horse to a stop, breathed a sigh, and tossed the reins over the brake handle, turning to her with a smile. She decided he had a pleasant one, tainted only partially by a set of crooked teeth. “This is it. What do you think?”
She gazed at her surroundings—a brick house situated on a sprawling plot of land and surrounded by numerous trees, a stable, and several outbuildings. Who would believe that just blocks from this serene setting lay a whole different world? “I think—it’s beautiful.” Unexpected emotion clogged her throat. She looked up to see a head poke through the curtains of one of the upstairs windows. One of the orphans?
“Beautiful? Well, it’s old, I’ll give you that. Ginny, er, Mrs. Bingham inherited the historic place from her wealthy grandfather back in the 1880s. She and the Mr. have been operating it as an orphanage for the past seventeen or so years. In fact, I was one of their first residents. But I’m sure you’ll get the whole story, if you haven’t already, when you’re more rested.” He winked, gave another low chuckle, and jumped from the rig with ease. “Come on, I’ll help you down.”
With his assistance, her feet soon landed on solid ground. She lifted her long skirts and stepped away from the carriage, eyes fastened on the three-story structure and the aging brick fence that surrounded the property’s borders and was covered by lush blankets of ivy.
Stanley allowed her a moment’s peace as she stood before her new “home” and tried to picture its interior. Suddenly, the front door swung open. In its glow stood a portly woman with an apron tied about her waist; grayish hair hung haphazardly about her oval face, and a smile stretched from cheek to cheek as she lifted her hand to wave.
“Well, glory be, come and look who’s here, Henry. It’s the little miss from Michigan!”
“Next stop, Albany,” announced the train conductor, making his way up the aisle.
With a quick intake of air, Maggie lifted a finger and leaned forward. “Excuse me, sir.”
The conductor stopped, turned, and tipped his hat to her in a formal manner. “Yes?”
“Is this where I should disembark in order to change over to the New York Central?”
Tilting his head to one side and slanting a reddish eyebrow, he released a mild sigh that conveyed slight annoyance. “If that’s what your ticket says. You’re goin’ to New York, aren’t you?”
She gave a hasty shake of her head and adjusted the plume hat that had barely moved in all these many hours. Surely, by now, the slight wave in her hair, as well as the tight little bun at the back of her head, would be flatter than a well-done pancake. “Someone’s to meet me at Grand Central,” she explained.
He nodded curtly. “Get off here then and go to the red line, then put yourself on the 442.” This he said with a matter-of-fact tone, as if anyone with a scrap of common sense ought to know about the 442.
Sweaty fingers clutched the satchel in her lap as she peered up at him, debating whether or not to admit her ignorance. “Oh, the 442.” She might have asked him at least to point her in the right direction once she disembarked, but he hurried down the aisle and pushed through the back door that led to the next car before giving her a chance. The train whistle blew another ear-splitting shriek, either indicating that the train was approaching an intersection or announcing its scheduled stopover in Albany.
“What’s a pretty little miss like you doin’ going to the big city all by yourself?” asked the man beside her. Not wanting to invite conversation with the galoot, especially for all the smoke he’d blow in her face, she had maintained silence for the duration of the trip. Still, it was her Christian duty to show him respect, so she pulled back her slender shoulders and tried to appear pleasant—and confident. After all, it wouldn’t do to let on how the combination of her taut nerves and his rancid cigar smoke had stirred up bile at the back of her throat. For the twentieth time since her departure on the five a.m. that very morning—when her entire family, including her new brother-in-law and adopted nephew, had bid her a tearful farewell—she asked herself, and the Lord Himself, if she hadn’t misinterpreted His divine call.
“I’ve accepted a position at the Sheltering Arms Refuge,” she replied with a steady voice. “I’m to assist in the home, and also to work as a placing-out agent whenever trips are arranged.”
He quirked a questioning brow and blew a cloud of smoke directly at her. She waved her arm to ward off the worst of it. “It’s a charitable organization for homeless children. Using the U.S. railway system, we stop in various parts of the Middle West and place children in decent families and homes, mostly farms. Surely you’ve heard announcements about trains of orphans coming through?”
He looked slightly put out. “’Course I heard of ’em, miss, just haven’t never run across anyone actually involved in the process of cartin’ them wild little hooligans clear across the country.” He took another long drag and, fortunate for Maggie Rose, blew it out the other side of his mouth so that, this time, it drifted into the face of the man across the aisle. Apparently unruffled, he merely lifted his newspaper higher to shield his face.
“Where you from, anyways?”
“Sandy Shores, Michigan.” Just saying the name of the blessed lakeshore town made her miss her home and family more than she’d imagined possible. Goodness, she’d left only this morning. If she was feeling homesick already, what depths of loneliness would the next several months bring?
“Ah, that near Benton Harbor?”
“Quite a ways north of it, sir.”
He seemed to ponder that thought only briefly. “What made you leave? You got home problems?”
“Certainly not!” she replied with extra fervor, offended he should think so. In fact, she might have chosen to stay behind and continued life as usual, helping her dear father and beloved sisters at Kane’s Whatnot, the family’s general store. But God’s poignant tug on her heart would not allow her to stay. I sincerely doubt Mr.—Mr. Smokestack—would follow such reasoning, though, so why waste my breath explaining? she thought.
“Well, you can see why I asked, cain’t you? It’s not every day some young thing like yourself up and moves to a big place like New York, specially when she don’t even know her way around.”
“I’m sure I’ll learn quickly enough,” she said, trying to put confidence in her tone. “I hear there’s to be a big subway system opening soon, which should help in moving folks around the city at great speeds.”
He nodded and took another long drag from his dwindling cheroot. “Sometime in the next month or two, is what I hear,” he said, blowing out a ring of smoke. “That’ll be somethin’, all right. Before you know it, there’ll be no need for any four-legged creatures.” He chuckled to himself, although the sound held no mirth.
As they approached the station, the train’s brakes squawked and sputtered, and the mighty whistle blew one last time. Outside, steam was rising from the tracks, and Maggie Rose noticed a couple of scrawny dogs picking through a pile of garbage. Folks stood in clusters, perhaps anxious to welcome home loved ones or to usher in long-awaited guests. A tiny pang of worry nestled in her chest at the sight of such unfamiliar surroundings.
When the train came to a screeching halt, the passengers scrambled for their belongings, holding onto their hats as they snatched up satchels and crates bound in twine. Some of them were dressed formally; others looked shoddy, at best, like her seatmate with his week-old beard and soiled attire. Another puff of smoke circled the air above her, and it was all she could do to keep from giving him a piece of her mind—until the Lord reminded her of a verse she’d read the night before in the book of Proverbs: “He that oppresseth the poor reproacheth his Maker: but he that honoureth him hath mercy on the poor” (Proverbs 14:31).
Was she not traveling to New York out of a sense of great compassion for the city’s poor, lost children? And if so, what made her think the Lord exempted her from caring for people of all ages? Moreover, why had she spent the better share of the past several hours judging this man about whom she knew so little?
My child, you are tempted to look on his countenance and stature, whereas I look on the heart. The verse from 1 Samuel came to mind—oh, how the truth of it struck her to the core. Without ado, she looked directly at her seatmate, smoke and all. “And where might you be headed, sir?”
“Me?” A look of surprise washed over him. “My sister just passed. I’m goin’ to her funeral in Philly.”
A gasp escaped. “Oh, my, I’m…I’m sorry to hear that.” Silently, she prayed, Lord, give me the proper words, and forgive me all these many hours I might have had the chance to speak comfort to this poor soul.
He dropped what remained of his cigar on the floor and ground it out with his heel, stood to his feet, and retrieved his duffle from under the seat with a loud sniff. “Yeah, well, we weren’t that close. She quit speakin’ to me after I married my wife, her bein’ a Protestant and us Catholics.” He followed that up with a snort. “My brother died last year, and she still refused to acknowledge me at his funeral, even though my wife passed on three years ago.”
Blended odors of sweat, tobacco, and acrid breath nearly knocked her over as she stood up and hefted the strap of her heavy leather satchel over one shoulder, but newfound compassion welled up in her heart, lending her fortitude. The line of people in the aisle was moving at a snail’s pace, and she decided to make use of their extra seconds together.
“But you’re going to her funeral anyway?”
He nodded halfheartedly. “It’s my duty to pay my respects. She won’t know it, but I will.”
“Yes, and you’ll feel better afterward for doing so.” Suddenly, she had more to say to the man, but the line of anxious passengers was picking up speed, and he squeezed into the tight line. She followed in his wake, doing her best to keep her footing as folks shoved and jabbed. My, such an impetuous, peevish lot, she thought, then quickly acknowledged her own impatience.
“Watch your step, ladies and gentlemen,” the conductor said. One by one, folks stepped down from the train. Her fellow rider took the stairs with ease, then turned abruptly and offered her his hand. Another time, she might have pretended not to notice and used the steel hand railing instead. Now, however, she smiled and accepted his grimy, calloused palm.
“Thank you.”
Drooping eyes looked down at her. “New York, eh? You sure you don’t want to purchase your ticket back home? Ticket booth’s right over there.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder, and for the first time, she sensed that he was toying with her.
“Absolutely not!” Pulling back her shoulders, she gave her head a hard shake, losing a feather from her hat in the process. She watched it float away, carried by the breeze of passengers rushing by. “When the Lord tells a body to do something, you best do it, if you want to know true peace,” she said, lifting her eyes to meet his. “This is something He told me to do—to come to New York and see what I can do about helping the deprived, dispossessed children, just as I’m sure He prompted you to attend your sister’s funeral.”
Surprisingly, he chuckled and bobbed his head a couple of times. “Can’t say for sure it was the Good Lord Hisself or Father Carlson, but one of ’em convinced me to come, and now that I think on it, I’m glad.”
Out the corner of her eye, Maggie Rose sought to read the myriad signs pointing this way and that, hoping to find one to point her in the right direction. Slight queasiness churned in her stomach. Dear Lord, please erase my worries about finding my next train, she prayed silently. The man ran four grimy fingers through his greasy hair. Absently, she wondered if he intended to clean himself up before attending his sister’s burial service.
“You take care of yourself, little lady. It’s a mighty big world out there for one so fine and dainty as you.”
A smile formed on her lips. Fine and dainty. Had he made a similar remark to one of her sisters, Hannah Grace or Abbie Ann, an indignant look would have been his return. She extended her hand. “I’ll do my best, Mr.….”
He clasped her hand and gave it a gentle shake. “Dempsey. Mort Dempsey. And you are?”
“Maggie Rose Kane.”
He gave a thoughtful nod. “Has a nice ring to it.” Then, tipping his head to one side, he scratched his temple and raised his bushy brows. “At first glimpse, you look a bit fragile, but I’d guess you got some spunk under that feathery hat o’ yours.”
Now she laughed outright. “I suppose that’s the Kane blood running through me.
We Kane sisters are known for our stubborn streak. It runs clear to our bones.”
Several seconds ticked by. Mr. Dempsey glanced around. “You got any more baggage, miss?”
“My trunk’s due to arrive at the children’s home the day after tomorrow.” She gave her black satchel a pat. “I’ll make do with what I have till then.”
In the next silent pause that passed between them, a pigeon swept down to steal a crumb, a stray dog loped past, and in the distance, a mother hushed her crying babe. Mr. Dempsey removed his pocket watch. “Well, listen, little lady, my train for Philly don’t leave for another hour yet. What say I take you over to the red line? Number 442, was it?”
“Oh, but you needn’t….”
He’d already looped his arm for her to take. The man’s stench remained strong, yes, but Maggie Rose found that, somehow, in the course of the past few minutes, her nose had miraculously adjusted.
My, but the Lord did work in wondrously mysterious ways! Why, just this very morning, Jacob Kane, her dear father, had prayed that God might send His angels of protection to lead and guide her on her way, and now look: Mort Dempsey was taking her to her next connection.
Imagine that—Mort Dempsey, God’s appointed “angel.”
They parted ways at the Albany platform where she could board Number 442.
When she arrived at New York City’s Grand Central Terminal, Maggie Rose saw a confusing mass of railroad lines converged in a place that also contained more people than she thought inhabited the earth.
Mr. Dempsey may have been an unlikely angel, but her next escort fit the bill with utmost perfection. She scanned the crowd and saw a pleasant-looking man, probably not much older than she, standing to one side and holding up a hand-printed sign that read: “Miss M. Kane.” Dressed in an evening suit, a bowler cap, and a bright-red bow tie that was almost blinding, he was searching the crowd with expectant eyes. When their gazes met, a broad smile formed on his face.
“Miss Kane?” he asked, greeting her with the warmth of a clear summer morning.
“Yes!” She had to tell her feet to walk in ladylike strides, even though her travel-worn body wanted to slump into the nearest bench with relief. They shook hands, and he introduced himself as Stanley Barrett, an employee—but more of a lifelong resident—at the children’s home. The Binghams had welcomed him through their doors many years ago when he’d lost both his parents in a fire.
“You must be tired,” he said, freeing her of her satchel without a moment’s hesitation, which suited her just fine. As it was, her shoulder ached from the weight of the bag, which held important papers, several personal possessions, some toiletry items, and the changes of clothing she would need until her trunk arrived.
Dusk had settled on New York City, so, without ado, Mr. Barrett led her like a pro through the throngs and straight to their carriage, waiting with numerous sets of nearly identical horses and black carriages lined up in long rows outside the terminal. Such efficiency impressed Maggie Rose, and she told him so. “I grew up here, so getting around is easy for me,” he explained, helping her onto the carriage. “You’ll catch on, especially once the subway station opens. But don’t worry; we usually travel in pairs or larger groups, anyway.”
Driving the carriage, he kept up his constant prattle as he dodged fast-moving streetcars, stray dogs, scurrying pedestrians, and the occasional motorcar. Even at this late hour, the city buzzed with activity such as Maggie had never seen. Why, in Sandy Shores, everything closes up tighter than a drum at five-thirty, she thought—that is, everything but the several saloons and restaurants. Here, though, people of all genders, races, sizes, and ages roamed the streets. Some were selling wares, others begging for quarters; some were huddled on street corners, others sitting on crates or boxes, perhaps looking for a place to lay their heads for the night.
“I can imagine what you’re thinking,” Stanley said as he maneuvered the carriage onto Park Avenue, heading north, and clicked his horse into a slow trot. “You’ve probably never seen anything like this place. Mrs. Bingham says you hail from some little town in Michigan. What part?”
“The west side, smack on the shores of beautiful Lake Michigan, about halfway up the state. The town is small, yes, but thriving. We have one main street running east and west—Water Street—with lots of little stores and businesses on either side. Don’t be running your horse too fast going west, though, or you’ll fall into the harbor,” she joked. “’Course, the railroad docks and barges would stop you first, I suppose.”
He chuckled, and she decided she liked the smooth tenor of his quiet laughter. “Of all the orphanages in the city, how’d you decide on the Sheltering Arms Refuge?” he asked. “We’re a lot smaller than the Foundling Hospital and the Children’s Aid Society.”
“Someone seeking financial support for your fine organization spoke at our church more than a year ago. I believe his name was Mr. Wiley.”
“That’d be Uncle Herbie—Mrs. Bingham’s brother.”
“He showed us a few pictures and talked a great deal about the destitute children wandering the city—‘street Arabs,’ he called them. Ever since then, the Lord has kept up His constant nudging, so after much correspondence back and forth, not to mention the process of convincing my father to let me loose, I’ve finally arrived!”
Stanley glanced casually in both directions before urging his horse through the intersection at East 50th and Park Streets, crossing streetcar tracks and skirting a good-sized pothole. Their amiable conversation continued, but she had to concentrate to drown out all the commotion going on around her, not to mention the smells—a blend of fried food, gasoline, manure, and rancid garbage. And the sounds! Why, the very streets seemed to reverberate with the clamor of loud conversations, tinny barroom music, thudding horses’ hooves, barking dogs, and the occasional baby’s cry from some upstairs flat.
Stanley Barrett veered the carriage onto East 65th Street, crossed Lexington, 3rd, and 2nd, and made a right on Dover, driving another couple of blocks before directing the horse up a long drive to a stately three-story brick structure. Maggie’s very senses seemed to stand on end. “Is this it?” she asked, feasting her eyes on the edifice, which appeared bigger than what she’d imagined from looking at the few photos she’d received.
Stanley guided his horse to a stop, breathed a sigh, and tossed the reins over the brake handle, turning to her with a smile. She decided he had a pleasant one, tainted only partially by a set of crooked teeth. “This is it. What do you think?”
She gazed at her surroundings—a brick house situated on a sprawling plot of land and surrounded by numerous trees, a stable, and several outbuildings. Who would believe that just blocks from this serene setting lay a whole different world? “I think—it’s beautiful.” Unexpected emotion clogged her throat. She looked up to see a head poke through the curtains of one of the upstairs windows. One of the orphans?
“Beautiful? Well, it’s old, I’ll give you that. Ginny, er, Mrs. Bingham inherited the historic place from her wealthy grandfather back in the 1880s. She and the Mr. have been operating it as an orphanage for the past seventeen or so years. In fact, I was one of their first residents. But I’m sure you’ll get the whole story, if you haven’t already, when you’re more rested.” He winked, gave another low chuckle, and jumped from the rig with ease. “Come on, I’ll help you down.”
With his assistance, her feet soon landed on solid ground. She lifted her long skirts and stepped away from the carriage, eyes fastened on the three-story structure and the aging brick fence that surrounded the property’s borders and was covered by lush blankets of ivy.
Stanley allowed her a moment’s peace as she stood before her new “home” and tried to picture its interior. Suddenly, the front door swung open. In its glow stood a portly woman with an apron tied about her waist; grayish hair hung haphazardly about her oval face, and a smile stretched from cheek to cheek as she lifted her hand to wave.
“Well, glory be, come and look who’s here, Henry. It’s the little miss from Michigan!”
It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!You never know when I might play a wild card on you!
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Excerpt - Offworld by Robin Parrish
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Robin Parrish had two great ambitions in his life: to have a family, and to be a published novelist. In March of 2005, he proposed to his future wife the same week he signed his first book contract with Bethany House Publishers. They contracted him for the rights to not only that first book, Relentless -- but two sequels including Fearless and Merciless. A trilogy that unfolded in the consecutive summers of 2006, 2007, and 2008.
Robin Parrish is a journalist who's written about pop culture for more than a decade. Currently he serves as Senior Editor at XZOOSIA.com, a community portal that fuses social networking with magazine-style features about entertainment and culture. He and his wife, Karen and son live in North Carolina.
ABOUT THE BOOK
"Every Person on This Planet Has Disappeared."
Commander Christopher Burke and his crew are humanity's greatest explorers. They've finished their mission on the red dirt of Mars and now they just want to get back to Earth. To see friends, family, and loved ones. To be home. But even with communication to ground control cut and a perilous landing, nothing could prepare the crew for what they discover when they step foot back on planet Earth.
Everyone...everywhere...is gone.
It's not a dream. It's not a trick. Now Burke and his team have one mission:find out who or what is behind the disappearance of all mankind.
Watch the book trailer:
Excerpt of chapter one:
This Thing of Darkness
August 11, 2032
Right foot.
Left foot.
Right foot.
Left foot.
Stumble.
Red dirt filled Burke's field of view. Not that it was much of a change. Red dirt had been all he could see for hours. Even the bright pinkish tan of the planet's sky was washed away by the windstorm.
"Beech!" he called out, hoisting himself back to his feet as the wind spun him about. He carried a small black pack with a few meager supplies and some mission equipment inside. "I've got zero visibility! No orientation! I can't see anything!"
He stopped.
Burke's training fought against the fear creeping into his mind, against the rising panic as the wind fed more soil and dust into the crevices of his space suit.
Got to find my way ... dirt's building up ... soon I won't be able to move....
"Habitat, this is Burke!" he yelled over the storm. "I can't see anything, and I've lost contact with Beechum!"
No answer. A brutal gust surged around him like the gale force of a hurricane, threatening to pick him up off his feet. He crouched to center his weight, slung the pack over his back, and took a steadying breath.
"Houston?" he tried halfheartedly. There was little chance the relay satellite orbiting above would pick him up if the rest of his own team couldn't hear him from less than a hundred miles away. "Is anyone reading me?"
No reply, not even static. The earpiece inside his helmet was dead.
Okay, Chris. Think. You're in the middle of a dried-up riverbed that we've been studying for weeks. You know your way around this place. Think about landmarks. What's nearby?
The wind cleared just enough for him to catch a glimpse of a red boulder, directly ahead of his position. Burke crawled forward, on hands and knees, and stooped there in the shadow of the large rock to rest and think. Fighting the dust storm had required all of his strength, every muscle ready to crumple from the effort. He brushed aside the deep red dust on his right arm and uncovered an electronic readout on the underside.
It read 5:08 pm.
Which meant he had about four hours of oxygen remaining in his suit.
And worse, nightfall would come in less than an hour. Martian days were just thirty-nine minutes longer than days on Earth, so sunrise and sunset were virtually the same on the red planet as on the blue one.
So ... he thought. Lost on the surface of Mars, unable to reach the Habitat, unable to see, barely able to move, only four hours of air left, and it's about to get dark and lethally cold.
If Dad could see me now ...
The wind raged on, pressing Chris' full frame against the boulder, wave after wave of red dirt pounding into him so hard he could feel it through the thickness of the suit. He could even sense the temperature dropping around him, in spite of his suit's automatic climate control, as daylight began to slide ever so slowly into dusk.
Survival drills ran through his head ...
The horrible roar of the wind made it terribly hard to concentrate.
Water reserves running low, better save it.
Sweat ran down into his eyes, but he couldn't stop it, couldn't reach his face through the tinted visor....
His head rested against the large red rock behind him....
He passed out.
April 28, 2033
Eight Months Later
Ares Mission, Return Voyage
T-Minus 67 Days to Earth
All five hundred square feet of the Ares turned on a central axis as the ship raced for home at 75,000 miles per hour. It was little more than a long, sophisticated metal tube that could separate into segmented compartments. The compartment farthest from the main engine served as the command module and resembled a tiny space shuttle, with small wings on each side and a tail fin that looked proportionately too small. The Ares tumbled through space sideways to give the crew a semblance of gravity, spiraling her way back to Earth.
Christopher Burke awoke to the sound of his first officer pedaling a stationary bicycle at a steady clip, a baseball cap keeping her hair out of her face, and wires channeling music into her ears.
Trisha Merriday looked tired. She concealed it well, but he'd spent two and a half years with her and the other two crewmembers, and he knew them almost as well as they knew themselves.
"You doing okay today?" he tentatively asked. It was always a tightrope, asking how she was feeling, because he knew things about her that the others didn't. Things that she'd chosen to confide in him alone. Everyone has certain secrets that are best kept hidden, he reasoned, and he'd returned the favor by confessing to her his ongoing dreams that began after a near-disastrous incident on Mars.
NASA would have preferred that they maintained a disciplined, formal tone in everything they did, of course. But it was impossible to spend two and a half years of your life with only three other people for company, and maintain formalities.
Trisha made no verbal reply; she merely eyed him knowingly and nodded with an affirmative. He could see that she was putting on her usual stoic façade.
She studied him as she pedaled and pedaled, her legs and feet churning the stirrups.
"Here," she said, pulling a bottle of water from a holder attached to the bike. She tossed it to him, and it took a second longer to reach him than it would have on Earth, the artificial gravity from the ship's spin only providing eighty percent of Earth's pull. "You look like you've already had your workout."
Chris nodded once, a quick thanks, and then took several long draughts from the bottle.
Trisha waited until he was done, trying not to be obvious about the fact that she was watching him, considering his appearance. But he could feel her eyes.
He stood from his bunk and stretched. Chris struck an imposing figure at his full height, which had lengthened even a bit more in the weightlessness of space. Blond, blue-eyed, handsome and strong, he'd always gotten more attention than he'd ever desired. But then, NASA couldn't let an unattractive man be the first person to walk on Mars, could they? It was a reality of the job that would have caused others to question themselves, but he had no such doubts about himself or his abilities. He'd been preparing to be an astronaut his entire life, and so insecurity rarely troubled him.
"Had the dream again, didn't you?" Trisha said softly, so her voice wouldn't carry. She continued her relentless pedaling, the nonstop, rhythmic sound threatening to lull him back to sleep. His brain was still stumbling into consciousness, tripping over memories that were weakly fighting to surface.
Chris nodded, not looking at her. He closed his eyes, straining to think back ...
"How far did you get this time?" she asked.
Chris rubbed his eyes; it did nothing to clear away the bleary lack of focus that was there. "Not much further than the sandstorm. I passed out somewhere along the way. I don't remember anything after that." His jaw clenched as he ground his teeth—a bad habit he'd acquired since the mission began. "There was one new detail that came back to me. I remember checking my air supply. There were only four hours left."
Trisha stopped pedaling and the small cabin fell silent. "Four hours? Are you sure?"
He nodded again, still not facing her.
"That can't be right. You were missing so much longer—you were out of radio contact for over eighteen hours before we found you."
He spun on her, frustrated. "I know that!"
Trisha frowned, surprised.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "I just ... can't make sense of it. Any of it."
Trisha studied him.
"I'm the first person to walk on Mars," Chris went on. "And there's an eighteen-hour window of my time there that I can't account for. NASA's expecting a full debrief as soon as we get home, and I can't even begin to explain what happened. I just can't remember."
They both knew how NASA felt about ambiguities—especially when it came to one of their astronauts. An unknown might as well be called a failure as far as the media was concerned.
Trisha was considering a response when a shout came from the command module, carrying all the way to their cabin, down near the main engine.
"Chris, you better get up here!" Terry called out, his voice betraying a hint of panic. "We've lost contact with Houston!"
Chris bolted for the command module as fast as he could, Trisha right behind with her exercise towel draped around her neck.
"What happened?" he said before he was fully in the cockpit.
"Ground Control's broken contact," Owen said calmly as if nothing were wrong. Owen Beechum, mission specialist on the team, rarely flinched.
That was less true of the crew's command module pilot, Terry Kessler, who paced the tiny five-by-five space at the back of the cabin like a caged cat.
Chris pushed past Terry and took his seat at the nose of the ship, examining his console. "We're still receiving telemetry."
"Telemetry, yeah," Terry replied, still pacing, "but nobody's talking."
Trisha joined Chris in her customary seat beside his. At his nod she leaned forward.
"Houston, this is Ares, respond please," she said with her finger on a control marked VOX. It was like a speakerphone for the command module, transmitting everything they said back to Houston. Her tone was all business.
No response.
"This is god of war calling Mount Olympus. Do you read?" Chris called. The Greek mythology references were an easy habit they'd fallen into less than a month into the mission.
A long moment of silence passed as the four of them listened and waited for a response that never came. Even Terry stopped pacing, crossing his arms anxiously.
"What about the ISS?" suggested Trisha, referring to the International Space Station.
"Nothing." Owen shook his head. "No transmissions of any kind are coming from the station."
Chris looked out at the stars but caught his own reflection in the glass. He could see the others: Trisha sitting next to him, Owen behind her, and Terry pacing again in the back. Chris looked past the reflection, far into the deepness of space, wondering about the communication breakdown. Was it the ship? Something on the ground?
"Try Tranquility," he said softly.
Owen's eyebrows shot up, but then he quickly nodded, conceding it was worth a shot. Though the Ares had no established procedure for contacting Tranquility Base directly, Owen was more than capable of working around such limitations.
Tranquility Base was the first—and so far only—permanent base on the surface of the moon. It resided in the Sea of Tranquility, the same site where Armstrong and Aldrin had first walked on the moon in 1969, and had been named in honor of Armstrong's famous announcement when their tiny craft landed there.
A few moments of fingers brushing lightly over keys and Owen nodded at Trisha that he was ready.
"Tranquility Base, this is Ares. Tranquility Base, Ares," Trisha said into the microphone. "Do you copy?"
The silence of static returned from the tiny speaker above the microphone. Trisha tried again, repeating her hail, but no reply came.
"Systems diagnostic," Chris said mechanically to Owen.
"Already done. By the numbers, all the way," he replied.
Chris glanced at Trisha and she looked back. An entire conversation passed between them in a single look.
Terry and Owen said nothing, waiting, and their silence lingered in the air along with an unspoken question.
"If there's nothing wrong with the ship, then the problem is on the ground," Chris concluded, rising from his chair. "Keep monitoring, let me know when they get it fixed. Until then, we'll proceed as normal. Hopefully, NASA can hear us even if we can't hear them."
With that, he disappeared down the corridor, the discussion officially over.
* * *
Trisha hesitated, not following Chris out of the command module. Something about the apprehension in Terry's eyes held her back.
"But ..." Terry stammered, "shouldn't we try something else?"
"Our options are very limited," Trisha pointed out. Like most of the ship's countless systems, the communications equipment was fragile, despite multiple redundancies, and not easily fixed if broken. Just one of the prices paid for attempting to visit another planet.
Owen looked up from his console, agreeing with Terry. "It doesn't add up, Trish. We should be picking up something, even if it's not NASA. Satellite feeds, military broadcasts, signals to or from ... something," he concluded, pushing his glasses up on his nose.
The two of them waited for Trisha to respond, but she was lost in thought. She was the consummate first officer, fiercely loyal to Chris, and grateful he almost always deserved it. His leadership instincts and decision-making were unlike anyone she'd ever worked with before. And this time was no different.
"Chris is right," she said. "If the radio is working on our end—and the diagnostic says it is—then the problem is back home. And if the problem is on our end, there's nothing we can do about it now," she said before exiting the command module.
Trisha didn't follow Chris to the rear of the craft, where her stationary bicycle waited. Instead, she detoured into the lavatory, which was located near the midsection of the ship, where gravity was weakest.
Inside, she locked the door and leaned back against it. Lingering there, the crook of her right arm found its way up to rest against her forehead. Her shoulders slumped, and she let out a very long breath.
Soon she had folded slowly to the floor, as if an enormous weight were bearing down on her back. She couldn't find the strength or the will to get back up.
But a knock at the door startled her into rising again.
"Trish, that you in there?" It was Terry.
"Yeah," she called out. "Be out in a second."
"Hurry, could ya?" he said back in a soft voice, as if trying to keep the others from hearing. "I'm gonna soak the carpet out here."
Trisha stepped forward to the flight medicine bin and retrieved a nondescript pill bottle. She popped the lid and dry-swallowed two capsules.
Collecting herself, she exited the lavatory, not bothering to watch as Terry rushed inside.
* * *
Alone in the command module, Owen continued trying to get a signal. Houston, Tranquility, the ISS, anything. But he received only silence in return.
What was going on?
Truthfully, Owen was unsurprised that something like this had happened. Aside from the mysterious eighteen hours when Chris had gone missing, the entire mission had been glitch-free. And space travel was never free from glitches. The technology was just too new, too untested. Though he never said it to the others, he'd been waiting for something to go wrong for months.
He thought of his wife and son waiting for him on Earth. Would he make it back to see them? Was this communications problem the beginning of something bigger?
His gut told him it was. He was the least experienced astronaut on the mission, but it didn't matter. He could feel it. There was more going on here than they could see.
July 4, 2033
Ares Mission, Return Voyage
T-Minus 0 days to Earth
Earth loomed large each time the tumbling ship's forward windows caught sight of it, and all eight eyes onboard the Ares were aimed straight ahead, marveling at the beauty of a place they hadn't seen in just shy of twenty-nine months.
"Houston, Ares," Chris intoned from his pilot seat up front, still going through the motions in case Mission Control was able to hear the crew, even if the crew couldn't hear Mission Control. If nothing else, the flight recorder would be taping this historic moment for later examination. "We are still receiving no transmissions from the ISS, so we are proceeding with manual landing protocol. Over."
NASA took no chances when it came to the design of the Ares. Redundancies were built into the ship to ensure the crew's survival, and unlike past spacecraft, the Ares had three separate options for returning safely to Earth.
The first and most ideal solution was for the ship to rendezvous with the International Space Station and dock there. The crew would then take a special shuttlecraft down to Earth, leaving the Ares to be dismantled or recycled in orbit. Should anything go wrong with the planned ISS docking, the second option allowed the command module of the Ares to detach and reenter Earth's atmosphere by itself. In a best-case scenario, the tiny crew-carrying module would use its small wings and retractable landing gear to glide down to the landing pad at Kennedy Space Center, much like the space shuttles did decades ago. In a worst-case scenario, the third option allowed for the Ares' command module to float on the open sea, after the ship had parachuted into the ocean, and to await retrieval there. Just like NASA's first astronauts had used successfully in the Gemini and Apollo missions.
With the ISS out of contact, procedure dictated that they go for the manual glide landing at Kennedy. Yet it wasn't ideal, and only added to the unspoken tension filling the tight spaces aboard the Ares. Per standard landing protocol, all four of them donned their fireproof pressure suits as a precaution for such a dangerous reentry.
No one said it, and no one had to; decorum was maintained just as it had been for the entire mission. In the two-plus months leading up to their arrival back to Earth, the crew still had been unable to reacquire vocal contact with Mission Control. Whatever the problem was, each passing day had made it more likely that it was on the ship, not in Houston. Regardless, the time for fixes had almost run out; it would just have to be sorted out on the ground. Their priority now was getting there.
"Final systems check is complete, Houston," Chris reported. "Preparing to engage manual reentry sequence. Fire stabilizers."
At these words, Terry flipped a switch from his seat just behind Chris. The young pilot's short, lean body was complemented by a black crew cut and eyes that were always bright.
Chris grabbed a pair of handles that moved like joysticks. His movements corresponded with tiny thrusters designed to expel just enough thrust to affect the ship's orientation. With practiced movements, he used the controls to null the rotation of the ship, angling its nose straight toward Earth. The blue planet filled the window.
The four of them took a moment to right themselves now that the gravity provided by the ship's turning was gone. It was notoriously hard to determine up or down in zero gravity, and the strange internal sensations it caused could wreak havoc on the human body's sense of balance, even for trained astronauts.
Trisha, in her seat beside Chris up front, moved to switch off the VOX button.
"No, leave it on," Burke ordered, wistfully cocking an eyebrow. "It's the last time we'll ever use it."
She didn't reply, returning to her console.
"You know, Trish ..." Terry called from his second-row seat, a little too loudly. They all knew this tone of voice; it was Terry's way of trying to relieve tension during an awkward silence. "If Paul didn't wait for you back home, I'll be happy to track him down and kick his—"
"I appreciate the sentiment, Terry," Trisha interrupted him. Her jaw had jutted out before he was halfway through with his sentence. This had always been her least favorite subject to discuss on the mission. "Right now, all I'm focused on is getting us home safely," she replied in a professional tone, her head lingering a little closer to the VOX control.
Terry leaned over to Owen, who was beside him in the ship's second row of seats. "I really don't think he waited," he whispered.
Owen's eyebrows lifted marginally as he considered the notion. The specialist's large frame was offset by unruffled African features, a dark bald head, prescription glasses that covered his eyes, and an even-keeled expression that rarely betrayed emotion. "Statistically speaking, it is improbable that a male of breeding age would suppress his hormonal drive for more than two years. But then, I'm not telling you anything you don't already know, am I, Terry?"
Trisha snorted.
Terry ignored him, pressing on. "Tell us again, Trish, about how Paul asked you to marry him the night before we left for Mars, and you said ... what was it again?"
Trisha cleared her throat in a pointed sort of way, but Terry didn't seem to notice. "It was something like 'Not now' or 'Ask me again when I get back,' wasn't it? I love that story," he said with fondness.
"Terry ..." Chris began.
"No, seriously!" Terry defended himself. "It's romantic! Like an old movie. Like Gone With the Wind or Titanic."
"Weren't both of those about doomed romances?" Trisha asked without looking at him.
"Oh, sorry, yeah ..." Terry replied, his enthusiasm squashed. "What about you, Commander?" Terry piped up again while he checked over his own console. The title of commander was honorary; no one could remember if it had been started by the press or by the crew. All NASA astronauts were considered civilians, regardless of any past military experience, but it seemed fitting for such a historic mission. Even though Chris commanded the mission, he didn't encourage the title's use.
"Beech's got his wife and kid," Terry continued. "Trisha's future happiness is, well, pretty much dangling by a thread—sorry, Trish. And the various and sundry affections I'll be receiving go without saying." He smiled, relishing the thought. "But I don't remember you ever mentioning anything you're looking forward to getting back to, Chris."
Chris cast a momentary glance to Trisha at his side. She didn't return the look, too busy fussing over her controls, readying for reentry. He turned his gaze straight ahead, pushing all other thoughts aside.
"Mr. Beechum, prepare to uncouple the command module," said Burke authoritatively.
Owen had opened his mouth to respond an affirmative, when Terry pointed excitedly at the forward windows.
"Hey, what the—!" he shouted.
Everyone looked up to let their eyes gaze out the windows into ...
Nothing.
The entire view was black. No Earth, no stars, no anything.
Chris' breath caught in his throat. There, out beyond the nose of their ship, something seemed to be swirling, churning in the darkness.
"What ... what's going on?" stammered Terry.
Owen said nothing. Trisha sat with her mouth agape. Chris felt his mind go as empty and blank as the darkness into which he stared. He couldn't take his eyes from the windows. It was utterly void; the stars had vanished.
"Beech?" asked Chris, hoping for an opinion, an analysis, anything.
Owen hesitated, which in and of itself was alarming. "Well, I uh ... Commander, stars can't just disappear," he said slowly. "With the simplest answer most often being the right one—there must be a problem with the windows."
Terry didn't hesitate. "Right, so who threw a big space blanket over the ship, then?"
Chris was about to tell Terry to stow the jokes when the onboard lights flickered out and every monitor and console on the ship went dead. There was only darkness. Both within the ship and without. It was thick and stifling. There was a pregnant moment of stillness as everyone held their breath, waiting.
Waiting for what they knew all too well could come next. A bang. The ship spiraling off course. The sound of oxygen being sucked out into space.
"Helmets on!" barked Chris, his voice the only thing audible in the bottomless night. "Report!"
"All instrumentation is down," Trisha replied, and he could hear her flicking switches and pressing buttons like mad. "Navigation ... non-responsive. Going for full system restart!" she yelled, her fingers expertly clicking the controls in the dark.
"Internal lights," said Chris.
Their space suits had helmets equipped with bright internal lighting which, once lit, illuminated their faces so at least they could see one another. The suits operated off of their own energy source and so were unaffected by whatever had caused the ship to lose power. The glow the four helmets gave off was enough to give them a bit of orientation within the cabin.
"Try the emergency batteries, Beech. Terry, make sure the cabin's secure."
Terry looked up from his console and froze. "What?"
Even Trisha had stopped what she was doing and glanced at Chris.
There was no reason to assume the command module wouldn't be secure; it had been pressure-locked before the four of them fastened themselves into their seats. Standard procedure. But Chris didn't care. There was no reason to assume the stars might disappear from the sky either. The rule book had just been tossed out the window, and his military instincts were taking over now. Whatever was happening, they were fighting for their lives; ensuring their survival was his top priority.
"You heard me!" Chris shouted, his hands clenching the armrests of his chair. "Lock it down, double time!"
If the amazement and shock of seeing the entire planet and star field disappear hadn't clued in Burke's three teammates that things had just changed in a drastic and dire way, his tone of voice jolted them into remembering that this wasn't part of the mission. This wasn't part of any mission.
Terry didn't question him again. Instead, the youngest member of the crew deftly unbuckled the elaborate straps from his seat and floated to the back of the cabin. There, he checked the two hatches leading to the rest of the ship that were on both sides of the rear wall. Next he pushed off, drifting carefully in the dark over to his right, where the main exterior hatch was located.
As Terry worked, Chris leaned into the VOX control. "Houston, this is the Ares! We are declaring an emergency! Repeat, Houston, this is Ares declaring an emergency! And I really hope you can hear us down there! We have lost all power to the ship. We have a possible collision—"
Terry had just double-checked the main hatch when the Ares lurched sideways, groaned with a shudder, and then jolted forward. Without warning, they were moving at tremendous speed. It felt as if the ship had been launched from a slingshot; Chris, Owen, and Trisha were mashed into the backs of their seats while Terry went flying into the back wall.
Chris knew the sickening crunch he'd heard was the young pilot slamming against the bulkhead.
"Terry!" Trisha shouted over the roar. Along with the speed, the sounds both inside and outside of the ship were escalating—sounds of rattling hardware and the ship's turbulence hitting atmosphere. Chris' eyes darted to his right; Trisha was barely able to move her head far enough around to look behind, clenching her every muscle against the rising g-forces. "Terry, sound off!"
All was silent behind them.
Chris turned likewise in his seat to see the dark silhouette of the young pilot up against the back wall, still pinned there by the g-forces.
"Permission to leave my station—" Owen began, and Chris saw that Trisha had fingered the clasp of her seat belt already.
"Denied, both of you!" Chris shouted back over the noise of the out-of-control ship.
"He's hurt!" Trisha cried.
"Keep your seats, that's an order!" Chris thundered, uttering a phrase never heard among the informal chatter observed by astronauts. "You'll just end up pinned alongside him, and I need you both doing your jobs!"
Trisha glanced, just once, back at her teammate and then nodded, seeming to right herself internally. Chris was in charge. She faced forward again in her seat and focused on her station.
"If this is reentry, if that's what we're feeling ... then we're too steep!" Owen called out. His eyes were closed, deep in concentration, and Chris knew he was basing his assertion on nothing but the sensations they were feeling and what he could remember of their position and velocity before everything went dark. "Possibly severely."
Chris' visor light flickered and went out. He looked to his left and saw Trisha's do the same. Light was fully extinguished again, consumed by the black nothingness.
He fought to suppress his own rising fear, trying to concentrate on the mission, his people, his years of training. But this was a nightmare scenario, and there were no instincts to rely on. Not for this. It was like spontaneous blindness. He could still hear the terrible, nonstop roar of the ship ... still feel the increasing gravity pressing him into his seat ... still sense the unnatural vibrations of the Ares caused by its hurtling through space faster than it was ever designed to move.
And what about Terry? Was he unconscious? Dead?
As the ship continued to accelerate, the vibrations gave way to full-on shuddering. There was another sharp jerk, and the ship's bolts and panels and tiles rattled against the concussion. The noise level rose to an unbearable metallic monotone.
Something else caught Chris' attention amid the chaos, and he smelled it before he felt it. The scent of hot steel entered his nose at the same moment he realized his hair was wet and sticking to his head, his entire body covered in sweat. His suit's automatic temperature regulator would have compensated for any drastic change in climate had it been powered, but even still, it had insulation to protect against harsh environments. For this kind of heat to be reaching him this fast, coupled with the burning stench ...
Dim lights blinked to life around them.
"Emergency batteries are online!" shouted Owen over the din. It wasn't much, illuminating the cabin with something about as strong as candlelight. Chris looked back over his shoulder at his mission specialist. Surprisingly, Owen seemed to have maintained his ever-present calm in spite of their circumstances. He wasn't even sweating as much as Chris was. Chris stole a quick glance at Trisha, who seemed to be sweating even more, but she had already sprung to life, fighting the g-forces to pore over her console.
"Give me a full systems check!" Chris called out.
"It's running now," Owen replied, his voice magnified to reach out over the racket. "O2 at forty percent capacity. Power's down to twenty-two ..."
Owen continued to rattle off numbers, but Chris' mind drifted to the empty space straight ahead, beyond the windows. Because even though they were soaring at an incredible rate, even though the ship was about to shake itself apart, and even though the temperature was rising dangerously fast, it was what was outside of the ship that disturbed him most. Earth should've been there. Right there. Or millions of stars had the ship been knocked off course. Or ... something.
But there was nothing. Not even in the black of space between planets had he encountered such darkness. It was as if they'd been swallowed....
Then something flashed in the forward window.
Chris blinked.
It was murky, and only lasted a second. But it was right there, just past the nose of the ship. Something like nothing he had ever seen before. Enormous. Imposing. The darkest shade of blue imaginable. Moving, swirling, very slowly. Like smoke passing before his eyes in a blur.
Chris spun to look at Trisha, hoping she'd seen it too. But she was still focused on her console. A glance at Owen revealed he hadn't seen it either.
Owen was still reciting system readings when Chris interrupted him, shouting above the clamor, "What about outside? Are you able to pick up anything in space?"
A pause as Owen checked. He shook his head. "External scanners are not responding, Commander. Given this heat we're feeling, which hopefully is from the ship reentering Earth's atmosphere, it's possible that those sensors have melted off. We expected that to happen upon reentry, you know."
The ship unexpectedly lurched sideways as if it had been blindsided by a moving object. The sudden motion was powerful and jarring enough that Terry's unconscious form was slung against the left wall of the command module like a rag doll, and the others were pinched and squeezed painfully by their seats' safety belts. The lurch was accompanied by a profound crack that they could feel, a loud wrenching of metal, and finally an ear-piercing whine, which remained ongoing. The ship started spinning in response.
"What was that?!" Trisha screamed.
"Felt like we lost an engine bell," he shouted.
"Correction!" Owen called out behind them, and there was no mistaking the sharp tone of alarm in his voice, because neither of them had heard it before. "Commander, I think the entire rear half of the ship just came apart!"
"Say again?"
"I'm reading no oxygen, no power, life support, or anything else past the lavatory! I think everything on the other side of the bathroom is just gone!"
Chris didn't have time to absorb this, to think through options. He just acted. "Prepare to undock the command module! Let's jettison whatever's left back there before power goes out again!"
At that moment, they were plunged into deep blackness once more. Each of them knew without needing confirmation that it would be the last time the ship's interior would ever see light. The Ares continued to spin, faster and faster, rotating like a rotisserie chicken. Chris swallowed repeatedly to avoid vomiting in his helmet—a dangerous proposition since his helmet was sealed. He could feel blood rushing to his head, and he hoped the others were faring better.
But then, it didn't really matter at this point.
It was over. The mission. The ship. Their lives. All of it was dying, reaching the ultimate ending, and nothing would stop it. All they could do was try to hold on as long as possible.
The g-forces grew more powerful than ever, pressing Chris into his seat back, and threatening to thrust all three of them into unconsciousness. Chris felt a wave of weariness wash across him. It was a very inviting exhaustion, but he was too well trained to embrace it so easily.
He blinked the sweat back, holding tight to his armrests even as he realized the bolts and welds of his seat were slowly being shaken loose by the ship's catastrophic bucking, spinning, and trembling.
With the sound of the ship roaring around him, consoles about to melt, and his seat ready to rip free and send him flying, he called out, "Anybody still conscious?"
"Still with you" came Trisha's voice, though it was faint. He tried to look at her but couldn't escape the gravity enough to swivel his head. All he could do was stare forward into the blackness that still surrounded the ship.
Are we headed for home? Are we someplace else? Did something swallow us whole and that's why we can't see anything?
What is out there?
He felt heat radiating through the hands of his suit from where they touched the arms of his metal chair. He closed his eyes; the heat was making it hard to keep them open anyway.
Chris thought he should say something to his crew, but he didn't know what. Offer them some last gasp about "going down with the ship," or tell them what an honor it had been to serve with them? It had been an honor, but the words felt inadequate in his head.
And impossibly, even though he felt foolish for it, his thoughts were jumping so fast from thought to thought that he couldn't help arriving at how this disaster would forever tarnish the historic Mars mission, and NASA's reputation. He could hear the newscasters in his head: "The first manned mission to Mars ended in a horrific tragedy today, which throws into doubt the entire future of manned space flight...."
There wasn't time to waste on such thoughts. These were about to become the last minutes or seconds of his life. He should use them for something more important, more personal. Something for his crew. Above all others, he felt he should at least say something to Trisha. But he couldn't conjure up any words, with the ship spiraling so violently around him, the noise, the heat, the pressure, the pain of being pressed deep enough into his seat to feel the metal framework inside.
The high-pitched whine of the ship turned to a series of creaks and groans, and Chris knew that this was it. What was left of the Ares was ripping itself apart out from under them, from the tremendous stresses being placed upon it. The spiraling was so fast that consoles, tools, dials, and screws were shaken loose and went flying through the compartment in a mad cyclone. Any second a ferocious final surge would separate the command module around them, and they would be sucked out by the explosive oxygen decompression into space. Their bodies would be lost forever, unrecoverable by NASA, drifting forever out in the depths of the universe.
That is, if that really was space as he knew it out there in the black.
Either way, they would be dead in moments. Seconds. Maybe less.
So ends the noble Ares and her crew ...
The window suddenly cleared, and he saw that something was rushing straight at them. Or maybe they were rushing at it, faster than a bullet.
Chris opened his mouth and shouted at the top of his lungs, "Brace yourselves!"
The words had just left his mouth, seeming to hang with a hollowness in the air, when everything went black.
* * *
Chris coughed himself awake. He was sopping wet.
Smoke filled the cockpit, but the emergency floodlights had kicked in, warning alarms flashing, bathing everything in red. The windows were still completely blacked out.
The ship was no longer moving.
Trisha sat beside him, still buckled into her seat but unconscious, a trickle of blood evident near her left temple.
Behind them, Owen wheezed, a bubble pulsing in his nostril.
The heat inside the cockpit was almost unbearable. Chris felt as though he was being smothered by his heavy space suit.
"Terry ..." he whispered, trying to see the back of the cockpit through the haze and smoke and dim lights. He unstrapped himself from his seat and pulled off his helmet as Trisha and Owen slowly began to regain consciousness.
When he stood, a rush of vertigo overwhelmed him and he teetered but didn't fall. Chris wondered how much time had passed since the ship came to a stop. He was forced to move slowly, feeling his way through the command module in the relative darkness and smoke.
He almost stumbled over Terry, who was in a crumpled heap near the main hatch.
"How is he?" asked Owen.
"He's breathing, but he's pretty banged up," answered Chris.
"We have cabin pressure," Trisha said, springing to life, her gloved fingers sliding across her damaged console with practiced precision. "Backup power is up and running."
Chris turned Terry over and pulled the young pilot's helmet off. "Did the command module ever detach?"
"I can't tell," replied Owen.
Trisha spoke up again. "I think—I think we landed. I have a GLS light."
GLS stood for Ground Landing System, an automated program designed to take over the landing procedures for the crew should they be rendered incapacitated. It was housed and operated entirely from the ground, close to the runway at Kennedy Space Center in Florida.
"Hey," moaned Terry. "What ... ?"
"Take it easy," said Chris. Owen joined them and helped Terry up to a sitting position. Chris returned to the front.
"You're hurt," he said, unlatching Trisha's helmet as she continued to work. He dabbed at the gash on the side of her head with his fingers. It wasn't bad, although he could feel a sizable egg rising under the skin.
"Minor concussion at worst," he said. She didn't respond, focusing instead on her work.
"We have gravity," Terry offered, sounding a little more awake. "If the GLS kicked in ... then we're on the ground at Kennedy, right?"
Owen looked up. "If we're on the ground," he said, his brown eyes scanning the windows, "why is it still dark outside?"
"And why haven't they come for us?" asked Trisha. It was standard procedure after a space landing for the ship to be surrounded by rescue and cleanup personnel. Even though they couldn't see out, or communicate with anything beyond the ship, they should at least be able to hear something from outside. If nothing else, a NASA worker should have knocked on the hatch by now just to see if they could get a reply from the crew.
"If we're not on the ground ... we're on something," Chris concluded. He worked his way back to the hatch again, and despite Owen's protests, Terry pulled himself up to stand.
Trisha stood, satisfied that everything that could be done to secure the ship had been done. She quickly moved to a first-aid locker and retrieved a few supplies.
"The flight surgeon can patch us up," Terry said, refusing Trisha's help.
Chris squinted, trying to see through the tiny window in the hatch, though it was dark.
"What do you see?" Terry asked, massaging a bruise on his wrist.
Chris shook his head. "It's just dark." He turned. "Beech?"
Owen stepped over to his console and examined it. "I'm reading oxygen outside," he said with a heaviness in his voice as Trisha poured something onto a cut on the back of his neck. "Atmosphere is clear of chemical toxins."
Chris looked around, doubt coloring his features. Landing spacecraft were known to give off various dangerous chemicals immediately upon landing that couldn't be safely breathed. If the air was already clear of those contaminants, then the four of them had been unconscious for a few hours, at least. He waited until Trisha met his gaze, his unspoken question answered with a nod.
"We can't stay here," he concluded. "The ship is too hot, and this smoke isn't good for our lungs. I don't think we have anything to lose by opening the hatch. Agreed?"
There were nods all around.
Chris clutched the mechanism that released the hatch. A loud hiss pierced the air as the cabin depressurized to match the outside atmosphere, and he felt his ears pop. Just ahead was a second door, the outer door. He moved to it, unlatched and pushed the door downward until it opened....
He was immediately bathed in intensely bright light.
It was so bright that Terry, Trisha, and Owen put their hands up to block the light from their eyes.
Without a word, Chris stepped from the ship onto the outer hatch, which had folded down into a stepladder. The others soon joined him, standing on the steps just outside the ship.
They scanned the horizon in all directions.
The ship had come to rest on the long runway at Kennedy Space Center. But their arrival couldn't be called a landing.
Trisha was the first to turn back and examine the craft. The others followed her, and Chris' blood turned to ice. The Ares' command module was unrecognizable—charred and disfigured, her ceramic outer tiles and windows burned completely black, her two wings withered and torn. The tail fin was gone. All that was left of the mighty rocket ship that carried them to another planet was a tragic heap, an utterly ruined mass of black, burning metal.
Chris shook his head. "We shouldn't have survived that."
"We're alive, man," said Terry. "And we're home. That's enough for me."
Owen's eyebrows were furrowed as he scanned their surroundings. "Has anyone else noticed that 'home' is ... awfully quiet?"
The others examined the landscape. It was true. There was nothing moving, no people or rescue vehicles. In the distance, there were no cars driving along the roads of Kennedy Space Center. From the sun's position overhead, it was late morning, but it was as if no one on the planet had noticed a flaming rocket ship falling out of the sky.
Chris stood up straighter, blocking out the bright sunlight with his hand and squinting into the distance. "They should have sent the ferry to retrieve the ship," he said. "You think we're giving off too much radiation?"
"Maybe they didn't think there was anything left of the ship to retrieve," suggested Terry.
Trisha stopped winding a bandage around Chris' forearm, and looked up. "There's us," she said.
A long moment passed in silence as all eyes scanned the NASA complex surrounding them. For the first time in his life, Chris felt weak in the knees.
"Nothing," said Owen slowly, "is moving. At all."
Terry spun, looking in all directions. "Where is everybody?"
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Deadly Intent blog tour for July 28th
Captain's Log, Stardate 07.28.2009The complete schedule of the Deadly Intent blog tour is here.
Deadly Intent is reviewed on The Suspense Zone.
My friend MJ reviews my book on her blog, Creative Madness That Makes Me Myself.
Writers, read about the Basic Building Blocks of Good Story Structure at the blog of contemporary romance author Cheryl Wyatt.
Excerpt - Things Left Unspoken: A Novel by Eva Marie Everson
Things Left Unspoken
by
Eva Marie Everson
Every family--and every house--has its secrets. Jo-Lynn Hunter is at a crossroads in life when her great-aunt Stella insists that she return home to restore the old family manse in sleepy Cottonwood, Georgia. Jo-Lynn longs to get her teeth into a noteworthy and satisfying project. And it's the perfect excuse for some therapeutic time away from her self-absorbed husband and his snobby Atlanta friends.
Beneath the dust and the peeling wallpaper, things are not what they seem, and what Jo-Lynn doesn't know about her family holds just as many surprises. Was her great-grandfather the pillar of the community she thought he was? What is Aunt Stella hiding? And will her own marriage survive the renovation? Jo-Lynn isn't sure she wants to know the truth--but sometimes the truth has a way of making itself known.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Chapter 1
It snowed the day we buried Uncle Jim. Not the kind of snow that flurries about your face or drives itself sideways, turning the world into a blinding sheet of white. This was angels dancing on air.
When the first flake touched my cheek I felt the icy wet kiss and looked up, past the rows of granite markers—some shiny as silver and others cracked and gray—and into a fortress of old oaks, Spanish moss dripping from barren limbs. Another flake landed on my eyelashes. I batted them, then raised my gloved hand to brush it away.
I looked at my mother, who caught my movement. We sat shoulder to shoulder in the front row of chairs reserved for the family, as though we were aristocrats who’d managed to snag the best seats at the opera. Our eyes locked as she reached for my hand, then squeezed.
I took a deep breath and looked away. The pain of loss in her eyes was too much; especially at this moment, with Great-uncle Jim not six feet away, entombed by polished cherry and cold white satin.
A gust of wind blew against my back, and I glanced toward the open sky nearly white with the cold. I lifted my chin, and the breeze skipped on my shoulder and tickled my ear. “I’m not there . . .”
“Hmm?” My voice was barely audible, but my mother turned and gave me a harsh look.
“Jo-Lynn.” She whispered my name in admonishment, as though I were a child, then nodded toward the youthful pastor who stood shivering on the other side of the casket, reading from a book of prayers. He’d never once laid eyes on Uncle Jim; other than speaking recitations, there wasn’t much else he could say.
••
Uncle Jim had never been one for going to church. For the life of me I couldn’t remember a single time I’d seen him sitting in one of the hard pews at Upper Creek Primitive Baptist Church or standing rigid with a hymnal spread against his open palms. But I’d heard him talking to God in the fields behind the big house; listened in the cool of the evenings as he sang, “In the sweet by and by . . .” while rocking in one of the front porch rockers that lined the wraparound of the old Victorian he and Aunt Stella called home.
He wasn’t a “religious” man, but his prayers before dinner were more like conversations with the Almighty than “grace.”
“Most beloved heavenly Father,” he would begin, then he would thank God for every single item on the table, for the hands that prepared them (typically Aunt Stella’s), and for those who would be blessed by them. “Keep our bodies healthy for thy service on earth and purified for thy kingdom in heaven.”
I remember raising my head ever so slightly, peeking through one eye at him. His ruddy face and drooping jowls quivered. His eyes were squeezed shut; tiny slits behind black-rimmed glasses. His hair, dark blond and thinning, shimmered in the glow from the overhead kitchen light.
At the big house, breakfast, lunch, and dinner were eaten in the kitchen. We never ate in the formal dining room, though it was certainly laid out, ready for guests. Uncle Jim said it was just a waste of space, and if he’d built the house, he would have left off that room. Growing up, I imagined that if I’d built the house, I’d use it for every meal.
My great-grandparents—Aunt Stella’s mother and father—had built the house before they married in the late 1800s. It was 1896, to be exact, when my grandmother came to live here as a bride at sixteen to her dashing “older” groom, ten years her senior. As the story goes, he met her, fell in love with her, married her against the wishes of her family, and then carried her over the threshold of this sprawling two-story with tucked-away rooms, long hallways, and an honest-to-goodness brick well on the back porch. Still to this day one can drop an old wooden bucket down into its depths and then, using a beat-up, long-handled tin dipper, sip of something so sweet and clean it almost doesn’t seem real. Liquid heaven, Uncle Jim used to call it.
In the early days, beyond the rose-covered trellises on the back porch, perfect rows of vegetables for canning and freezing were planted, both for our family and for neighbors in need when there was abundance. Standing behind the small garden was the farm. It extended alongside the highway that ran beside the left side of the house. The crops stretched toward the horizon and out of sight, interrupted only by the leaning of an old barn, the rise of a tin silo, or the deliberate movement of a John Deere tractor.
But those days were long gone. That was a time when everything seemed to be about life and living. These past few decades, the earth hasn’t been tilled or loved. No planting, no praying for rain, no harvesting. Nothing to show for what had been except the gray of the packed soil and an occasional twig rising up from out of the ground, a remnant of the last crop. Of what my great-grandparents had built, only the big house remained, and it was a part of the remnant of what had at one time been a thriving farm in Cottonwood, Georgia.
••
I blinked several times and brushed away those memories of life. There was too much heartache in the moment to allow myself to remain within them. Now was a time to reflect on death and dying. I could sit here and commiserate, and no one would be the wiser as to the depths into which I was falling. But I knew . . . I knew that when the funeral was over—when the casket had been lowered into the ground and the last clump of dirt had been patted down and the clusters of floral arrangements had been placed strategically about the mound—I’d see that old, proud house filled with family and friends eating fine Southern cooking off Chinet plates, reminiscing about the time Uncle Jim did thus and such and then throwing back their heads and bellowing at their memories.
But I . . . I would move about the house I had loved my whole life, touching old photographs—their frames caked with dust—seeking a flicker of solitude where I could grieve in my own way for the man I’d loved more like a great-grandfather than a great-uncle. A man who, it seemed, was always right where I needed him to be.
Except now. When I needed him most.
It snowed the day we buried Uncle Jim. Not the kind of snow that flurries about your face or drives itself sideways, turning the world into a blinding sheet of white. This was angels dancing on air.
When the first flake touched my cheek I felt the icy wet kiss and looked up, past the rows of granite markers—some shiny as silver and others cracked and gray—and into a fortress of old oaks, Spanish moss dripping from barren limbs. Another flake landed on my eyelashes. I batted them, then raised my gloved hand to brush it away.
I looked at my mother, who caught my movement. We sat shoulder to shoulder in the front row of chairs reserved for the family, as though we were aristocrats who’d managed to snag the best seats at the opera. Our eyes locked as she reached for my hand, then squeezed.
I took a deep breath and looked away. The pain of loss in her eyes was too much; especially at this moment, with Great-uncle Jim not six feet away, entombed by polished cherry and cold white satin.
A gust of wind blew against my back, and I glanced toward the open sky nearly white with the cold. I lifted my chin, and the breeze skipped on my shoulder and tickled my ear. “I’m not there . . .”
“Hmm?” My voice was barely audible, but my mother turned and gave me a harsh look.
“Jo-Lynn.” She whispered my name in admonishment, as though I were a child, then nodded toward the youthful pastor who stood shivering on the other side of the casket, reading from a book of prayers. He’d never once laid eyes on Uncle Jim; other than speaking recitations, there wasn’t much else he could say.
••
Uncle Jim had never been one for going to church. For the life of me I couldn’t remember a single time I’d seen him sitting in one of the hard pews at Upper Creek Primitive Baptist Church or standing rigid with a hymnal spread against his open palms. But I’d heard him talking to God in the fields behind the big house; listened in the cool of the evenings as he sang, “In the sweet by and by . . .” while rocking in one of the front porch rockers that lined the wraparound of the old Victorian he and Aunt Stella called home.
He wasn’t a “religious” man, but his prayers before dinner were more like conversations with the Almighty than “grace.”
“Most beloved heavenly Father,” he would begin, then he would thank God for every single item on the table, for the hands that prepared them (typically Aunt Stella’s), and for those who would be blessed by them. “Keep our bodies healthy for thy service on earth and purified for thy kingdom in heaven.”
I remember raising my head ever so slightly, peeking through one eye at him. His ruddy face and drooping jowls quivered. His eyes were squeezed shut; tiny slits behind black-rimmed glasses. His hair, dark blond and thinning, shimmered in the glow from the overhead kitchen light.
At the big house, breakfast, lunch, and dinner were eaten in the kitchen. We never ate in the formal dining room, though it was certainly laid out, ready for guests. Uncle Jim said it was just a waste of space, and if he’d built the house, he would have left off that room. Growing up, I imagined that if I’d built the house, I’d use it for every meal.
My great-grandparents—Aunt Stella’s mother and father—had built the house before they married in the late 1800s. It was 1896, to be exact, when my grandmother came to live here as a bride at sixteen to her dashing “older” groom, ten years her senior. As the story goes, he met her, fell in love with her, married her against the wishes of her family, and then carried her over the threshold of this sprawling two-story with tucked-away rooms, long hallways, and an honest-to-goodness brick well on the back porch. Still to this day one can drop an old wooden bucket down into its depths and then, using a beat-up, long-handled tin dipper, sip of something so sweet and clean it almost doesn’t seem real. Liquid heaven, Uncle Jim used to call it.
In the early days, beyond the rose-covered trellises on the back porch, perfect rows of vegetables for canning and freezing were planted, both for our family and for neighbors in need when there was abundance. Standing behind the small garden was the farm. It extended alongside the highway that ran beside the left side of the house. The crops stretched toward the horizon and out of sight, interrupted only by the leaning of an old barn, the rise of a tin silo, or the deliberate movement of a John Deere tractor.
But those days were long gone. That was a time when everything seemed to be about life and living. These past few decades, the earth hasn’t been tilled or loved. No planting, no praying for rain, no harvesting. Nothing to show for what had been except the gray of the packed soil and an occasional twig rising up from out of the ground, a remnant of the last crop. Of what my great-grandparents had built, only the big house remained, and it was a part of the remnant of what had at one time been a thriving farm in Cottonwood, Georgia.
••
I blinked several times and brushed away those memories of life. There was too much heartache in the moment to allow myself to remain within them. Now was a time to reflect on death and dying. I could sit here and commiserate, and no one would be the wiser as to the depths into which I was falling. But I knew . . . I knew that when the funeral was over—when the casket had been lowered into the ground and the last clump of dirt had been patted down and the clusters of floral arrangements had been placed strategically about the mound—I’d see that old, proud house filled with family and friends eating fine Southern cooking off Chinet plates, reminiscing about the time Uncle Jim did thus and such and then throwing back their heads and bellowing at their memories.
But I . . . I would move about the house I had loved my whole life, touching old photographs—their frames caked with dust—seeking a flicker of solitude where I could grieve in my own way for the man I’d loved more like a great-grandfather than a great-uncle. A man who, it seemed, was always right where I needed him to be.
Except now. When I needed him most.
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Monday, July 27, 2009
Deadly Intent blog tour for July 27th
Captain's Log, Stardate 07.27.2009The complete schedule of the Deadly Intent blog tour is here.
Anne Dayton and May Vanderbilt ask me what my biggest fear is.
Excerpt - RETURN TO LOVE by Betsy St. Amant
Captain's Log, Stardate 07.27.2009
Return To Love
by
Betsy St. Amant
"I'm not the man I used to be!" - if only Gracie Broussard could believe that. Years ago, Carter Alexander broke her heart and betrayed her. Now, just when she needs him most, he's back -- asking her to believe he's changed. But this time, its not just Gracie who'll be hurt if he disappears. A penguin keeper, Gracie urgently needs to find a new home for her beloved birds. Carter is the only one who can help. He promises that she can trust him, that he's not the rebel he once was. And that he needs Gracie as much as her birds do.
Excerpt of chapter one:
Feeding time—Gracie Broussard's favorite part of the day at the Aquarium of the Americas. It was worth the chaos, watching a dozen or more awe-stricken young faces press against the display glass in glee. Sometimes she didn't know who bounced the most—the excited children, or the penguins.
She stroked the top of Ernie's slick head, then leaned over to check the thermometer in the pond. Still sixty degrees. She wiped her wet fingers on her khakis. Ernie let out a high-pitched squawk.
"I know, little man. I feel the same." She grinned and adjusted the microphone clipped to the collar of her tan polo. Time to perform. Several families were already gathered in the dim walkway. One child mashed his lips against the glass and made a fish face.
Gracie smiled. She used to be nervous speaking in front of the visitors each day, but the more she did it, the more she realized the facts and statistics she rattled off during the short presentation were all but ignored in light of the spunky black-and-white birds at her feet.
"Hello, there, and welcome to Aquarium of the Americas. I'm Gracie, and these are my favorite guys in the world." She gestured to the penguins, some perched on the rock display, others diving into the murky waters.
Her assistant Jillian entered the exhibit through the side door, a five-gallon bucket of fish in her hand. The penguins waddled toward her on cue. Huey and Gumbo fought for position on the slippery rocks, and a little girl in the hallway laughed.
Gracie brushed some feathers from a boulder near the pond and perched on the edge as Jillian settled beside her, notebook balanced on her knees. "These are African penguins, and as you can tell, they're just a little hungry."
The adults smiled and the children pressed their hands against the window as if hoping to reach right through and touch the birds.
"As I tell you about my friends here, Jillian will record the data of each penguin's feeding habits. These records help us determine which penguins are sick, and which species of fish each bird prefers."
Gracie plucked a slimy squid from the bucket at her feet and offered it to Ernie. He mashed it in his beak once, then tossed up his head in approval. The fish slid down his throat, with a little help from his tight neck muscles. Jillian jotted the note in her record book.
"Most of you probably know penguins can't fly." Gracie tossed a fish to Gumbo and glanced at the group gathered around the glass as she reached for another. As she continued to expand on the many wonders of her feathered friends, she let her gaze wander over the gathered crowd. She stopped mid-sentence when she saw a familiar mop of curly brown hair and a pair of broad shoulders.
Her heartbeat quickened. That hair, that stance… No, it couldn't be, not here in New Orleans. She'd left him—no, actually, he'd left her—seven years ago on his parents' private dock on Cypress Black Bayou Lake. Walked away with that guitar pick he was always fiddling with, a curt nod of his head…and her heart. But regardless how much time had passed, there was no mistaking the dimple in his chin or that square jaw.
Gracie's heart pounded in her chest, and she was sure the crowd could hear it on the other side of the glass. No, no, it can't be him. But the truth refused to be denied.
The sleeves of his rust-colored sweater were pushed up to his elbows, revealing the muscular lines of his forearms. She couldn't help staring through a foggy lens of memory. Those strong, tanned arms that once hoisted her from the murky waters of the Black Bayou onto the pier, that wrapped around her shoulders in comforting side-hugs, that arm-wrestled her for a week's worth of chewing gum, now were crossed firmly over his chest—a much wider, broader chest. Laugh lines softened the once hard planes of his face, and a layer of dark stubble clung to his lower jaw. Time had been awfully fair to Carter—which was a lot more than he deserved.
Anger choked in Gracie's throat and a headache sprang to life behind her eyes. She stumbled over the rest of her speech. "Penguins can't fly because their bones are solid, n-not hollow like other birds."
Did he recognize her? It had been so long…and in some ways, not nearly long enough. Her traitorous gaze darted in his direction again, and their eyes met. His thick eyebrows rose in slight acknowledgment, and her stomach gave a telltale leap.
Her emotions might not remember Carter's betrayal, but her heart did. It remembered every labored, bruised beat.
After seven years, Carter Morgan Alexander was back.
Carter Alexander stared into the penguin exhibit, reeling from shock. He had no idea when he dropped his suitcases at his friend Andy's apartment and headed to the aquarium for an afternoon of sightseeing that he'd run into her. When had Gracie left Benton, LA, and moved South? It'd been, what— about seven years now?
Mouth dry, he struggled to keep a poker face as Gracie's piercing blue-green gaze settled on his. It was full of questions, accusations—and more than a little anger.
Something unfamiliar and tight stirred in his stomach, and he leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Good thing, since his knees were starting to feel less than sturdy.
Gracie finally lowered those arresting eyes, and a slight blush crept up her neck and into her cheeks as she reached forward with a fish. She looked the same—the elegance that always clung to her persona like a robe of righteousness still seemed to fit. And that long red hair…she hadn't cut it. It cascaded over her shoulders like a flaming liquid waterfall.
Much like it had the night he broke both their hearts.
Carter briefly squeezed his eyes shut against the memory and tried to focus on the penguins darting about the tank. Gracie might not have changed much since that starry summer night on the lake, but he sure had experienced a transformation. The problem was, judging by the stiffness in those slim shoulders, she wasn't planning on giving him a chance to prove it. He should have tried years ago—then again, fresh anger wasn't any easier to handle than stale.
Carter shifted his weight against the wall. He deserved her ire. Let Gracie remember him the way he was—the arrogant jerk with a guitar and a dozen girlfriends, the lead singer of the band Cajun Friday who was too big for his britches, his faith… and his best friend.
Gracie's musical voice sounded over the speakers, just as soft and clear as the regret that haunted his mind these last several years. "It's a common misconception that all penguins require an arctic atmosphere. Many people are shocked that we have such a large exhibit here in this sultry part of the South—and it might surprise you that we keep the air in this tank regulated to seventy degrees."
She stroked the back of one of the birds, who seemed determined to creep closer to the bucket of fish. Jillian nudged the barrel out of reach with her foot.
Gracie's eyes found Carter's and then flitted away. "I've learned that everything isn't always what you might expect."
She finished her presentation, but it was nothing more than a blur of statistics and red hair gleaming under the aquarium lights. Carter's throat tightened and he applauded with the rest of the crowd. The penguins preened, as if they knew they were the real stars of the show.
"Are there any questions Jillian or I can answer?" Gracie tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and smiled, though her eyebrow quivered in the way it always used to when she had a headache.
"What's that penguin's name?" One blond kid raised his hand and then pointed to the bird standing alone at the edge of the water.
"This is Garth." Gracie moved toward the penguin and he brayed up at her. "Sorry, Garth, the fish are all gone."
The kids giggled. An elderly man in suspenders hooked his thumbs through the straps and called out, "Any baby penguins around right now?"
Gracie shook her head. "No, but we're hopefully bringing in a new colony soon, and we have high hopes for eggs then."
Carter felt his hand rise of its own accord. Gracie's eyes landed on him and she sucked in a sharp breath, audible through the speaker system. "Yes, you in the back?"
Demoted to a curt you. He lowered his hand. "How long have you worked here?"
Gracie smoothed the front of her polo shirt over her pants. "A little over two years. Anyone else?"
A kid started to shout a question but Carter interrupted, louder. "Where did you get your education to work with the penguins?" Might as well find as many answers as he could, while she was forced to talk with him. Because afterward…
"A marine biology degree from Nicholls State University. In Thibodaux." Gracie's brows met in a pained arch. "Next?"
"Do penguins respond to music?" Carter's muscles relaxed as Gracie's seemed to tighten. That was the girl he knew, the one who bunched under pressure but held her own with a grace that still knocked his breath away. He fought the grin on his lips.
"Sometimes we play the radio for them. They seem to enjoy it but prefer speaking to each other instead." Gracie licked her lips and turned toward the other side of the crowd, effectively dismissing him. "I'm afraid that's all the questions we have time for today. Thanks for coming, and enjoy the rest of your visit."
He'd pushed too far.
The families slowly began to disperse, but Carter remained fixed against the wall, his legs unable to move and his heart unwilling to let them. He had to see her, talk to her again. But what would he say? Sorry for the last seven years of silence? Sorry for that night on the pier that ruined a lifetime of friendship? Nothing seemed sufficient, nothing seemed capable of quelling that distrust in her eyes or the rigid body language that all but screamed get away from me.
She'd never believe the truth even if he told her.
And why would she? Disloyalty was all she knew from him, all he'd ever bothered to show. Regret coated his stomach and Carter blinked against the emotion rising in his throat. Seeing Gracie after all this time rendered him somewhat senseless. He was a changed man now—though it was maybe a little too late to do any good.
Gracie strode out of the aquarium, shoving her hair back with both hands and closing her eyes briefly before disappearing from sight. Yep, she had a headache. He knew it as surely as he knew her favorite color was blue and her favorite song was "Over the Rainbow." She hurt because of him—and not for the first time.
Hindsight offered startling new clarity. If he hadn't been such a fool, things could have been so different. Carter rubbed his forehead with his fingers, trying to hold back the torrent of memories demanding release. Not now, not here. He'd wait until he was back with his old college buddy Andy, maybe sprawled in front of the TV with a Dr. Pepper and some popcorn before he'd vent. Maybe Andy would have more words of wisdom to share, some advice to remind him he wasn't the bad guy anymore.
Then maybe that look in Gracie's eyes would stop tormenting his heart.
Gracie braced her elbows on the glass display case at the front of the gift shop and buried her face in her hands, drawing in a slow, deep breath. The aquarium was closed, yet Carter's presence continued to throb like a sore wound. How dare he show up after so long and invade her workplace? His father had contributed large donations to the aquarium for nearly a decade, yet Carter picked today to pop in? He could have found out where she was years ago if he hadn't turned his back on his family, as well as her. The last few years of his silence had been punishment enough—she didn't need this jolt of surprise now.
She raised her head and looked across the counter at Lori Perkins, her best friend and manager of the gift shop. "I need more coffee."
"Here." Lori shoved a foam cup across the counter. "I just got a cappuccino before I locked up. You need it more than me."
"Thanks." Gracie propped on one elbow and took a sip of the warm liquid. Much better—though her head still ached behind her right eye.
"I can't believe I missed seeing him." Lori swung her long brown hair over her shoulder and hunched down to mimic Gracie's pose on the counter. "Is he as cute as he was on his last CD cover?" She winked.
"That's not the point." Gracie grabbed a pencil from the display beside the cash register and twirled it through her fingers. Anything to avoid eye contact and Lori's I-dare-you-to-try-and-keep-a-secret-from-me gaze. They'd shared coffee and more than their share of confidences over the past year as roommates, but this was different.
This was a broken fragment of her heart.
Lori plucked the pencil from Gracie's grasp and stuck it back in the case. "Okay, so we know he's probably still a looker. The awful ones usually are."
"There was something different about him." She squinted, trying to recall the specifics of the memory. "Something in his eyes."
"Maybe he's sorry for the past and came to apologize." Lori grabbed a dust cloth from under the counter. "Sometimes regret changes a man, rare as it might be." She grinned and went to work cleaning the inside of the glass.
Gracie stepped away from the counter to give her room. "But he couldn't have known I was here. We haven't talked in seven years."
"He couldn't have contacted your mother? I thought you said your families were close once upon a time." Lori sprayed cleaner over the top of the case and rubbed. "I'm sure there were ways if he was determined."
"What if he's here for something else, something that has nothing to do with me at all?"
"Isn't that what you want?" Lori set the bottle on the counter and tilted her head to one side. "To be left alone?"
No. Yes. Gracie shrugged. "I guess so."
"Girl, you've got it bad, even after all this time." Lori shook her head and resumed her cleaning.
A familiar ache started in the base of Gracie's stomach until it filled her insides with a heavy layer of regret. "Even if I do, it doesn't matter." She looked away, the ache doubling in intensity. "It never did before."
"What do you mean?" Lori paused, holding the rag inches above the countertop.
"Carter was my fairy tale, never my reality." Gracie picked up a stuffed penguin dressed in a tuxedo and squeezed. "He was just this dream I had until I grew up." She snorted. Dream, misunderstanding, mistake—same difference.
"So what happened?"
Gracie set the penguin down and sadly adjusted its little black bow tie. "I realized some toads never turn into princes."
She stroked the top of Ernie's slick head, then leaned over to check the thermometer in the pond. Still sixty degrees. She wiped her wet fingers on her khakis. Ernie let out a high-pitched squawk.
"I know, little man. I feel the same." She grinned and adjusted the microphone clipped to the collar of her tan polo. Time to perform. Several families were already gathered in the dim walkway. One child mashed his lips against the glass and made a fish face.
Gracie smiled. She used to be nervous speaking in front of the visitors each day, but the more she did it, the more she realized the facts and statistics she rattled off during the short presentation were all but ignored in light of the spunky black-and-white birds at her feet.
"Hello, there, and welcome to Aquarium of the Americas. I'm Gracie, and these are my favorite guys in the world." She gestured to the penguins, some perched on the rock display, others diving into the murky waters.
Her assistant Jillian entered the exhibit through the side door, a five-gallon bucket of fish in her hand. The penguins waddled toward her on cue. Huey and Gumbo fought for position on the slippery rocks, and a little girl in the hallway laughed.
Gracie brushed some feathers from a boulder near the pond and perched on the edge as Jillian settled beside her, notebook balanced on her knees. "These are African penguins, and as you can tell, they're just a little hungry."
The adults smiled and the children pressed their hands against the window as if hoping to reach right through and touch the birds.
"As I tell you about my friends here, Jillian will record the data of each penguin's feeding habits. These records help us determine which penguins are sick, and which species of fish each bird prefers."
Gracie plucked a slimy squid from the bucket at her feet and offered it to Ernie. He mashed it in his beak once, then tossed up his head in approval. The fish slid down his throat, with a little help from his tight neck muscles. Jillian jotted the note in her record book.
"Most of you probably know penguins can't fly." Gracie tossed a fish to Gumbo and glanced at the group gathered around the glass as she reached for another. As she continued to expand on the many wonders of her feathered friends, she let her gaze wander over the gathered crowd. She stopped mid-sentence when she saw a familiar mop of curly brown hair and a pair of broad shoulders.
Her heartbeat quickened. That hair, that stance… No, it couldn't be, not here in New Orleans. She'd left him—no, actually, he'd left her—seven years ago on his parents' private dock on Cypress Black Bayou Lake. Walked away with that guitar pick he was always fiddling with, a curt nod of his head…and her heart. But regardless how much time had passed, there was no mistaking the dimple in his chin or that square jaw.
Gracie's heart pounded in her chest, and she was sure the crowd could hear it on the other side of the glass. No, no, it can't be him. But the truth refused to be denied.
The sleeves of his rust-colored sweater were pushed up to his elbows, revealing the muscular lines of his forearms. She couldn't help staring through a foggy lens of memory. Those strong, tanned arms that once hoisted her from the murky waters of the Black Bayou onto the pier, that wrapped around her shoulders in comforting side-hugs, that arm-wrestled her for a week's worth of chewing gum, now were crossed firmly over his chest—a much wider, broader chest. Laugh lines softened the once hard planes of his face, and a layer of dark stubble clung to his lower jaw. Time had been awfully fair to Carter—which was a lot more than he deserved.
Anger choked in Gracie's throat and a headache sprang to life behind her eyes. She stumbled over the rest of her speech. "Penguins can't fly because their bones are solid, n-not hollow like other birds."
Did he recognize her? It had been so long…and in some ways, not nearly long enough. Her traitorous gaze darted in his direction again, and their eyes met. His thick eyebrows rose in slight acknowledgment, and her stomach gave a telltale leap.
Her emotions might not remember Carter's betrayal, but her heart did. It remembered every labored, bruised beat.
After seven years, Carter Morgan Alexander was back.
Carter Alexander stared into the penguin exhibit, reeling from shock. He had no idea when he dropped his suitcases at his friend Andy's apartment and headed to the aquarium for an afternoon of sightseeing that he'd run into her. When had Gracie left Benton, LA, and moved South? It'd been, what— about seven years now?
Mouth dry, he struggled to keep a poker face as Gracie's piercing blue-green gaze settled on his. It was full of questions, accusations—and more than a little anger.
Something unfamiliar and tight stirred in his stomach, and he leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Good thing, since his knees were starting to feel less than sturdy.
Gracie finally lowered those arresting eyes, and a slight blush crept up her neck and into her cheeks as she reached forward with a fish. She looked the same—the elegance that always clung to her persona like a robe of righteousness still seemed to fit. And that long red hair…she hadn't cut it. It cascaded over her shoulders like a flaming liquid waterfall.
Much like it had the night he broke both their hearts.
Carter briefly squeezed his eyes shut against the memory and tried to focus on the penguins darting about the tank. Gracie might not have changed much since that starry summer night on the lake, but he sure had experienced a transformation. The problem was, judging by the stiffness in those slim shoulders, she wasn't planning on giving him a chance to prove it. He should have tried years ago—then again, fresh anger wasn't any easier to handle than stale.
Carter shifted his weight against the wall. He deserved her ire. Let Gracie remember him the way he was—the arrogant jerk with a guitar and a dozen girlfriends, the lead singer of the band Cajun Friday who was too big for his britches, his faith… and his best friend.
Gracie's musical voice sounded over the speakers, just as soft and clear as the regret that haunted his mind these last several years. "It's a common misconception that all penguins require an arctic atmosphere. Many people are shocked that we have such a large exhibit here in this sultry part of the South—and it might surprise you that we keep the air in this tank regulated to seventy degrees."
She stroked the back of one of the birds, who seemed determined to creep closer to the bucket of fish. Jillian nudged the barrel out of reach with her foot.
Gracie's eyes found Carter's and then flitted away. "I've learned that everything isn't always what you might expect."
She finished her presentation, but it was nothing more than a blur of statistics and red hair gleaming under the aquarium lights. Carter's throat tightened and he applauded with the rest of the crowd. The penguins preened, as if they knew they were the real stars of the show.
"Are there any questions Jillian or I can answer?" Gracie tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and smiled, though her eyebrow quivered in the way it always used to when she had a headache.
"What's that penguin's name?" One blond kid raised his hand and then pointed to the bird standing alone at the edge of the water.
"This is Garth." Gracie moved toward the penguin and he brayed up at her. "Sorry, Garth, the fish are all gone."
The kids giggled. An elderly man in suspenders hooked his thumbs through the straps and called out, "Any baby penguins around right now?"
Gracie shook her head. "No, but we're hopefully bringing in a new colony soon, and we have high hopes for eggs then."
Carter felt his hand rise of its own accord. Gracie's eyes landed on him and she sucked in a sharp breath, audible through the speaker system. "Yes, you in the back?"
Demoted to a curt you. He lowered his hand. "How long have you worked here?"
Gracie smoothed the front of her polo shirt over her pants. "A little over two years. Anyone else?"
A kid started to shout a question but Carter interrupted, louder. "Where did you get your education to work with the penguins?" Might as well find as many answers as he could, while she was forced to talk with him. Because afterward…
"A marine biology degree from Nicholls State University. In Thibodaux." Gracie's brows met in a pained arch. "Next?"
"Do penguins respond to music?" Carter's muscles relaxed as Gracie's seemed to tighten. That was the girl he knew, the one who bunched under pressure but held her own with a grace that still knocked his breath away. He fought the grin on his lips.
"Sometimes we play the radio for them. They seem to enjoy it but prefer speaking to each other instead." Gracie licked her lips and turned toward the other side of the crowd, effectively dismissing him. "I'm afraid that's all the questions we have time for today. Thanks for coming, and enjoy the rest of your visit."
He'd pushed too far.
The families slowly began to disperse, but Carter remained fixed against the wall, his legs unable to move and his heart unwilling to let them. He had to see her, talk to her again. But what would he say? Sorry for the last seven years of silence? Sorry for that night on the pier that ruined a lifetime of friendship? Nothing seemed sufficient, nothing seemed capable of quelling that distrust in her eyes or the rigid body language that all but screamed get away from me.
She'd never believe the truth even if he told her.
And why would she? Disloyalty was all she knew from him, all he'd ever bothered to show. Regret coated his stomach and Carter blinked against the emotion rising in his throat. Seeing Gracie after all this time rendered him somewhat senseless. He was a changed man now—though it was maybe a little too late to do any good.
Gracie strode out of the aquarium, shoving her hair back with both hands and closing her eyes briefly before disappearing from sight. Yep, she had a headache. He knew it as surely as he knew her favorite color was blue and her favorite song was "Over the Rainbow." She hurt because of him—and not for the first time.
Hindsight offered startling new clarity. If he hadn't been such a fool, things could have been so different. Carter rubbed his forehead with his fingers, trying to hold back the torrent of memories demanding release. Not now, not here. He'd wait until he was back with his old college buddy Andy, maybe sprawled in front of the TV with a Dr. Pepper and some popcorn before he'd vent. Maybe Andy would have more words of wisdom to share, some advice to remind him he wasn't the bad guy anymore.
Then maybe that look in Gracie's eyes would stop tormenting his heart.
Gracie braced her elbows on the glass display case at the front of the gift shop and buried her face in her hands, drawing in a slow, deep breath. The aquarium was closed, yet Carter's presence continued to throb like a sore wound. How dare he show up after so long and invade her workplace? His father had contributed large donations to the aquarium for nearly a decade, yet Carter picked today to pop in? He could have found out where she was years ago if he hadn't turned his back on his family, as well as her. The last few years of his silence had been punishment enough—she didn't need this jolt of surprise now.
She raised her head and looked across the counter at Lori Perkins, her best friend and manager of the gift shop. "I need more coffee."
"Here." Lori shoved a foam cup across the counter. "I just got a cappuccino before I locked up. You need it more than me."
"Thanks." Gracie propped on one elbow and took a sip of the warm liquid. Much better—though her head still ached behind her right eye.
"I can't believe I missed seeing him." Lori swung her long brown hair over her shoulder and hunched down to mimic Gracie's pose on the counter. "Is he as cute as he was on his last CD cover?" She winked.
"That's not the point." Gracie grabbed a pencil from the display beside the cash register and twirled it through her fingers. Anything to avoid eye contact and Lori's I-dare-you-to-try-and-keep-a-secret-from-me gaze. They'd shared coffee and more than their share of confidences over the past year as roommates, but this was different.
This was a broken fragment of her heart.
Lori plucked the pencil from Gracie's grasp and stuck it back in the case. "Okay, so we know he's probably still a looker. The awful ones usually are."
"There was something different about him." She squinted, trying to recall the specifics of the memory. "Something in his eyes."
"Maybe he's sorry for the past and came to apologize." Lori grabbed a dust cloth from under the counter. "Sometimes regret changes a man, rare as it might be." She grinned and went to work cleaning the inside of the glass.
Gracie stepped away from the counter to give her room. "But he couldn't have known I was here. We haven't talked in seven years."
"He couldn't have contacted your mother? I thought you said your families were close once upon a time." Lori sprayed cleaner over the top of the case and rubbed. "I'm sure there were ways if he was determined."
"What if he's here for something else, something that has nothing to do with me at all?"
"Isn't that what you want?" Lori set the bottle on the counter and tilted her head to one side. "To be left alone?"
No. Yes. Gracie shrugged. "I guess so."
"Girl, you've got it bad, even after all this time." Lori shook her head and resumed her cleaning.
A familiar ache started in the base of Gracie's stomach until it filled her insides with a heavy layer of regret. "Even if I do, it doesn't matter." She looked away, the ache doubling in intensity. "It never did before."
"What do you mean?" Lori paused, holding the rag inches above the countertop.
"Carter was my fairy tale, never my reality." Gracie picked up a stuffed penguin dressed in a tuxedo and squeezed. "He was just this dream I had until I grew up." She snorted. Dream, misunderstanding, mistake—same difference.
"So what happened?"
Gracie set the penguin down and sadly adjusted its little black bow tie. "I realized some toads never turn into princes."
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